Creaking floor boards and tipping bottles clouded Colt's hearing as he kept his head down and ignored the creeping heat as The Descent began once again. Wilkins left with a weary look as his anxiety rose once night fell. Colt chose not to dwell on The Descent's, every day was a fight for survival, night was no different, though the heat was hellish and he'd complain to anyone who'd listen. He'd never dared to walk on the dirt roads come day break, nor would he ever. The sickening air and eerie silence as people were crumpled and crushed like paper. They never screamed, or at least nobody heard it. Every night they come down and fill up their flesh suits and walk among us, playing with our bodies like dolls, while occupying them to snuff out our friends and family in the most cruel and entertaining way they can think of. The heat they exuded when near was like a miniature sun, the abundance of energy that our muscles and skin can't handle, by the end of the night their skin suits have melted and they come back the next night with a different body they hooked themselves into.
It was quiet, Colt wanted to hear Wilkins hums for a bit longer, especially with all the bodies he'd be burying once the sun rose. The amount of people who die each night is always a morbid surprise for Colt, either by how many people were living in the area or how they'd survived this long in the first place to die during The Descent's. He was alone sitting on his stool as he stared at the wall, refusing to imagine people he could have known being horrifically murdered in an instant. Imagining himself in their shoes, if he allowed himself to slip up and stick around just a few minutes longer before having his bottom half stuck inside of himself, to undergo their “generosity” as he was told by the freaks who worshipped sadism in stolen skin. The heat fringe spread through his skin, he swallowed any thoughts of peace, an upsurge of coherent thoughts revolving around the disgusting shams who spread word of the merciful gods above while slitting the throats of sane women and children haunted by their so called benevolent rulers in the red black sky. His mind roamed on times when his shaggy mother with ragged clothes would hide in makeshift spaces while holding him close to her chest, not bothering to pray for survival. He roamed on the day that those so-called believers grabbed his mother and tied her down to a post and waited the daylight out and left her to their gods as a new play time toy, as he watched from behind the tapestry with them in their mobile home while his mother had her insides, taken outside—and her outsides in. Her bones bent like a balloon twisting, her blood drenched the dirt like gallons of paint. The god that enjoyed his hours with her left his poor mother to dry, so that he could watch the results till morning come–and he could finally move his mother, left to be with her corpse—the cultists left, expecting him to die young and afraid, less than mindful of his fate. He despised the mind that forced him to dread over such things, but more than that he despises the world that forced him to live through such things. Still now he was obsessing, why now? Every time he thinks he's moving on he finds himself motionless hiding behind another curtain pretending everything's alright. He had enough and stood from his shaky trance and plopped himself into a straw bed and forced himself to sleep with his thoughts. Wilkins sat by Colt's bed, crocheting a small hat while humming a low tune, a comforting gesture for a friend. Before long he'd fallen asleep to Wilkin's lull, and the older man left him with the tiny hat, along with a brown plastic wrapping that contained a treat, it's been referred to as candy before—Very rare, an incredibly kind gesture.
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