Contemplations of a Tortured Existence

“That’s no way to talk about your mother,” Winston chided gently, “She loves you, you know.”

Earnest sulked in the yellow glow of his desk lamp, “Oh, I know that. She reminds me. It’s why she suffered the travails of raising me. It’s why she sent me to this lovely boarding school. It’s why she hasn’t killed herself yet.”

“She never said that!” Winston scoffed, tugging flannel pajamas of a dark green plaid, the school colors, or course.

“He has so,” Earnest huffed, toying with a worn pencil, “pretty much every time she gets drunk.”

“And how often is that, I mean really?”

Earnest stared out the window. The grounds stretched towards a sunset turned pinkish gray with mist. Home felt as far away as the first few stars twinkling into existence. He didn’t mind that terribly.

He sighed, “Every day, and twice on Sundays.”

With a tentaive hand on his mate’s shoulder, Winston could only offer, “Crikey, you have had it rough. We’ll make the best of it here, though, you’ll see. You’ll see.”

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