Disclaimer: I am Charles Dickens, but I don't own anything. That's about it.

For those of you that might want to sue me for that: I'm only kidding.

Also, this story is dedicated to Peaches and the other two people who have actually read Hard Times.

Author's Notes: All right, so I caved. I wasn't going to post this, but…I just had to. I just love Tom. I realize this is very short. Also, I wouldn't expect regular updates, like, ever. But, it's something, right? Oh, well. Read and review, lovies!

In Which Tom Gradgrind Deplores His Confinement

Young Tom Gradgrind hated exile.

He noted that this was an exceptionally obvious thing to despise, but it deserved to be mentioned nonetheless.

He sighed wistfully, and turned his attention to his window. There were only three in his entire cottage. Three windows! That was torture in and of itself. Tom had always been fond of windows. They were shields that allowed him to enjoy the outside world without having to be part of it.

Oh, he had tried to be a part of it once. Yes, he thought he had done everything right; everything his father had taught him. But that was a fiasco. Look where it got him now: stuck in an abnormally small cottage in the middle of God only knows where with only three windows!

Damn Bounderby! This was just one more aspect of his life that the man had managed to destroy.

Okay, so robbing the bank was partially Tom's fault.

Or maybe a tad more than partially.

Anyhow, Bounderby drove him to it. He would have never felt so helpless without Bounderby. He would never have gained such a rebellious streak if he hadn't been told what to do all the time.

God, it had been a year since he had gone farther than his mailbox. His father had arranged for supplies to be brought to him as necessary. Money was regularly sent to him. He was just supposed to stay hidden, to prevent any sort of trouble, whatever that may be.

The only people who knew about his involvement in the bank robbery were Louisa, Sissy, and his father. None of them were going to tell any time soon. He didn't know why they were so worried. Obviously, they thought his actions would be self-incriminating. He was more subtle than that. He could have gotten away with it.

The worst part of it was that he didn't feel any remorse for the robbery. It had only affected Bounderby, after all; the old man had had it coming.

Most everybody else failed to see it that way. His father refused to write to him and only helped because of his fatherly obligations. Sissy did not write him either, though they had never been particularly close. Loo was the only one to still maintain contact with him of late, and even that had become less and less frequent. Her increasing duties as a wife and mother forced her from any form of reliable correspondence.

He hadn't had a single conversation for four months. The last time he actually spoke to someone was when he had commented about the weather to his mailman. It was a sad life he led.

Tom thought he was going insane.

No, he knew he was.

Stupid exile.