She doesn't know what to think of Waylon, much less what to do with him. It feels selfish to allow him to continue on as he does, especially for her sake — but is there any other option? He's admirably, stupidly stubborn in his persistent kindness.
She thinks about Heather, her hair between her fingers, sharing a bed. And she thinks about Julie — a menace and yet, someone Violet has found herself caring very much about. How funny it is that her first chance to connect with others comes only in a new form of captivity. Her mother always did say God had a sense of humor.
Maybe she feels a little bad for yelling at him earlier. Had he shielded anyone else, she would have believed he'd done a noble thing — but it had been her. And she'd made her displeasure with that clearer than crystal.
Now, she settles in beside him. The silence is drawn out, stuffy like a Florida night. Apologies do not come easily. For all the self-worth she lacks, she seems to make up for it in ego.
It comes, though. Eventually. In two distinct halves. One — she leans into him. Her forehead bumps his shoulder, rests there for only a moment before retreating, the way a pet cat seeks forgiveness after it's been shouted at. After it's bitten.
The second half is harder.
"I'm... sorry about that," The words sound like they are razor blades being squeezed out of her throat, pained but raw in their truth. "I didn't need to yell at you like that. You were just tryn'ta help... I'm just not the type that..."
Saying she doesn't deserve it feels fucking corny.
"You don't gotta look out for me that way is all."
waylon's the most miserable whenever they loose a trial.
dying is this thing he can never get used to. once he woke up he looked for no one, he needed something that wasn't here, not with him. his arms wrapped around himself, the small first moves with the heaviness of the air.
flashes of white. images that he can't quite make out unless he really thinks about it. and he doesn't want to. his eyes are tired, they're closed. the images cycle, there's no rhythm to them. they just pass. it's so white, static.
waylon doesn't notice violet until she sits down next to him. and he remembers. she was upset. she'd yell. and then. and then. another flash of white, shapes and things unknown to him. no sense to them. his breath is shaky and he composes himself. slightly. his head shifts slightly. meets her, she's close and he doesn't mind it. he turns to face her a little bit more.
"hey it's." okay? fine? alright? it's not, it's really not but he's listening in to her. her words, he recalls the piercing of his flesh. slicing, dicing. but it's what this goddamn place does. wrings out the worst out of you. and waylon isn't falling for that. "-listen. if it bothers you too much, it won't happen again. but if you let me. i'd like to look out for you. we all need that, especially here." waylon means it, he uncurls a bit from within himself. like talking is breaking him from the static. the loop. "-this place, this whole thing. it's a lot. we don't have to deal with it alone. you don't have to do it alone."