Ernest starts his day in pain. A slight uncomfortable pressure that comes from the throbbing of his head. A result of the chemicals at the paper mill, which he's labored in for the past decade. The pain at this point is a common greeting in the morning. He goes to his cupboard to get the large container of Aspirin. The bottle is the size normally reserved for alcoholics; the people who drink till they pass out then use the aspirin to recover for the night. Ernest doesn't drink often though he has friends at the factory who use the one bottle for the next. He however found no comforts or happiness in those corners.

Ernest is poor but in some ways he was built to be poor. He was Spartan like in his wants, and comfortable even in discomfort of the a broken heater in a cold winter. He never ate out and never ate the expensive foods or wasted his money in the hole that's addiction. Ernest knew how to handle himself in a fight but it was a long time since he'd needed to use that experience. That excuse. Now He just read. His bookshelf was his nicest piece of furniture and his collection of book was his biggest source of pride. The bookshelf was fine mahogany and shined without dust, sitting in the place where most would put the source of familial gathering. Ernest like a man in penance had no family. Maybe it was out of penance that this solitudinous man lived with only slight fissures in his fortress of slight existence.