War In The World And War In This House

Chapter One: Reflections of Bloodshed

Hi! Thanks for clicking this. I want to give a few warnings for the story ahead.  It contains references to emotional abuse, alcoholism, homophobia, among other trigger topics. I wanted to ensure that nobody was caught off guard by this. Alright, enjoy Chapter One!

The morning light flickered through his maroon curtains. By bedside the sunken skeleton of a long burnt beeswax candle. It clung, withered and helpless, to the warn brass of a candelabra. The room, relatively dim, walls a light cream, other than the exposed beams that proved the test of time, being constructed by his grandparents after settling in the colonies straight from England in a feeble hope to profit off the new seed of America.

Ernest yawned, wiping a glob of the ink off the innermost side of his left hand into a soiled handkerchief, of which the once delicate embroidery of lace, floral patterns of holly, and forget-me-nots were already previously stained with earl gray and coffee. Although, more recently coffee, since tea became a commodity after the unfair taxes being levied by King George The Third, resulting in the popularity of coffee houses, where Ernest would spend every other morning after his lackluster church Sundays. He took a few seconds to make sure the ink was mostly off of his hand, he always made sure to write with his right hand when his parents were around-- though somewhat sloppily, as they always made sure to mention his left-handedness being a sign of the devil.

The desk was slanted in a diagonal, the uppermost point pressed firmly against the wall. The peculiar angle helped promote the flow of ink from quill pens. Ernest leaned back into his mahogany chair and stretched with a creak of his back, before wrangling his mane of spiraled blonde hair with a firm shove. He sat slightly awkwardly, as his legs were too long for most every chair, being 6'1, as most of the chairs were built for a man 5'10 in stature.

He slumped back into his chair and stared sideways to his reflection cast in a chipped mirror. It was delicately hand-painted with depictions of army men enthralled in gunpowder smoke, red and white linen uniforms, with muskets blazing and scabbards glaring. It was a gift from his father, Walter-- upon Ernest's 5th birthday after he had returned from deployment in Quebec -- mind you, shell shocked and spattered with shrapnel-- and the reflective portrait depicting The Seven Years' War, although he was just a boy when Britain and France were fighting. His father had been trying to instill a deep-found pride of the British military into him. Ernest frowned at the thought of wearing a coat so red you couldn't tell if it was soaked in blood. Walter had even tried to send him to a militia camp, saying things such as "You're too soft for the modern man," but instead opted for the tori alternative, King's College. And yet the same man who griped of money snatched out of his pocket by his ruler chose to support him?

Ernest tried to push those thoughts out of his head, and instead opted to closer inspect his appearance from the glaze of an ink well, not daring to give a glance to the murder depicting mirror. His face was oblong, and his nose thin and upturned. Freckles dark and light spattered his face like stars in the night sky. His eyes were a sharp almond, iris a hazel golden-green. Unfortunately, the spitting image of his father before his mild disfigurements.

His mother, on the other hand, Beatrice, was small and lithe, with dark brown hair-- of which was usually hidden under a ruffled bonnet-- and dull gray eyes. Her mouth was rather narrow in width, just as her sons, not to mention her distinct button nose. He could hear her quietly fussing over one of the house cats supposedly depositing a rodent as an offering but was uncertain of whether it was a reaction of disgust or approval.

With a heaving sigh, he rose onto his feet, and pulled the ruffled end of his blouse out of his overcoat sleeves, as they had been tucked away to protect against his sloppy ink work. His petticoat was a rather soft orange, as his undershirt was slightly warm-toned linen.