#but paper rustling? pen scratching? fuck yes sign me UP

[pandora-whowalksbetween]

‘oh beel should do asmr’ this is blatant lucifer quietly doing paperwork asmr erasure

#personal taste alert but i dont like mouth sounds asmr #but paper rustling? pen scratching? fuck yes sign me UP #actually soundscapes for the brothers would be.... really fun #lucifer's with like soft record classical music and paper sounds and maybe a crackling fire #and maybe you can year faint sounds of his brothers stomping in other rooms #mammon i'd watch do soft spoken collection videos. clinking metal and tapping and shit #levi's room soundscape would SLAP tho. keyboard tapping. aquarium water ambeint noise. maybe some satisfying video game sound effects #connect from pmmm plays softly in the background at one point #satan could do reading asmr just straight up pick a book if he wants. idk what ideas for a soundscape would be other than some magic wooshin #and page turning obviously cause he lives in a library #OHOH CAT PURRING #fuck yeah cat purring #and you KNOW asmo would be good at makeup tutorials or rp #belphie attic soundscape. creaking wood. footsteps echoing up and down the stairs. soft snoring maybe. fabric rustling #obey me

[gretavanbitch]

Tangled up in blue- 2

warnings- drugs lol 

One month and six weeks prior- 

Keeping herself busy when Josh was gone was no easy task for Penny. She tried her hardest to focus on work, sitting in front of rows of developed film, feeling burned out. There was no good reason for this feeling, simply that she was lonely. Sighing, she thought of the only thing to relax her and calm her mind without Josh, weed. 

Her bare feet padded across the hardwood floors of their loft softly, overalls rustling slightly as she made her way to their bedroom. She walked to the brown cabinet next to her side of the bed and pulled out a small encrusted gold box. This box was opened probably too often when she was home without Josh, but also when he was there. She pulled out a filter, and papers. Then taking a bunch off the gram, she grinded it slowly, closing her eyes and wishing she was somewhere else. As her hands moved absentmindedly, she imagined what the boys were doing right now. They were probably on some tour bus or green room getting drunk, which sounds a lot more fun than getting high alone. She imagined Josh, sitting in some plush chair with some extravagant jumpsuit on, smiling and laughing with his friends, without her. She decided to shoot him a text, just some reassurance that he was still there. 

Penny: Hey babe, Jake try to murder you yet? 

Sent: 8:23pm 

She sat, licking the joint closed and waiting eagerly for a reply from Josh. After five minutes, she decided that she would put on a record and smoke, just to pass the time. Joni Mitchell’s Blue started to reverberate off the walls of the apartment, causing her to smile softly to herself. She remembered back to the first road trip she took with Josh, playing this album over and over again until they reached the other side of the country. His hair would run wild with the windows down, and a smile never left his face that week. Snapping back to reality, she brought the joint to her lips and lit her lighter, inhaling deeply and falling back into the couch. After the record had run through both sides, she felt like she needed to do something with her day other than smoke and miss Josh. 

Once again, the rows of film stood daunting before her. It was as if they were the royal guard for an impenetrable force in which her motivation was protected. With a hazy mind, she started flipping through the photographs of the recent week, smiling wider with each one. Your favorite was one that you took of Josh outside of a cabin in Washington. He stood away from the camera, but was smiling straight at it, teeth shining and bandana around his neck. That was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen, the purest form of natural beauty. Nothing like anything, ever. She also chuckled to herself as she flipped to one of Sammy biting Josh’s hand, and Jake posed dramatically against a boulder.

She loved the way that the light reflected with the camera lens, and the way that it interacted with the subject. Just as she was about to write down a title for the series, her phone buzzed on the table next to her, lighting up with a notification from Josh. 

Josh: Hey mama, just got off stage, it went great. I wish you could've seen it. How did the film come out? 

P.S, Jake has tried to stab me sixteen times already. 

Sent: 12:34AM

Penny: It came out great, here see. 

Attachment: 3 images 

Sent 12:35AM 

Josh: Beautiful, my love. You have a gift for manipulating the light, it's amazing. Can we talk or are you too tired? 

Sent: 12:36AM 

The thought of talking to Josh without seeing his face and expressions change with each word, caused her chest to hurt with want. So instead, she clicked the Facetime button rather than call. 

Her phone vibrated for a few seconds, panging in her ear loudly. Yet within the blink of an eye, she was greeted with her favorite pair of brown eyes staring onto the screen in front of him. She smiled, and floofed her hair to make sure it didn’t look too trash. 

“Hey pretty lady,” he smiled at her. Josh was laying on his back on a bed, presumably on the tour bus. He was lacking in a shirt, but the beads that always decorated his neck hung down past his chest. His hand was stretched above his head, and the phone was angled up from his stomach. 

“Hey pretty boy,” she responded, positioning the phone in a more comfortable position on the couch, “watcha up to rockstar?” 

“you know the usual, living the life, but I really really really wish you were here, everybody does.” His eyes blinked slowly, showing signs of tiredness, but he would never reveal that to you right now, your time was too precious. 

“I do too, trust me its so fucking depressing here with just me and Marely,” she sighed, reffering to the tabby cat that her and Josh adopted together a few months ago. 

“aw how is she?” He asked, smiling into the phone. Penny moved the camera to her right, displaying the cat that was curled up by her hip. 

“She is great, but wishes she was living the rockstar life,” Josh chuckled to Penny’s response. 

“Okay but seriously Pen, can’t you just call sick for one week, say you got really bad food poisoning,” he pleaded. 

“If I say that, then I feel like I will accidentally manifest that I will actually get food poisoning for a week,” she laughed into the phone. 

“fair point, but it’s not the same without you here, I’m not the same without you here,” his tone shifted to a more serious one with every word, looking straight into her eyes through the screen. 

“I mean technically I’m on studio time right now, so they wouldn’t know if I came with you for a week or two...or they would fire me,” she scratched her chin, thinking out the possibilities in her head. 

“If they fire you, then just go freelance, they never fully understood your work anyways,” he smirked at her, knowing that she always complained about the company she was hired by, repeating their failures for understanding creativity. 

“Alright Kizka, you drive a hard bargain,” Penny smiled. 

“Is that a yes?” Josh’s eyes widened at the blonde girl through the screen. 

“it is not a no.” 

“fuck yes, so I can book you a plane ride to California for tomorrow?” He now got up from the bunk, excitedly running to his computer. 

“Mhm, just tell me what time.” 

“Ok here’s one, leaves Nashville at 8, gets in Cali at 10,” Josh said, calculating the time difference in his head. 

“you are such a bad influence, Kizka,” Penny rubbed her forehead tiredly. 

“I will see you tomorrow my love, get some sleep okay?” he smiled at her tired expression, kissing the camera of his phone sweetly. 

“see you tomorrow.” and with that she hung up the phone and exhaled loudly. What just happened? One conversation with Josh and she hits the road. It makes her think back to when she didn’t have anyone, and spent years alone in her little studio apartment, taking photos of walls and birds. Now she would drop everything with the snap of his fingers. In her heart she knew that her dependency on him for happiness was not right, but she was too deep in. Her head was stuck underwater, surrounded by the cool rush of his love. The flaws went unnoticed by both of them in fact, just simply mistaking it for head over heels infatuation. 

As her head hit the pillow, she thought that the emptiness of the room was less significant as it was a few hours ago. Maybe it was the excitement of the idea of not sleeping alone tomorrow, or just the few minutes of hearing his voice. Whatever it was lulled her softly to sleep. 

In a hazy dream, she remembered her and Josh’s first kiss. It was outside of their favorite bar after their second date. He stood next to her, shoulder pressed to hers, and hand interlacing with her own. He was wearing his usual attire, a white long sleeved shirt and tan pants. Yet he looked extravagant, his energy was inherently outgoing. As he says, the Kizka’s have a “flair for flair”. The cool wind seemed to push the pair together, jostling her hair softly as he looked over at her. His eyes were slightly hooded, closed just a slightly against the wind. Her glances fell down to his cupids bow, admiring its shape, then to his lips where she wished she never had to leave. He noticed the shift in her gaze and did the same himself, smirking at her. She smiled, tugging his chin towards her. His hands laced through her hair, smiling into the kiss. Their lips met, and they fit together like they were made for each other, and no one else. 

Her alarm forced her out of the wonderful image that played in her sleep, jutting her eyes open to the harsh sunlight of the morning. She quickly packed an old leather suitcase with a few pairs of jeans, shirts, and dresses, knowing that she would be stealing jewlery and sweatshirts from Josh. In what seemed like five minutes she was at her gate, coffee in hand, and camera stowed in her carry-on bag. She decided to text Josh that she was about to board the plane, knowing that he was probably still asleep. 

Penny: Hey, boarding now. I’ll text you when I land

sent 8:05am

She then put her earbuds in, deciding on listening to the new album, just so she was prepared to sing alone at the shows. It wasn’t like she hadn’t memorized it the night it came out, but she always felt bad listening to it with Josh, it just felt odd to her. The first song to come on shuffle was Light My Love, and she nearly cried remembering the fireside performance she witnessed a not too long ago. 

The plane ride went by in what felt like minutes. Her mind was racing with so many thoughts, most about getting in trouble with work, but others about Josh and how excited she was to see him and the rest of the band. The tires of the plane landed in California with a jaulting thud, and she was brought out of her dissociation. 

She knew that Josh expected her to uber to the venue, after all he was probably just waking up now. So she called an uber, standing outside of LAX clad in an old Janis Joplin shirt, flare jeans, and her classic high heeled leather boots. Penny looked straight out of the 70′s, but Josh felt like the 70′s, a pair who perfectly complimented each other. 

The uber ride was bumpy and seemingly and hour too long. She finally reached the venue at 11:46, hastily thanking the driver and sauntering to the tour bus parked behind the stage. She knocked a few times on the door, and after the third time, she finally heard a groggy “what do you want” 

She smiled, pushing the door open with her foot and walking up the stairs, she was met with a pool of long brown hair and a very naked Jake laying on one of the bunks. Josh was nowhere to be seen. 

“Oh hey Penny, what are you doing here?” Jake asked casually, ignoring the fact that he was naked. She was not phased by the latter twins actions, after all, she spent a fair amount of time with the band and often felt like she was equally as close with all of the members. 

“Just lookin for my loverboy, any idea where he is?” She answered, leaning against on of the seats camly. 

“I think I remember him saying he wanted to go hear the acoustics of the empty stage, so maybe he’s there,” Jake answered groggily. 

“thanks,” she said as she made her way, now at a faster speed then before towards the back entrance of the venue. The staff didn’t seem to bat an eye at her as she hastily walked hallway after hallway until she reached the back of the stage. Then she saw him, standing with his arms out wide, silently absorbing the feeling of the empty arena. 

“babe?” she said, accidentally making it sound like a hushed whisper. 

The curly headed man then turned his head over his shoulder, smiling. His smile widened nearly ten fold when he saw the girl to his left. She looked amazing, her hair seemingly always falling in just the right way, she paused for a moment, reaching for something in her bag. 

“don’t move, and look forward again, just like you were before,” She smiled and clicked the shutter of the camera, knowing it would be beautiful, every photo with Josh in it is. She then put the camera away and ran into his arms, collapsing into his embrace. He hugged her tightly, moving his hands up and down her back. 

“I missed you so much my love,” He said into her hair. 

“I missed you more lover,” she replied. 

Hey pretty people! I hoped you liked this chapter, I may or may not write another either tomorrow night or by sunday! Asks are open for Jake or Josh imagines BTW!

#gfv #josh kiszka #josh kizka imagine #jake kizka fic #jake kizka #sam kiskza #danny wagner #danny wagner fic #sam kizka fic #greta van fleet #greta van fic #greta van meme #peaceful army #battle at garden’s gate #highway tune #classic rock #rock #writerscommunity #josh kizka fic

[stormtrips]

- therapy #1 -

This place is a lot less... clean, for lack of a better word, than the pictures they put online. The building this therapist is in seems newer, but the waiting room is dingy, latticed aluminum ceiling holding up popcorn gray panels and yellowing fixtures for fluorescent lights. There’s a rack in the corner holding worn children’s books and a tired-looking wooden train set abandoned behind a set of threadbare office chairs.

There’s also no receptionist behind the front desk, just a window with a sign that says, in both English and Spanish, “PLEASE WAIT FOR ASSISTANCE.” The lights aren’t on back there, but there are forms and a sign-in sheet waiting for you on the ledge.

This is stupid. You scratch your name and the time, take the loose leaf papers, and get started.

Yeah, yeah, basic demographic information. Insurance—well, technically you’re still on your dad’s, but he doesn’t even live in this country anymore, and fuck if you can remember the information. Family history? You don’t know anything about this. Personal medical stuff? The only time you’ve been in the hospital was for rehab. They want to know what medications you’re on, too, which is awkward, because you don’t know the name or the dose of what Fucker gave you, you just know it’s not working.

Underneath those basics are questionnaires, Becks something or other. All of these questions are stupid. You score a 31 on the first one (kind of depressing) and a 22 on the second (not so bad, really). After circling all the numbers and x-ing all the boxes, you don’t really have anything else.

So you wait.

Click the pen a little bit in your hand, twirl it around your fingers. Your dexterity got thrown off a little bit again by last weekend’s events, but you’ll get it back eventually, right? You jiggle your leg, crack your neck. One of the lights is humming obnoxiously. There’s a fly trapped under one of the busted metal quarter-inch blinds. With this much time, you let your eyes trace out patterns in how the dirty linoleum peels up from the floor at the seams.

You’re almost nodding off when the door to the office opens. “Oh!” a female voice says softly, keys jangling. “Are you early, or am I late?”

“Are you Alex?”

“Yes, hello!” She’s already looking in her phone. She might be a few years older than you if you had to guess, brown-skinned with long black hair, wearing floaty clothes in neutral colors with long gold earrings. Damn it. You had been hoping for a dude—and that tiny expectation takes you by surprise. You make a mental note of it for later. “Oh, I was late, I’m so sorry. Please, follow me.”

You stand up—had your feet really fallen asleep?—and get ushered into a tiny side room, only just wide enough to fit a full-length overstuffed couch with too many tasseled throw pillows. When you take a seat, it wheezes. The corduroy feels crumbly under your fingertips.

Alex shuts the door behind her, blocking out the dead, clinical light of the waiting room. It’s much darker in here, only lit by a nightstand lamp with maybe a fake candle bulb in it. Alex sits down in a large armchair, her bag landing heavy on the floor when she drops it and starts looking for something. “You’re a new client, right?”

“Yeah. I filled out all this paperwork.” You offer her the stack.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” She apparently had been looking for a pen and a clipboard, because your papers get neatly pinned and she starts taking notes immediately. “So, John, how did you find out about us?”

You shrug. “I did a Google search. This was the only place that had an appointment this fast.”

“Oh, that’s because I had cleared my schedule for Good Friday.” Shit, you’re so out of it that you forgot it was a holiday weekend. “I’m glad you came in. Now, what brought you in to see us?”

You freeze.

You were expecting this question, yeah, got dogged by it for four hours last night while you were unable to sleep and worrying about Dolch. That doesn’t mean you have a good answer for it. You’re pretty sure you filled out a thing online for this place (or maybe it was for one of the ten other places you tried to get ASAP appointments). Why can’t she look on there? Whatever. You pick the simplest answer first. “I went to rehab and they said I needed to keep doing therapy when I got out, so I thought I would start.”

Alex’s pen stops. “Rehab? For a... drug addiction?”

“Alcohol.” Dead and clipped off.

“Oh, right.” Like it wasn’t as serious as Percocet or heroin. “Well, we don’t really do addiction counseling here—or alcoholism counseling, whatever—but I can see what else I can do to help you today. Maybe get you a referral. How does that sound?”

Something in that guarded, hopeful part of you deflates, an already-drooping Mylar GET WELL SOON balloon destroyed by a dart. “Fine.”

“Oh, you didn’t fill out this section of the form.” She tilts the clipboard towards you and gestures to it with her pen.

“That’s because I don’t know.”

“Don’t know your family medical history?”

“Not really.” Is it that surprising? “We didn’t really talk about that stuff a whole lot.”

“Ah, right, gotcha.” She sounds like she got a bunch of insight about you out of that last sentence. “Did you bring your medications with you?”

“Just the one.” You were careful to bring this in your jeans pocket, so no one would have to see you manipulating your sylladex to get to the goods. The pills you got from Fucker look pathetic in this little snack baggie, but it’s all you had. “I lost the bottle, sorry, I forget what this is.”

Alex peers at it under the low light, then draws back into her own space. “Looks like a low dose of sertraline.”

“What now?”

“Generic Prozac.” Oh, wow. Fucker really put you on an antidepressant. Like that’s supposed to help with whatever has your brain this rustled. “Just a baby dose,” she says, like that’s supposed to make you feel any better. “How long have you been taking it?”

“Just since Sunday.”

“Any side effects?”

“Not much of anything, really.”

She clicks her tongue. “That’s too bad.” What the hell does that mean? She flips over to another piece of paper in your makeshift chart, tapping her pen down the page until she turns to the next one. “Thirty-one, yes, same number. Oh, dear, that’s not good.”

“What does that mean?”

“That’s in the range for severe depression, Jonathan.” Ugh. You hate it when people try to get cute with your name. “And the anxiety inventory, this is in the moderate anxiety range. Good thing you got an appointment!”

“Yeah, no kidding.” There’s no mirth in your voice, yet no sarcasm, either. No one told you therapy would be this boring.

“Well,” And Alex jingles her wrist to shake her bracelets away from her watch, “that might be all the time we have for an initial appointment like this. I’m sorry we can’t take you on long term, but if you’d like, I can send on your name to another practice. Oh, and, credit card, please.”

She plugs a chip reader into her phone port as you fork over the plastic. You feel a little nonplussed. You’re pretty sure you scheduled for an hour, and you’ve been here for much longer, but you could have sworn this whole thing in this room only took a few minutes. “I guess,” is all you really have to say.

Alex is focused on her phone again, then smiles as the app resolves the transaction. “Great!” she says, far too chipper. “Well, check your portal, and by the end of next week, you should have a message from us about next steps.”

“End of next week?” Full offense, but you’ve already been waiting long enough for an appointment when you’re in so much emotional pain it literally feels like it’s cracking your sternum in two.

“Yeah, all referrals take at least 72 hours and it’s a holiday weekend. Thanks for your time!” She’s already standing, opening the door to usher you out.

Good. You don’t want to be here any longer. “Thanks,” you tell her, an automatic politeness, but as you leave the office and take the elevator down to the building lobby, all you feel is confused. And kind of laughing at yourself for how seriously you took it. If it’s all going to be bullshit, at least you know what to expect for next time.

#x narrative #x plot #// therapy #// alcoholism #// addiction

[seashellwriter]

A Charming Obsession Ch. 2

Tap, tap, tap.

Nimble fingers flash across keyboard keys, dull, blue eyes glued onto a brightly lit screen. One of Waylon's legs bounces up and down in a nervous tick, his laptop lighting up his face in the inky blackness of his study. His eyes dart across the screen, rereading his email to the detective assigned to his case, before sending it with a tap on the enter key. In the back of his mind, he's unsure if he even should contact him, not knowing if the police will let him help out on finding the murderer of his wife, or his kids. But, he can't just... Sit here and do nothing... He can't... Not when...

Not when the ones who killed his wife and kids are out there, free.

Why did Lisa have to die? Why did his boys have to die?

Was it because... He went out to a bar when he should've apologized to Lisa instead? Was it because he should've watched the boys more carefully, instead of going to the restroom and leaving them out as perfect pickings for a deranged lunatic?

A lump is forming in his throat as he grits his teeth, slapping his face into the palms of his hands before scrubbing at his sore eyes.

If he came home sooner... If he only watched the kids and ensured their safety... They'd still be alive, wouldn't they?  

He chokes out a sob, shuddering breaths escaping him as tears spill out from his eyes and wet his hands. Each cry that escapes him wracks his form, a deep gloom pressing against his ribcage almost painfully.

Lisa and his kids didn’t deserve to die… to be murdered… To be carelessly printed across headlines depicting their gruesome deaths.  

God he swore... If he ever found the murderer of his wife, or the murderer of his kids... He'd... He'd-  

Do what?

Could he really hurt someone?

Loud, clear knocks on his front door startle him out of his grief, making him whip his head around to look over his shoulder into the dark. He's hesitantly standing up from his computer chair, wiping at his red, puffy eyes, and wondering who in their right mind would be visiting him at... A glance at the digital clock on his laptop tells him it's midnight. His bare feet slap against the cool, wooden floor as he walks warily to the front door, grateful that the owner of the apartment complex let him move into a new room, otherwise he'd be walking by where he found... He's taking a deep breath, fumbling with the lock on the knob.

'What if it's Lisa's murderer?'

The sudden thought has his hands freezing in midair, before he shakes his head roughly to knock some sense back into himself.

'I need to stop scaring myself like that... It's probably just the police wanting to question me again, or even a harmless late-night doorbell ditcher. I'm just being paranoid.'

'I'm just being fucking paranoid.'

Despite these reassuring thoughts, it takes him a moment to gather up enough courage to crack open the door, tensing up and swallowing thickly. He's puzzled to find not a single soul outside, swinging the door open fully before turning his head left and right, only to see the empty, gray walkway, lined with railing and lit up by a row of dim lights, casting menacing shadows over numbered doors. When he boldly takes a step forward out and is about to confirm that yes, his theory about a late-night doorbell ditcher is correct, his foot crunches against something smooth. His gaze turns down and lands onto a white envelope, along with a bouquet of vibrant, red roses.  

"Huh?" His eyes widen in surprise, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Is this some kind of joke? Maybe someone got the wrong apartment.

He plucks the envelope off of the door mat, smoothing it out with his fingertips before turning it over to see if there's any sign to who it's really for. 'To my darling Waylon' is written neatly on the back in black ink, written in a familiar cursive that he's sworn he's seen before.  

It... Really is for him.

Eyes.... It suddenly feels as if there's eyes on him, sharp and watching his every move, pinning him like a helpless bug. A chill runs up his spine, goosebumps prickling up his arms and legs. He quickly snatches the flowers up before turning on his heel and slamming the door closed behind him, locking everything back up in a flash.

'Fuck, fuck calm down...'

He's taking in shaky breaths, his hands trembling more from fear than from the cold outside.

This is ridiculous, there's no reason to be scared... He's acting like a child...

But, why would someone leave roses and a letter on his doorstep in the middle of the night?

It's probably someone fucking with him, maybe they thought it'd be funny to scare him, they're probably laughing their ass off from how easily he got spooked and rushed back inside.  

But... How do they know his name?

He gingerly sets the roses down onto the island in the kitchen, before his blunt nails dig into the sealed crease of the envelope, ripping it open. Dread is curling around in his gut as he lifts out the nicely folded up piece of paper contained within the envelope. Curiosity has him pressing onward as conflicting thoughts threaten to stop him, unfolding the paper carefully before narrowing his eyes at the neat cursive covering the page.

'Dear Waylon,

I hope you’re doing alright, darling. It pains me to see you suffering without me, your face twisting with a sorrow I've never seen from you before. You aren’t alone, I promise my dear. Trust me. You don’t need them.  

Not when I’m always here for you.’

He’s frozen in shock, blue eyes sliding across the words again, before he lets out a startled yelp from the sudden loud blaring of his phone. The letter leaves his hands, in favor of taking out the noisy device from his jeans and answering the phone in a blind panic.

"H-Hello?"

"Hey... Is this Waylon Park?" The voice on the other line belongs to a man, his tone unsure and hesitant.

"Um... Yes..."

"Oh good!" The man perks up, obviously relieved, "Sorry to be all allusive and everything, I just wanted to make sure that I have the right number. I'm detective Miles Upshur, I just got your email."

Relief floods through Waylon, his stiff shoulders relaxing, "Heh, it's fine. I didn’t expect you to contact me so soon.”

“Well, I guess you can say that I’m married to my work,” Mr. Upshur jokes, before his tone takes a more serious turn, “Anyways… You said you wanted to discuss your wife’s case?”

“Y-Yeah...” Waylon murmurs out, scratching the back his neck with his free hand.

Now that he’s actually talking to him, he… Can’t seem to find the right words.

“I… I want to help out… With the case,” He blurts out.

There’s a pause, moments ticking by, before Mr. Upshur speaks again, “You know... You actually might be of some use actually.”

“Wha- really?” He hardly believes it.

That was easier than he thought.

“Yes...” Mr. Upshur states slowly,  papers rustling in the background from the phone. “How about we meet up at my office and discuss this… It isn’t good to do it on the phone. Wouldn’t want this to somehow get out.”

“I… Yes. Thank you!”

“Don’t thank me yet, I said you might be of some use. Anyways… Does tomorrow sound good to you?”  

Waylon goes quiet at that, before letting out a quiet sigh, “Oh… I can’t tomorrow… I’m going to my wife’s funeral…. But, the day after tomorrow I can.”

Dread pools at the bottom of his stomach, he doesn’t want to go to her funeral… It’s one of the reasons he can’t sleep, besides not being able to get the image of his wife, butchered up and bloody, strewn across the floor, lifeless… not moving… out of his mind.

“Ah… I’m sorry…. Yeah, Wednesday will work,” There’s sympathy in Mr. Upshur’s tone, but Waylon doesn’t react to it.

He’s soon scrambling to grab a pen and a sticky note when Mr. Upshur starts giving him the address and time to meet up at. They then exchange their goodbyes, before hanging up the phone.

Waylon sighs again, setting his phone beside the beautiful roses sitting on the counter top. He glances down at the fallen paper on the floor, bending over and picking it back up before smoothing it out. Now that he’s thinking a bit more clearly… He realizes that this note... It's a lot like the note he found after he got wasted... It would explain why the handwriting and diction is so eerily familiar.

He swallows at the realization, a jolt of terror running up his spine.

‘I’ll be seeing you again soon.’  

His face pales into a few shades of white, his stomach dropping, before crumpling up the note with firm, trembling hands.

How the hell is he supposed to get any sleep tonight?

…

It's hard to look at Lisa's polished, wooden coffin, when it’s easy to imagine what lies beyond the closed lid.

Lifeless green eyes.

That metallic stench searing onto his nostrils like a branding iron.

Blood....  

So much blood.

'Fuck, fuck, breathe.'

He's numb, cold, the chatter and mourning of relatives nothing but background noise, almost static to Waylon’s ears, as his glazed, blue eyes gaze down on her coffin. His sons' two headstones aren't too far away, right by the area where his wife is about to rest for eternity.

'They're gone.'  

The thought hits him like a bucket of shards stabbing into him.

'I'll never see them again.'

His breathing has gone ragged, his dress shoes skidding against frost coated grass as he distances himself from the crowd, from Lisa's disappearing coffin, from his two buried boys with skittish steps. His right-hand clenches down onto his arm in an iron grip, nails digging into the fabric of his black suit, as he can only watch as Lisa's slowly lowered into the ground.

"How could you?!"

He’s jostled out of his agonized reverie when a man violently grabs him by the collar, his eyes meeting an intense, hate filled gaze.

It's... Lisa's father.

"Why weren't you with Lisa?! Why?" The old man's grasp is shaky with anger, his teeth bared as his voice cracks from how loud he's screaming, "Why?!"

Why wasn't he with Lisa?

Why did he go out to a bar instead?

Why, why, why?  

If only he knew how much he fucking asked himself that same exact question. How if only he tried to coax Lisa into letting him back in, perhaps things would’ve ended up differently, perhaps he could've protected her, perhaps Lisa would still be alive.

"Let him go, Charles! Leave the poor man alone! Don't do this here... Not at her funeral... Please..." Lisa's mother steps in, hands squeezing onto the old man's shoulder and arm in desperation, until finally, he unhands Waylon.

Waylon immediately takes a couple of steps back, but Lisa's father only stands there, wearing a defeated, worn out expression that makes him look older and frailer.  

"You're such a coward for leaving her alone like that."

The blond’s eyes are cast down, tracing the individual specks of ice decorating the ground, as shame swirls within his gut. It's true, he was a god damn coward for running away from his wife like that, for trying to escape his personal struggles with alcohol. He can’t even deny it. He lets out a sigh before turning on his heel, walking away from the gloom ridden area.

“What, don’t tell me you’re running away again, boy,” Lisa’s father jabs, voice cool and rough on the winter air.

He almost makes a sarcastic quip in response, but instead holds his tongue, not wanting to deal with another confrontation. He doesn’t even turn back or stop on the short path to his worn down, grey car, effectively ignoring the old man.

‘I’m sorry Lisa, I hope you can forgive me for leaving early.’

...

Snow pelts against the tiny car’s frame, windshield wipers frantically wiping away at white spots of snow obscuring Waylon’s line of sight. Great, tall mountain peaks stretch high into the sky before him, white, glittering puffs of snow lining the icy road. The road is barren, with the exception of a red pickup truck about a car length behind him. He's bored out of his mind, forgoing the radio to instead sit in utter silence, Lisa could pop up anytime on the news after all.  

'Lisa...'

He's sighing, loosening the black tie around his neck in order to distract himself temporarily, when suddenly, a blur of brown and black darts out in front of him from the corner of his eye. He's slamming on the brakes, his tires releasing a shrill screech, as he narrowly avoids the lone deer deciding to cross the road. His car goes into a spin from his sudden move on the ice caked pavement, a terrified, shocked cry ripping from him as he tries to regain control of his car. His car is flying off the road and heading right smack into a pine tree before he can even blink.

SMASH!

He's panting after the impact, his fingernails biting into the leather of the steering wheel as his heart threatens to leap out of his ribcage. Adrenaline pumps through his veins as he recovers, slowly letting go of the steering wheel from his tight grasp. A loud, brisk knock on the driver's window has him turning his head in a daze, the sight of a tall, well-built man greeting him with concerned blue eyes.

"Are you ok?!"

Waylon blinks hard a few times, everything coming at him so fast.

"W-What?"

The man presses a gloved hand against the window, his other trying to yank open the door in a worried, frantic manner. Waylon however made sure to lock it before even starting the drive home, so it doesn't budge.  

"Please, tell me you're ok! Are you injured?" The man's talking again, but this time Waylon's able to decipher his words.

Waylon's eyes swipe over his own sitting form, searching for any injuries and spotting none, before glancing around at the warped, pressed in interior of his car.

"I... I don't think so," He murmurs out slowly, before moving his hand over to unlock the door and open it.  

He shivers at the sudden blast of cold air washing over him, and the man's immediately on him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and helping him out of the car. His legs are shaky and unstable due to how shell shocked he still is, causing one of his hands to grab onto the stranger's thick, black coat in order to keep himself upright. He manages to glance back at the smashed up, grey wreckage of his car, wincing at the sight of it.

'Fuck.'

"Come, darling, we'll be safer away from the wreckage."

Waylon's led by a strong hand curled around his arm, towards a red pickup truck parked on the side of the road. He recognizes the car as the one that was behind him earlier. The man's taking out a flip phone as soon as they reach it, wrapping an arm around Waylon in order to support him. He barely catches the man calling 911, before he manages to untangle himself from the man's arm when he has his bearings gathered, taking a few steps back to a breathable distance. He finds himself glancing back again at what's left of his poor car.

The universe must really have it out for him...

The man eventually hangs up the phone with a charming goodbye, before snapping the phone closed with a single flick of his wrist. He turns his gaze down at the shaken up blond, worry filling those big blue orbs.

"Are you alright?" His voice is deep and soft, speaking to Waylon as if he's about to break into a million pieces.

"Y-Yeah... Just... My car..." He lets out a defeated huff at his own statement, before crossing his arms tightly over his chest from the chilly temperature outside.

'Why do I even try?'

A light, warm weight is suddenly draped over Waylon's shoulders, causing the blond to snap up from his slouched posture out of surprise.  

"Wha-" Is all that comes out of his mouth, as he looks over the large coat now covering his form.

His pale blue eyes finally rise up to meet the man's tender gaze, his brows knitting in confusion at his generous act.

"Please, take it, darling... You were shivering."

"Um... Alright. Thank you," He murmurs out, his face reddening as he tugs the coat over himself a little more.

The man dashingly smiles at him in reply, white pearly teeth showing from his peeled back lips.  

Waylon's eyes trace over the man's sharp jaw line, and prominent cheek bones, before eyeing the smoothed out black hair topping his head. The stranger's surprisingly tall, and Waylon's always considered himself as a tall guy, having the proud height of 6'1. But, this man towers over him, having to have another foot over him. This, added with his broad shoulders and hulking chest, has Waylon on edge, even though it shouldn't... He seems nice enough.

“The police will be here within an hour... In the meantime, I suggest we wait and warm up in my car, in order for you to not catch a cold, Waylon.”

The simple statement has Waylon snapping his attention over to the man’s eyes with his shocked own.

“How… How do you know my name?” A disconcerting twist in his gut has his voice cracking nervously, causing him to take a small step back.

“I’ve seen you on the news,” The man replies, his face a calm mask of indifference, “I’m awfully sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you…”

“No, it’s fine… I should’ve known,” The blond sighs out, relief flooding over him, as tension leaves his rigid form, “I… Haven’t been watching the news… I suppose you can guess why.”

He lets out a hushed, humorless laugh, pain flickering across his face, “I was actually just at… Never mind.”

The man’s staring down at him worriedly now- and ah fuck, he really did it this time with his self-pitying bullshit.

He puts on a fake smile in order to assure the kind stranger, “I’m fine... really!”

What a blatant lie.

“I can’t imagine what you must be going through, darling,” The stranger takes a step closer towards Waylon and is reaching out a hand in order to comfort him.

The movement has Waylon tensing up, the large hand resting on his shoulder causing his whole body to freeze up as he attempts to smooth out his expression to feign indifference.

'It's ok... This guy is ok... He's not going to hurt you... He was just leading you to his fucking car a moment ago for Christ sake!'

"Y-You know... That was a pretty big deer that I-I almost... H-Hit..." Waylon stutters out loudly, putting on a sheepish grin.

The man’s hand falls, an almost hurt expression passing over his face, but it’s gone before Waylon can really even process it.

“Yes… That was a rather brave feat you did, skidding and avoiding that ignorant creature.”

“Heh… Y-Yeah… I j-just… I don’t know if I’d be able to stand myself if I hurt another living creature like that… Even if it was accidental…” Waylon pictures the mashed-up deer, what could've easily been, and shivers with how much the mental image reminds him of his dead wife.

“I know…”  

“Huh?”

“You just seem like the kind of person to be… exceptionally heroic,” The man states, his deep blue eyes distant and glazed as if he’s remembering something.

“Oh… I do? Uh… Well thanks I guess,” Waylon says, before letting out a nervous chuckle.

The two of them stand there for some time, the conversation eventually tampering out, until they're surrounded in a peaceful, comfortable silence. Waylon never does take up the stranger’s offer to sit in the pickup truck, too paranoid, too unsafe in his mind, and luckily the man never comments on it. Eventually a cop car arrives through the falling snowflakes and obscuring gray fog, and Waylon's immediately on his feet, running towards the car in a rush. As he's turning back around and explaining the car accident, he notices the stranger is gone.

He’s left confused by the man simply up and leaving, the only reminder of him is the black coat still draped over his shoulders.  

He didn’t even get his name.

He decides to push the… unique… encounter out of his head forcefully, before dealing with the police with as clear of a mind as he can manage.

…

Waylon arrives home tired and weary, his legs heavy as he drags himself up the stairs to his second floor apartment. He’s wringing his tie out of its neat knot, his other hand unlocking the door. He’s almost expecting to greet Lisa with his two sons, but the little living space is empty, completely devoid of anyone. It wretches at his heart painfully, but he manages to bottle his emotions up, to keep everything in. That’s when he catches something out of place-

The roses that he left lying out on the kitchen counter last night, are now sitting upright in a vase of water.

#outlast whistleblower #outlast #eddie gluskin #waylon park #Lisa Park #miles upshur #grief #this took a while to write xD #my writing