User blog comment:Prince(ss) Platinum/Quickpasta Day/@comment-5269370-20130814160733

The Workhouses were common places for regular, poor peasants during the Great Famine of the 1800's and little Cólm's experience never differed to that of any other orphan in any different workhouse. There was the usual; decrepit, starved, skeletal bodies that lay frail around the place carrying their grief acceptance that they were most likely die here from either a common disease or starvation. What remained a mystery though for quite a while though, was why and how his workhouse fed its residents better than any other did around the country.

Everyday, people would queue for a small bowl of soup and a tiny bit of bread. It wasn’t a lot by any means, but during those times you would certainly make do. One regular day, after one of Cólm’s friends presumably died, Cólm felt and heard a strange, crunching sensation, closely representing to that of chewing an eggshell in his mouth while he was eating his soup, with a sharp part of whatever it was piercing into his tongue. He pulled out the source of the crunching, only to see a split in half, rusty coloured, yellow toenail with a small little dribble of blood blobbed the end of it. The soup tasted just the same as it had every other day.