The Blizzard of Depression

Chapter 1

I sit at my desk aimlessly gazing out at the abyss on the other side of the glass. How long have I been doing this gig? A bit over a millennium and a half? Thank God I age slower than humans. A thousand years is only about five years for me. I had begun this gig when I turned eighteen, alleviating my father of the burden, and now I had just recently celebrated my 26th birthday. In the past eight years, my social life took a tremendous blow. For a holiday that occurs once a year, there are a lot of things that ought to be sorted. And unexpectedly, there are excesses of paperwork for the figurehead, or in other words, me, the unfortunate sap

At least once a year, I'll get a visit from my mom and some old friends. Though considering the trip from Lergendari, the site where legendary figures and fables live, to the North Pole is quite extensive I can see why I'm left to socialize with children a third my size and a quarter my age. My love life is even worse since my first kiss was when I was thirteen, and it wasn't even my first kiss as it was in a school play. After that, I tried my hand at dating but was relentlessly turned down. I'll admit, my figure has been wasted with the responsibility of my job, but I still have somewhat of a fit frame. I still clock in at about six feet and half an inch. And my weight is around 181 pounds despite the belief I'm a plump stubby old man.

Regardless, seclusion in the white abyssal doesn't help much in getting laid. A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts, and I glance up to see a short little doughboy peeking through a crack. I get up and open the door more, causing the boy to blunder forward a bit.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Mr. Claus, there's a woman at the entrance. We've sat her down in the lobby."

I give him a puzzled look. A person here? In a raging blizzard no less? Only a mad lad would even consider making a voyage that's death guaranteed when the snow is rough and bitter.

"I'll be right down to meet her," I say and push the door closed.

I turn around and walk to my full-length mirror. I'm wearing a worn-out tank top with blue-striped boxers and dad socks. My chocolate-brown hair is disheveled and I have a mustache and a 5 o'clock shadow creeping in. To top it all on that, my once vivacious blue eyes look sunken in and dull. I am in no condition to be meeting guests.

I quickly inspect my wardrobe and pull out a dress shirt, a blue suit jacket, and pants, along with a red tie and a pair of black Oxford shoes. I put it on then grab a comb and style my hair into a slick back comb over. Already I could notice strands turning white in the mirror.

Nonetheless, I button up my jacket and straighten out my tie for dramatic effect. I breathe in and out once more than turn around and head out of my office. Instantly, I'm struck with the sounds of machines spinning and chitter chatter as well as the infrequent blast from the sleet outside.

The walls and floors were polished mahogany with the familiar festive garlands while the center was compiled of dead slate tones with specks of life in between monitoring them. I stride down the corridor, going beneath an antique arch as I step down into the foyer away from the works.

There on the sofa sat an elegant lady with looks around her mid-20s. Chestnut hair frame her face in a way she looked as if Monet had painted her himself. She was sporting a baby blue blouse paired with a black swing skirt that reach nearly to her ankles with matte black heels. She was fair skin and blue eyes that glisten like diamonds with white gloves with frilly ends.

She's sitting with her legs crossed and her hands on one another resting on her knee, gazing all over seemingly unbothered by the storm she had traversed in. I let out a cough and she turns to face me and quickly stands up, patting the ruffles out of her skirt.