( @missingfingcrs ) | closed starter.
waylon has always been an anxious individual. that wasn’t a side effect of mount massive; the asylum simply took what had been there already and amplified it beyond measure. now, it gets so bad there are days he can’t even leave the confines of his place -- not a home, never his home. there are days when it’s tolerable and he doesn’t feel inclined to constantly look over his shoulder for....something, someone. waylon doesn’t know, really. regardless, today is one of those days, where his anxiety is a dull impatience and his paranoia dormant; his leg doesn’t ache terribly so his limp is practically non-existent as he trudges down the near empty pathway that winds through the park. it’s the perfect time, just a bit after lunch, but not quite evening, he likes it best when it’s silent in a way that isn’t stifling -- like it had been cowering in the darkest corners of the madhouse.
when he turns a corner on the path and sees a figure in the distance, he immediately considers heading back to his car. he’s deep into the trail and there’s no one else around; the trees are minimal on this part so there’s no cover to be had and -- no. no. he had to stop this. there’s a difference between being cautious and feeling insane and waylon has been blurring the lines a little too often in the last few months. god, he’s tired. a mysterious trip to seattle hasn’t done anything to ease that exhaustion either, even if things have been relatively normal.
so he ignores the spark of nerves that swoop in his stomach, stuffs his clenched fists into the pocket of his jacket, and keeps his eyes forward as he marches on stiffly. he’s almost past, so so close, when he happens to glance to the side and spy a camcorder. innocuous perhaps, but it gripped him to his spot. it would have been easier if his fear had kept his eyes glued to the camera and hadn’t allowed for him to drift upwards, further and further until he was laying eyes on a face so completely familiar.
miles upshur is a face he grew acquainted with only after the asylum. he knew the name, obviously, but it was post stealing the guy’s jeep and seeing him walk out of the building with a goddamn ghost that waylon decided the least he could do was know what miles looked like. he’s regretting it now, as the tremors in his body grow in strength. coming face to face with one of his biggest sources of guilt is even worse than he could have imagined. he doesn’t even know if miles knows who he is, only that the words claw their way up his throat and force themselves out before he can think.
‘ i’m sorry. fuck. fuck. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. shitshitshit. i need to -- i should go. you probably don’t even know me. damn it. damn it. ’
