The cursed emeralds

The emerald glimmered in the light of the flashlight. Holding the light still for a moment in an aristocratically pale hand, Annette Parker watched the play of the light on the smoky green surface, feeling an ache deep within her for the plain jewel, unset, simply cut into a rounded, many-faceted shape, so like the pendant her grandmother had promised her when she was small. When she had seen it that afternoon in the pawnshop, she had felt it was supposed to be hers, and, unable to afford it, broken in that very night.
She grudged having to steal it so dishonestly, having to pay for cheap food, rent on the apartment she called a hovel, diapers for the baby-inwardly she smiled, thinking of her beautiful little girl. Everything she did was for her. Even this was for her. She had to have the emerald for her daughter, it was the only jewel worthy for that angel, that princess, that fairy.
Suddenly, a car alarm went off, and she was startled out of her reverie. She could not-must not-relax, or she would be caught, and it would all be for naught. Picking the lock that held the display case closed, she carefully opened it as silently as she could, since she could not risk any loud noises. As quickly as possible, she grabbed the emerald out of the case, tag and all, and removed the emerald from it's little box.
From within her pocket she drew out a small, plain cloth bag, held closed by a knotted drawstring, and opened it to revael in the weak moonlight, filtered by a dirty window, and the shaky flashlight beam a perfect replica that she had bought from a costume jewelery store that evening under the alias Leah Hatfeild to use as a replacement for the emerald. Hopefully she would be able to make it to the end of the month, then, claiming the rent was better elsewhere, leave. It was cut and tinted glass custom made to her description, 'for a play that we're putting on at the school' that she was supposedly directing, about a cursed emerald. As if such things could even be thought of! No, life was too horrid to imagine much, for her at least, but she hoped things would be better for her daughter. Her daughter, no one elses. The only thing that mattered to her.
Slipping out of the pawnshop, she set about walking to the bus stop, resisting the urge to take the emerald out of her pocket in it's little bag, so recently vacated by the fake. On the long ride home, she thought about it constantly, mentally running it over, again and again, and agin.
Unlocking the door, she sent the neighbor's daughter home with a ten-dollar bill as payment for a night's babysitting-for a job interview, of course-of her precious Leah.
Picking up the sleeping baby, she patted her gently, then stopped to take out the emerald, bliss falling over her like a warm blanket on a rainy day. As though sensing her mother's tranquility, Leah woke up and threw a chubbily dimpled hand at the emerald, and Annette laughingly handed it over.
"It's going to be yours soon anyway," she told her, then taking it out of Leah's hands, carefully set it into a little jewel cage. She would have it soldered shut tomarrow-it was just cheap steel-again, for the play about the cursed emeralds. It wouldn't take too long...

A month later, Annette Parker became a ward of the state when she was found collapsed in the street, barely alive after being hit repeatedly by cars, murmuring and muttering to herself wildly about an emerald. She was taken into a mental facility, and processed through under the identity 'Leah Hatfield,' as her ID had read that, as did her birth certifacate. She was also carrying her daughter's birth certifacate at the time, which also read Leah Hatfield. An emerald, probably a cheap peice of glass, was found in a little steel jewel cage around little Leah Hatfeild's neck. She was placed into an orphanage, and spent her childhood in and out of various foster homes after her mother died when she was two. Oddly enough, no one ever adopted her. They found her pale, translucent skin disconcerting, her pale blue-green eyes, so pale they were almost white, strange when compared with her dark black hair that she refused to have cut, and her haughty demeanor rude. The emerald she refused to take off, and it added to the witchy image; it seemed a thing of terrible power. All together she looked rather like a vampire.