^{falseprayers.}

   <sup>pepper was told once when she started working here during her summers at sixteen, that the wee hours of the morning changed people. changed your perception of them. pepper knew what she meant, to some degree. you could tell who’d done things they probably regretted or reveled in. you could decipher it at three am because there are only three type of people awake at three am; the guilty, the reckless, and the lost. most of your time, you have no idea which one you are. pepper knew she was the third option, but she also knew that the male she’d brought coffee to was a companion in that member group.

   when he says ‘hey’, her skirt practically swooshes as she turns on the heel of her combat boot. he asks about the weird happenings in the town and for a moment a look of empathy flashes on her face. lips pursed as those dark eyes of her’s take in the diner and the scarce denizens that don’t seem to need any help. in an act of mercy, she chooses to sit in the booth, legs crossed as she watches him for a few moments.

    ❛ i know plenty about the valley, for one the mountain we’re in front of - mount pious, has more dead than this town has living during tourist season. it’s a dumping ground. ❜</sup>

          <sup>relentlessly interested    ,    yet relentlessly fearful of what he’ll find here         -    he gulps  .    the rumours passed down to him are always so    VAGUE    ,    the results of passing down information from    person    to    person         -    he gets the bits    &&    pieces    ,    just stupid hints of    SUPERNATURAL    FORCES    or a    BODY    FARM  .    his head falls    ,    chin to hit hollow chest    (    with no cushioning    ,    it makes a small    THUD    )  .    contemplation    ,    in the form of giftwrapped pain  .    take it    &&    run         -    at least it    LOOKS    PRETTY  .

          a doubtful hint gushes through him once again         -    the search has yet to    b e a r    f r u i t    ,    &&    he’s starting to reach breaking point  .    NEVER    STOP    TRYING    (    he’ll die    AGAIN    before he gets there    ;    he’s sure of it    )  .    drifting    ,    tearful eyes turn to the window    ,    the rain that patters slowly  .    this town is fucked up enough without    HIM    ,    without    HIS    BAGGAGE    (    vague curiosity drags him along    ,    like one of those damn dogs on trailers         -    helplessly    STUCK    in this loop of    F I N D    O U T    M O R E    )  .

                    ‘     well    ,    SHIT  .     ’

          there’s nothing here for him    ,    but somehow he    JUST    CAN’T    LEAVE  .    not yet    ,    anyway         -    perhaps the distant stench of death    ENTICES    ,    perhaps he must join his    fellow    deceased    …

          G R U E S O M E    ,    huh    ?</sup>