THERE WILL BE A LONG ACTUAL SHORT STORY BUT THIS IS THE SHORT VERSION
Snow fell to create a frozen blanket, but it wasn't enough to conceal the melancholia. Try as it might, warm rays the sun promised fruitlessly tried to penetrate the thick fog of smog acting like a curtain trapping the unforgiving cold weather. Gloomy, grey clouds plump with continuous snowfall allowed flurries to descend, covering streets and ramshackle buildings a powered white. It was too cold this miserable morning, it began seeping in from the cracks of the decayed homes, invading the morbid sanctuaries of the people.
It wasn't the shrill ringing of his ancient clock that awoke him, but the nipping cold that started at his nose and crept up his legs. Gyle peeled open his eyes, shivering violently underneath his ragged and frayed blanket limply draped over him.
Frost coated the nearby window in a glowing white, chilly air blowing through spider web cracks into the room. Gyle assumed it had to be somewhere below zero, usual in the mornings. He shivered again and wrapped the blanket tighter around him as he trudged over to his kitchenette adjoined to his bedroom and bathroom combo. Sparks flickered as they morphed into a tiny flame when he turned on the stove and started to boil a pot of water.
Waiting for the water to warm, he wriggled his blue toes that were numb. His clothes did little to rid himself of the cold, so he tied his blanket draped over his shoulders before using his bathroom. Gone for several moments, he strode inside his kitchenette with the intention to check on his pot.
The stove sputtered and stopped mid-way in its work.
Gyle walked over with a disappointed expression. Brow furrowed, he held his hand over the hot water; it wasn't dangerously warm. Satisfied, he smiled gently and set the pot on the creaking wood floor. With steam and water, he slowly warmed his body once more as he dipped his frozen toes into the pot. The eternal winter world wouldn't take his life today. He continued heating his toes, ignoring sharp hunger pangs that he was accustomed to. The factories the poor worked at provided all their meals, it was against the rules of their crumbling government to own food inside their hovels called dwellings. He would have to head off to his working division soon; a factory that made cheese, or what looked like cheese but didn't taste it. He had never tasted cheese in his life.
He huddled in his blanket, nose twitching as he failed to fight a sneeze. Gyle rubbed his nose, extracting his toes from the cooled water. Toes red and comfortably hot he headed back inside his bathroom to splash water onto his face and dampen his black hair wildly scattered on his head over his rusted sink. There were no brushes or combs, so he had to resort to untangling his hair with his fingers. New pairs of washed thin clothes were given to workers when they returned home; he would make cheese blocks today with what he wore on his back.
Fixing the collar of his white button up shirt, and slipping into his leather shoes resting beside his door, he walked out of his home. His home was on the second floor of a twenty level building, a steel staircase led him out into the chilling street. Stepping into the snow crunching under his weight, he pulled his shirt closer to his face, covering his mouth to puff warm breathes into his already numbing hands. Flurries dusted his black hair, wetting his pale almost translucent skin. People shuffled up and down cracked sidewalks, holding ripped scarves over their grimy faces.
The gloomy atmosphere choked the lingering happiness or content, leaving room for only sadness. It was fairly easy to become depressed in a world where grey clouds blocked out the sun and snow always continued to fall. Soot covered sallow skin, gaunt cheekbones pointed from lack of nutrition. Pale eyes supposed to hold mischief or a delighted twinkle was nonexistent in the exhausted, dead depths longing for food and life. Gyle watched the people, avoiding bumping into them. Children dashed among them, dirty grey water sloshing in metal pans.
