Act 3. Chapter 7: The case of Pragmatism

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Act 3. Chapter 7: The case of Pragmatism



Like yesterday, and for the rest of eternity, Colin has surrendered to the fact that he will be Arthur's companion, a pet in a hive. He will be trapped in the Bear House because the legends are true: Nobody gets out of the Bear House alive. Noah Goldie is gone, but somebody has replaced his throne, and he's a witch, too.

Like yesterday, and for the rest of eternity, Colin sits in the balcony. He has a book, he has a teacup, and beside him is a dandy little frog he's turned from a buck. He would have been sorry for the mother deer, but the little buck has decided to drink tea with him; it was hardly his fault he wandered near. He turned it into a frog to practice his new spell journal, and the buck spent its first minutes being a frog confused and suicidal.

His guilt crept unto his throat. God knows, he felt sadistic when he's trying to keep his morals afloat. And so he will ask Arthur to turn it back later. His beginner's carelessness is bound to be an anomaly creator.

He sighed unto his teacup, he's been doing that nowadays. Just spacing off his eyes to the clearing does nothing to sort out his head. Arthur did suggest he write his circumstances in another journal, of course Arthur would have it read. However, that was a sound idea, a way to keep his sanity. Arthur might be an asshole, but he still have the obligation to keep Colin comfy.

He put the frog in a jar to keep it from running off or being squished. Like Arthur to him, he has the obligation to keep this frog safe until he undo his mistake. He ran up to Arthur's room, his feet thundering, annoying the butler as he has always wished. He beamed unto him, one of the moments his smile was not fake.

That threw off Arthur, apparently. This boy had done nothing these past few weeks but respond to everything monotonously.

"What is this? And what is that?" Arthur pointed to the frog in the jar.

"Can I have one of your leather-bound journals? I'd like to write."

"For a collection of more spells you like?"

"Nope." The boy handed Arthur the jarred frog. "A personal diary. So that when authorities find me someday, they will see how awful you are as a housemate."

"I see." Arthur closed his eyes, pondering. He stroked the jar for no reason. "To find entertainment in your hopeless situation with me, you will shift your perspective into its comedy. Wonderful."

"Ugh." Colin rolled his eyes and took away the jar of frog out of anger. There's no reason for it, he just wants to take the frog from the butler. "Stop psychoanalyzing me. Give me an empty notebook. The fancier the better."

Arthur sighed silently, smiling at the boy. "Alright. Wait here."

When Colin received the empty leather-bound journal with elegant brown pages, he went to his room to start writing. For it was night, he turned on the lamp powered by fuel, the magic in it disabled the fire from dancing. Arthur was understanding enough to give him a normal pen instead of a quail, and so swiftly he wrote his thoughts, without pauses, without fail.

I hate England because it always rains, but lately I have found the charm of sadness and peace in solitude. It was a great contrast to what I was, but my exposure to the house' eeriness, the high literature's vastness, and Arthur's sophistication made me think it's not so bad after all.

He wandered his eyes around to pause, and they fell unto the little frog inside the jar. The frog, who was formerly a deer, has stopped stumbling and decided to look afar. It had probably gone under five stages of grief and is currently doing acceptance. And so Colin thought, from reading his first paragraph, that he might be the same as the frog, but in Arthur's hands.

Had I accepted my fate with Arthur? Every day, I still try to practice magic to be stronger than him. I believe I'm still in ANGER, anger that motivates me to read more witch books, books that he happily provide. He happily provides them because he knows I will never reach his level no matter how hard I try. But what am I doing? Why am I still trying? To avoid boredom? To challenge Arthur? Or to get away? And if I do get away, where would I go? I've killed my father, I've eaten my mother (without my knowledge while I was doing the act, but after Arthur told me the case, I did not lament).

He paused yet again, rereading the new paragraph to ponder the realization that he, in fact, did not lament the subsequent death of his distant parents. He reread, yet again, now to appreciate the wider vocabulary he had the pleasure to use. To be fair, it was a nice outcome from all these events.

The frog had looked into his eyes, and he to it. The frog was innocent, a deer who now cannot stand on its feet. Although the frog was an unwilling participant very much like him, he realized they have differences, for example, his eyes are not exactly as dim.

So I think, I feel anger not because I'm in the second stage of grief. It was anger out of frustration because I refuse to be 'just' Arthur's lesser companion.

It was not grief. It was pride.

I should feel grief. What's wrong with me?

The insight dawn unto him, making him momentarily sorrowful for the real contents of his mind. That is until Arthur barged in, frightening the frog and so he almost whined. The butler tried to be poised, calm, and unafraid, but his hurry is obvious and to everything he was unprepared. He pushed the boy towards the nearest closet, and the boy thought it would be necessary to bring the jar of frog to his chest. He stood there, in the dark, in the panic, expecting Arthur to say it was all just jest.

"Stay here," Arthur says calmly. "There will be noises in the tea room later and I expect you to hide until I open this."


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