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seashellwriter · 6 years

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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

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