The months pass by and fade away, and the darkness begins to settle. A long cold winter beckons. The orange ghosts drift endlessly on, seemingly unaware of the impending chill. On them, they carry the sullen look of the dusty plains, the red dirt and the stifling heat. As I watch them pass toward another life, I can do nothing but sit and stare.
My eyes are drawn to the faded eyes and the weathered skin, and the brown stains like stab wounds across their chests. I wonder about their stories. What drew them into the light? What created the ghostly stares and the empty looks? What will become of them in the years that they wish on past?
What does one do when you escape from Hell, with your freedom on a roster?
