Society wouldn't touch them, they were too unclean, not even thought of as human.
They hid their faces inside familiar things - masks, lampshades, computer monitors.
Most of them sought comfort in the rot and filth that they had created.
Others weren't so fortunate.
They were mostly found dead nowadays, by their own hands or the survivors of their mire.
There were still ways of finding them alive (not that anyone should).
Places that people forgot, where people who wanted to be forgotten ended up.
Right on the fringes of civilisation, just enough to be out of sight but never out of mind.
One such place had once been used for grain storage until the draughts hit the area.
The one who lived there was one of the few who remembered it before it died.
He had been the cause of it, pushed and pushed to drain and bottle the water til it dried.
Now the place was dust, dirt and rusted shells of old farm houses.
He felt it cathartic to live out his life in the death he had caused, peaceful almost but for the ghosts.
They were the only ones to complain, the dead never slept there.
His days were spent hiding from the harsh sun, boiling in his pallid flesh.
The TV monitor he wore to conceal his wretched face had fused around his face, a part of him now.
Perhaps he should have been afraid of this, feared it made him even less human.
He only felt tired, a deep seated ache in his bones that came from so much more than the sun.
The only things that could stand him were the rats, their taste clung to his mouth like tar.
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