I had seen her around town on several occasions, silently slinking into the shadows in back alleys out of public view, her wings never spread, always closed tight for protection. Young, fearful and flighty, the young Sphinx had intrigued me for a few weeks, since I’d heard about her father.
The young girl deserved none of the hell that was sent her way.

Her father was an abusive and spiteful soak, always deep in drink. Her mother had died when she was born, sadly suffering excessive blood loss from the difficult birth. Her father had cared for her as best he could, but after he missed a promotion due to his sharp tongue he turned to drink and seemed to stop caring. One day, after returning home from drinking late, his frustrations turned on his daughter, who had prepared dinner an hour earlier, expecting him to return when it was done; the cold dinner had been the ‘last straw’ that his drunken mind would take, and she had almost been hospitalized.
After that, it became a weekly event.
Then it became daily.

The young girl had been asleep the day her father smoked in bed. His cigarette ignited the beer in his shirt, and then spread to the rest of his bedroom; soon spreading to the rest of the house. She awoke to the screeching of the home smoke detector and hurried to her father’s room, only to find it ablaze.
She wasn’t home when the fire department arrived, fleeing in terror from the flames and smoke.

Almost a month later, and she still wears the same panties and tank top she had worn that night, now more brown and black than the bright, cheerful pink that they had been. She scraped an existence up from scraps on the streets, rarely enough to sate her appetite for more than an hour or so, often not even healthy for consumption.
It was a full month after that fateful night that I started planning.

I bought teen sized girls’ undergarments, had a soft warm bed put in the guest room, along with several dresses that I’d bought with the hope that they had been the right size for her, and had it all prepared. I even had my own mother drop by for the week I planned, telling her my intentions.
Now all I needed was her.

I watched her slink back into the back alley that concealed her current home, and I followed with enough space between us to ensure she would not be frightened. I found her under a cardboard box for a refrigerator, holding her latest prize, a loaf of bread. My heart skipped a beat when I saw her eating the bread as if it were her last, and I knelt down at the box to show my face.
“Hey there...”
Her eyes went wide and she cowered, scooting into the far corner of her box (not that it granted her much extra space) and curled up, tail between her legs and tears welling in her eyes in fright.
“Hey now, sweetie, I don’t want to hurt you.” I said quietly. “Please, don’t be afraid.”
She only hiccupped and let a tear roll down her cheek. Her reactions of pure fear I had not expected. I decided a different approach.
“My name is Kingsley; what’s yours?” I asked. Still she shivered in fear, and I gently took the loaf she had been eating. Feebly she lunged for it, protesting my action by grabbing the loaf and giving me the most pleading green eyes I’d ever seen. “Ah, you are alive.” I commented. “Tell you what, come with me and I’ll give you something better than a plain loaf of bread; how does that sound?”
Her eyes were disbelieving, and I smiled in what I hoped was a caring way.
“I promise I won’t hurt you, cross my heart. Please, I only want to help.” I punctuated my sentence by holding out the loaf, palm up.
Her tears continued, but her expression became one of hope, and she put her hand on the loaf and lunged forth, throwing her head over my shoulder. Gently I put my arms around her, letting her have the loaf, letting her vent her tears.
“I gave you my name; what’s yours?” I asked quietly to her.
She sniffled and shifted on my shoulder before sobbing heavily and speaking with the voice of an angel.
“Abigail.”