Rain pounded Marquis's back, chilling him to the bone as his body struggled to provide warmth to his extremities. The wind proved to be a much stronger obstacle against the body's natural heat and once it blew through his soaked clothes, everything that had even the slightest chance of being warm was drenched. His skin was cold and clammy as the wind continued to torment him with its gnashing teeth. He growled and continued to push his arms to the limit, digging mounds of mud from the hole that collapsed into more mud to shovel. His muscles burned with fire but were nevertheless frozen. His rich brown hair reached his eyes as he bent down and lifted a huge glob of mud from the ground. Most of it fell back, spraying him with dirt. He tossed the shovel aside and came back for it, bending his knees deeply as he tried to keep his arms from pushing the mud back into the hole. The rain suddenly fell on him, blurring his vision and making his steps slippery. Suddenly his foot slipped out from under him and he ended up crashing his tailbone on a rock. A pain flashed across my lower back and down my legs. The pines began to mock him with the wind blowing through their branches, creating a rustling sound equal to a thousand voices. A thousand voices telling the Marquis that he was crazy and that it would be better to drown himself in the mud rather than desecrate the earth with his madness. “SHUT UP!!!!” he shouted at the trees and turned his head to the left. At his side lay inert a form unrecognizable due to the mud splattered on every inch of it. He stood up slowly, feeling a new pain shoot through his lower back as he reached his full height, towering over the dead mass before him. H... half of the paper... in the last two days. They felt robbed and now he was left out in the open, worshiped by the monsters whose souls were meant to weaken his nerves. With each passing dream he learned to turn on the TV and watch the local news for any stories of recent murders that would pop up from time to time. Some stories matched what he dreamed that night, from the two shots to his chest to the numbers on his arm. The only explanation he had for not hearing about all his dreams coming true was because they probably took place in some different county, broadcast on another news station. But who would know? It wasn't like he was about to ride out on a wild goose carriage to have the chance that all his dreams were connected to murders. "But why not?" he suddenly asked out loud. The conversation raging in her mind had become so immense that it kept her silent…