Be my Gypsy, I'll be your Clive

At nineteen and sixteen, there really wasn't that much that we could do as far as funding went, but we wanted this, and we were willing to do whatever it took to achieve this goal. I felt a little iffy about leaving seeing as how close I was to my mother, but as an adult, myself, I needed this. He, on the other hand, was almost a complete stranger to his. Her mental state was not one of healthy standing. Normally, he would only complain of verbal abuse, but I could see the bruises trailing from his wrists to his thin, pale neck. His innocent flesh was stained with the unnecessary disdain of a failed parent, and he deserved better than that. I think he knew that I was aware of the bruises, despite his body remaining almost completely painted with the thick, dark fabric of his wardrobe. We seemed to have some sort of silent contract, agreeing that neither of us would speak of the physical abuse. I had no doubt that his mother was the cause, and I am almost certain that this fact, alone, caused my hasty decision to run.