It had been a long time since he'd seen the sun. It'd been a long time since any of them had seen the sun around these parts.
One part yellow three hundred parts blue- that's how the sky is mixed before the great war. Two parts white, one part black, eighty four parts grey. That's an accurate representation of their sky now.
Salad Fingers. That's how he supposes his name should sound. He doesn't know his real name, the one from the before times. He's long since forgotten it. His mind has rotted into messy thoughts of darkness and horror; grim, obscure horror that he does not see for himself, because it's no longer horror to him. It's life.
The trees outside are still bare. He hasn't been keeping a calendar, but he's been tallying up the days since his brother left and after twelve hundred and sixty four days, not including the time he's spent passed out, he figures it should have turned to spring already.
He can't look in the mirror. He can't.
But now Hubert's here and everything's okay, because he made it home from the doctor, and nobody got eaten, and they would all be one big happy family again and there would be no problems.
"Hubert" He sighed, sitting himself down in the dusty old chair. If he weren't so frail it may not support him.
"Hubert, don't you run off like that. You could be an unfortunate Agatha and then what would I do with myself, hmmn? Spend my days wasting away like some common pedestrian?"
His slightly irritated words were cut through by the relief in his eyes. They would have fallen on deaf ears anyway. Hubert wasn't listening. Hubert was never listening. He didn't understand the other rejects, they were all strange and he just didn't know how to deal with them. Everyone had left for the war, and very few stayed behind with him.
The world is dead outside. He is dead outside, but he can hardly see it. As his words fall on deaf ears reality falls on his blind eyes, red and disillusioned, and soon he will not see anymore.
Cocks.