Hour 6: The Patchwork Man

The man who wears the skin of others walks the street. Slowly, with measured steps, leaving a trail of flesh and liquid behind.
He’s following his next victim.
She’s pretty and he’s cold.
Shivering and shaking.

I just need your warmth…

His whispers carry along the gentle breeze.

The woman stops as his words tickle the back of her neck.

She looks around but doesn’t see anything. Just shadows and scattered cars on the distant highway.

He’s so close to her he can almost feel her warmth, the sensation of wearing her skin.

Her shoes barely make a sound on the sidewalk, just the shuffle of dead, yellow leaves.

I’m just so cold. So cold… 

She stops again.

Her fingers tighten on around her house keys, ready to fight off some creep.

She turns.

He tries to smile through the tears dripped down his face and over his quivering blue lips.

Warm me,,.

He’s on top of her before she can even think to scream.
She tears at his patchwork-skin clothing.

His cold hands digging into her.
He moans when he reaches her blood.

He pulls her skin over him, feeling the warmth, feeling safe, feeling satisfied.
But he knows it won’t last long.
The air is getting cold, the hour is getting late.

A young man stops across the street and yells for him to get away from her or he will call the police.

Please….please…let me get warm. Help me. It’s so cold….

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