The Snow Ball

As Miles reached the locked door of the Food Mart, a drunken mob of adolescents plowed their way through the snow towards him. They were singing a loud crude song that attracted the attention of onlookers from side shops and windows. Miles turned in repugnance to open his door, but at that very moment, a snow ball whizzed by his ear, hit the locked front door, and exploded in his face sending a shower of ice and snow down the inside of his coat. Slowly, Miles raised a hand out of his woollen coat pocket and wiped away the frozen slush. He turned his face reddening, but the mob of boys had already rounded the corner at Lu's Car Garage at a sprint, as though they were being chased by a rampaging rhinoceros. Annoyed, Miles turned back to the door, and ascended the short dilapidated stair case to his apartment. Stomping the ice and snow from his heavy boots at the door, he hung his woollen coat on a wooden peg, and filled the dented tea pot to boil.
Ted was sitting quietly on the window sill looking directly at Miles. Miles cracked open the window and ted hopped in onto the table. His scaly feet were coated with frost, and his feathers were so puffed up against the cold he looked like a miniature hedgehog. He cooed once in a satisfied way as Miles broke apart a slice a bread and tossed it on the table.
Miles sat with his feet propped up on a stool and a cup of whiskey spiked tea in his thick hand. He was watching Ted perched precariously on the kitchen cabinets, his head under his wing, sitting quiet still despite the howling wind lashing against the window panes. Miles was lost in thought, though not particularly thinking of a specific moment, but more his life's journey that led him to the wretched Food Mart.
Mile's past provoked this forced isolation Miles endured. The war, which was long over, had an effected each of its veterans, but Miles felt it much more than his bunker mates. Death, which war feeds upon, is a phenomenon that can turn even the happiest man into a sullen lifeless shell. The blood, shrieks, and screams only experienced in combat had plunged Miles innocence and happiness into a downward spiral similar, to that of a shot down air craft. War had molded Miles into that empty shell.
Angry with himself for once again dwelling on those horrible moments, Miles raised himself from his rocker and turned his head instead to stare out the frosty panes of glass down into the still streets. Snow had begun to fall thick and fast, obscuring the countless foot prints and tire tracks in the roads and side walks. Miles took another swing of tea, sloshing the amber liquid back and forth between his cheeks making up his mind. Tomorrow, Miles would take a day off, resolute to rid himself of this looming shroud of gloom that encased him in a relentless icy grip. Even if Miles was forced to make contact with Madame Maureen and her foul shop, Miles was determined to speak with someone and lift this vail of misery.