Sarcasm Is the Lowest Form of Wit; Not.

The young man sat on the dewy grass, in the dead of night, under the big winter oak. The snowflakes were trapped between the branches and leaves, trying to escape and fall free to the ground, but it was impossible for them to do so. As a result they completely gave up, and once the sun had reappeared over the horizon, they would change state and as they liquefied, sliding down the wrinkled bark of the ancient tree. Some of the snow would reach the ground as it fell from the murky clouds, covering the sky, preventing the souls from leaving the atmosphere. That’s why people always found it so depressing when it rained, or there was a weather involving some form of precipitation. It was because the souls that were trying to leave this world had no escape route, nor did they have a Plan B, so they floated around the souls which still lived, dampening the moods of them as the weather dampened the environment.
Some snow was even unfortunate enough to melt before it even hits the ground, the state of it completely breaking down upon exiting the gritty clouds held above. This was the worst kind of snow, he thought.

The snow continued to fall, as it always did at this time of year. He knew it wouldn’t stop for a while, as Canada was renowned for its heavy snowfall and bitterly cold temperatures. In order to prevent him from completely drenching his clothes, he was wearing some salapets, making him able to sit down in the cold snow. His legs extended downwards from their previous bent position, pushing mounds of the white fluff forwards by the force of his rubber boots. Once his legs were flat he brought them out to a small straddle, then pushed his thighs close together, then back out, to create an isosceles triangle in the snow. He didn’t feel it was accurate enough, so continued to perfect it until it seemed every little flake was in a position which meant he could finally relax.

One flake found itself on the tip of his pale nose, melting almost instantaneously, sliding down further until it dripped onto his salapets. He sighed heavily, his warm breath drifting off before his very eyes. His eyes which were a hazelnut brown, as was his hair. The rest of him was white, and were it not for his facial features; he would seem invisible and a part of nature itself. A very similar thing happens with polar bears. In order to survive, and attack on their prey, they need to cover up their contrasting features. Mere mortals think it as ‘cute’ when they cover their coal noses with their paws. In fact this is when they are at their most deadly, and are in the mood for some killing.

Unable to stand the bitter winds, oozing its way into every nook and cranny of his clothing, still finding a way to make him shiver despite the layer upon layer he was lugging around on his body, he stood up. He carefully dusted himself down, making sure to be rid of every delicate particle. He brushed his mittened hands over his glossy coat, and then folded his arms over his chest as he began to trek back to his cramped little apartment. He made sure to keep his feet evenly spaced as he trekked, to create a perfect pattern through out the snow. As he reached the sidewalk and the depth rapidly diminished, and the purity of the snow turned into discarded, wasteful gray sludge, he unclenched his fists and brought them back to his sides. He swept his brown bangs out of the way, and made a little noise as his apartment complex came into sight.

The flickering of the strip light, illuminating the hall way, aggravated his delicate and puffy eyes. It had been flickering for months now, but no one had enough effort in them to change it. Nor did they have enough money to change it, if they did, they wouldn’t live here.

He brushed past the broken down elevator and traipsed towards the stairs, gripping at the broken, splintered, pine banister. His painful hands, in pain due to the sudden change of temperature, slid up the metal oblong as he walked up several flights. When he finally came to his floor, he pushed the door with little force as it was on its last hinges and the broken glass of the peek window was scattered across the peeling, yellowing lino. He didn’t look up once; he didn’t need to. He knew exactly which door his apartment was because outside it was an ironic ‘Welcome Home’ bristly door mat. No one had taken it because everyone in this apartment feared one another. They were here for a reason, usually because they needed the spare cash to fund for an illegal habit, and could turn violent at any point. You wouldn’t want to do anything to aggravate them.

Well, unless you were him. In which case you just happened to be pretty unfortunate.

He brushed his feet on the mat, and then hit the door on its pulse spots. He hit the three spots, and it swung open. He kicked off the rubber boots, resting it against the pole he’d used to dry off his wet clothing. He slammed the door shut and pushed the dresser in front; this was the nearest thing he had to security. In a few moments all of his clothes were discarded, hung over the rail and some two day old pajamas were slipped on over his pallid body. To add to this he pulled on two pairs of socks and a beanie, and then collapsed on to the sofa, flicking on the black and white TV. It blared out at an alarming volume, making him dart back quickly, pressing the decrease volume button repeatedly on his remote until it was at a satisfactory level. There was a lot on, but nothing that interested him.

This was also something that he misunderstood, the saying ‘nothing is on’. Yes, there is, there’s plenty on. Just nothing you would choose to watch right now. He had trouble understanding sarcasm, sayings and anything that wasn’t literal. However forward his brain was, this never ceased to confound him.

He pulled the little amount of sheets he had over his goose bumped body, gazing at the TV, his vision blurred and affected by the cold climate. He pushed his forefinger through a hole in the top, faded sheet, and sighed as the insomnia kept him up another night in a row.