The first night was difficult. With each breath that expelled, Gregory could feel the rasps of another against the pillow - struggling as dirt clogged fragile lungs. He imagined eyes rolled back into their sockets, features broken and bruised in places but still quite recognisable as the boy who hadn't seen it coming. Dirt seeped in through his thoughts, sullying the faded grey of a pillow and spreading a damp discomfort down his spine. Every blink brought vivid visions, flashed of crimson seeping between convulsing chunks of flesh and an identical face gasping for air.

An identical face moving and begging and-- dead.

Gregory and Mitchett belong to me and I'm not entirely happy with this piece but ah well.