Disclaimer: Outlast © Red Barrels

.

.

run hide retreat surrender

.

.

WINTER

This is today. Tomorrow will be different.

Miles tells himself this like a hymn.

The apartment stinks of alcohol and Miles guesses so does he, but he's too far gone in a brown black red sludge of liquor to care, slumped on a soiled couch. He has passed the age of orange juice + cheap vodka + ice cocktails in polystyrene cups and tinnitus music where drunks shout the words, slurred. Yet this pitiful state is like a raised glass—hah, his metaphors are getting better—to Miles' old world of contemporary American life, time spent in bars and homes and bunkers with tinfoil pipes and eccentric liberal friends, discussing Afghanistan and Iraq, politics gone sour, human rights and wrongs. It's thanks to one of those friends, J, that he has a place to stay, a ramshackle bungalow house in the middle of nowhere, meant for rest and hiding. Today he drinks alone. Almost alone.

Waylon is watching him again, sober.

Fuck him. Miles drinks some more because it feels good when you're already drunk, and realizes he isn't sure how they met. In a filth sludge of booze, he comes up with events—

1. silence, the sort of silence that happens after a funeral, and Waylon is begging for forgiveness and Miles won't give him the satisfaction of letting the swell scar, 'cos Miles is jealous of Waylon and his little family and wife and infant kids prattling and drooling over their shitty insurance brought clothes, shit shit shit

2. his fist colliding with teeth, cutting his knuckles but damn it is worth it you destroyed my life, fuck your wife, fuck your kids, doesn't matter if you make those fucking eyes at me, I don't care I don't care I don't care

3. but Waylon begging to share house with him, on his knees, on the floor, pulling at his pant leg and holy mother of god this is pathetic, you're pathetic, I'm pathetic for letting you run away with me like this, sitting in my jeep drying your nose on your sleeve

Burping, Miles remembers that all three has happened. Waylon moved in with him in his lil' bungalow universe, littered with empty bottles, bad takeaway food, shrivelled notes and empty bottles. Miles drinks supermarket wine from jugs, keeping him warm and hazy, gums dyed like blood. The radio's been hijacked by some hermit and he's playing crackling blues on loop. Blind Willie Johnson. John Billie Hooker. Tom Waits.

It is winter and Miles presses his face against the cool surface of the window, waiting for the light that never comes. Winter depression is merciless, especially on the spirited souls.

Waylon rests his head in his arms, hands shielding his face, eyes so dry, so fucking dry, because he coils everything up inside while Miles throws up in the back garden, walks in, sprints out and throws up again, and comes back in. It's just another night. Today has lasted for a long time. But it is how they cope, hoping to ride this depression out, letting it run its course. Every day is a lazy Sunday.

Waylon turns towards the half wrapped presents in the kitchen (back during treacherous midday which lured him with the promise of energy, which burst like the rotten untouched fruit on the kitchen from boxes delivered on their door every Monday). He thinks about the wrapping paper rolls and shoeboxes without lids, waiting. He's only visited his family thrice, hospital visits rather than family time. Miles watched him make the Christmas presents with such care, only to throw them away when he realized it wasn't what his boys would want. The boys want the dad who died back in the asylum.

Miles tries to remove the beer cap with his teeth.

"Stop," Waylon tells him with a mix of exhaustion and (self) resentment.

So Miles removes it with his mind—too bad he's intoxicated and sloppy and the power granted from the Walrider makes the bottle explode in his already mangled hand. He doesn't scream. Just moves the hand upwards to his face, lazy.

"Jesus," Waylon says, too tired for a real reaction and walks over. "Really did it this time, didn't you?"

So it's up to Waylon to fix him, to pull the shards out and add bandages. He helps Miles change out from his grandfather clothes and go to bed, and Miles won't let go of his hand so Waylon goes to sleep, too. There was just one bed and after what they've gone through in the asylum sleeping together is nothing.

Waylon is the strong one, the logical, not a creative nutjob like Miles. His head is filled with priorities like family and work, free of the black soup of sadness that engulfed Miles now and then in the up and down chart that is creativity, his drive, his purpose. With winter come spiders in his synapses, skating down brain tubes eating happiness, ideas, sex drive. Waylon relies on logic and—

and—

Cracks.

(Miles didn't believe that he was capable of that, at first, that he was staying with Miles out of a misplaced scene of pity.

...Till he found Waylon clawing a patch of snow outside, making sounds like a dying dog. Blood in the snow. Or just strawberry jam, Miles discovered once looking closer, following the footprints that led to the shed that functions as a freezer. Apparently he'd gone out to retrieve a new glass of jam, fallen and lost it, and... well, lost it. Miles had to drag him back into the house to avoid any limbs getting frostbitten.)

While Miles is used battling depression, Waylon is an infant. So he wraps it up tightly, unlike the presents. He uses the same technique as Miles—tomorrow all will be better—but refuses acknowledge his PTSD. Refuses to acknowledge his night terrors, his triggers, his thoughts. Function. That is his motto, pretending that next week, yes, next week he will go back to his family and all will be well.

Christmas passes without any presents being sent.

All is not well.

.

.

SPRING

Spring comes bawling, snow melting, Nature rising up with a big shining smile on her earth mouth. She forces the two of them to realize that time will not wait for them. Time will move even if they bolt the doors. With spring comes truth.

No drugs. The rule is rather drastic, but Waylon has crossed arms and a tight expression and Miles knows better than to piss him off. Miles thinks of pseudo intellectuals passing ideas and bongs, and yes, maybe it is for the best.

There is a war outside, the two of them know—but the outcome of Murkoff doesn't concern them at the moment, because they have more than enough with themselves. Lisa Park and the kids have gone somewhere with full protection and new names and lots of cash, so Waylon needn't feel bad.

He feels bad.

He calls Lisa.

Miles tries to hide behind doors and the distance found in beer and J's marihuana rolls that he swore were only for emergencies, but nothing can keep the breakup from shaking the whole bungalow universe. The floor croaks and cracks with each battle step Waylon takes. He's sat the phone volume on full because he's unable to stand still, chewing his fingernails bloodied, skittering around the room.

"You haven't been happy in months," she says.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," he says.

"I feel like a bird in a cage," she says.

"Nothing I once loved makes me happy," he says.

"You need to go to the doctor," she says.

"I feel like I got a demon in my head," he says.

"Why do you need me, anyway?" she says.

"I feel like I'm already dead," he says.

"You're selfish," she says.

"Don't leave me," he says.

The conversation gets muffled after that. Quieter. He exits sometime later, shoulders so slumped it indicates that he lost the war. Truly: with spring comes truth. He makes that dying dog noise again—not truly a whine, more like a whimper. It's so pathetic Miles goes over and gives him a hug, awkward and bony since they've both lost too much weight, flesh falling off and muscling fading.

And Miles thinks: 'I am human.'

Waylon whines / whimpers / quietly screams again and Miles grips him tighter like if he doesn't a void will materialize and eat Waylon whole. 28, father of two, saviour of madmen, reduced to this. The Walrider has enchanted his senses and growls at the back of his mind, and he feels suicide thoughts ripple under his skin, threatening to tear Waylon apart. Thoughts like eating the barrel of a shotgun. Slitting his wrists. Drinking himself to death in the tub and drown. Hanging. Overdose. Starvation. Gassing.

Miles has been there so many times staring into the bathroom mirror and seeing a face he doesn't know—so he gives Waylon a little taste of destruction and kisses him. He doesn't give a shit what it's supposed to mean because he hasn't been sober in months, but he knows Waylon's thin branch hands grabbing at his shirt means approval and they move towards the bed.

A tangle of black hair and white bone leg like Auschwitz.

This is not automatic. This is not pure desire. This is a way to blow sadness away for a second. A startled gasp as Waylon is allowed orgasm; enough death to satisfy. Miles plants soggy sludge kisses all over him, anything to turn those whimper whines into something else. Flowers bloom in spring and so does attraction.

The next morning they shower together with the excuse of water bills. The shower is too small and Miles presses Waylon up in a corner and he breaks down, finally, thoughts spilling from him.

Miles doesn't allow him in the tub by himself, too afraid of brown black red water and Waylon's head under, eyes closed. Waylon is his bathtub—deep deep deep, allowing Miles to sink and sink and sink. Miles could use a little order. He could use a little Waylon.

.

.

SUMMER

Waylon takes up cooking. Sizzling onions, garlic meat and cooked green beans drowned in oil and salt. Quietly, he tells stories of his granny who taught him to make them just perfect. "Green beans are tricky," he says, focused on the task at hand. "Cook them too long and you get mush; too little and you get food that tastes like healthy marbles, but when you get them right, ah..." he trails off, and his mouth quirks.

Miles listens, patiently. When it becomes clear that Waylon is done talking, he takes out the thrash. Food for birds. He thinks about them scattering it all over the world like a plague. Banana flies buzz in the orange light and the sun's going down soon. After the meal they fuck on the porch, uncomfortable and harsh, mosquitoes biting at their exposed flesh. Waylon grimaces—he's never going to get used to the feeling of another man's cum between his thighs.

The summer cannot chase away the demons, but it helps.

Miles used to spend summers driving, in which his existence becam E—four letters and a purpose. Drive for four hours then stop for gas. Sleep in cheap motels and at the floors of poor writer buddies, woken in the middle of the night because someone's banging next door. City after city in his trusted jeep, invited to parties with strangers that buy him drinks because his name and column is in the magazines they read, and he gets nods of approval from the older kids backstage because he reminds them of themselves when they were young and fiery. He meets ex soldiers that can't stand loud noises, 16 year old alcoholics, surrealist artists and a nihilist who shoots her brains in a public WC the day after he met her. No note. Miles imagined her eyes surprised as skull and brain bits paint the wallpaper behind her a rich red. The last thing she said Miles was a Ginsberg quote, but he was drunk and can't remember which and it bothers him to this day.

But right now he's holding Waylon's hand in hot summer air and they're still listening to that same radio channel and that crazy shit hermit who thinks the black president is a conspiracy. Waylon is drinking, too, laughing and pointing out faults in the hermit's arguments. Miles' relationship with the bottle has normalized to the point where a beer keeps him satisfied, but he's 100% sober today, preferring a cigarette.

He blows in.

Blows out.

"We should move," Waylon says, sudden and a little slurred.

"Mmhm," Miles agrees, but know it'll have to wait.

.

.

AUTUMN

Trees are losing their leaves and all that poetic bullshit, outside the apartment.

Everything is outside.

Waylon gets in contact with his kids for the first time after the breakup but Miles isn't imposing. Doesn't want to rush things. Apparently he's going to try to fly over there soon, somewhere in America, but his hand tightens over Miles as he says this. Miles' tightens back. So they hold hands and shower together and fuck a little more, a little longer longer. Miles thinks about getting in the car and driving again, facing the future headfirst, but instead he ends up leaning on Waylon, sighing deeply.

Screw talking. Miles talks a lot, but not about this thing they have. He won't bring Waylon flowers or chocolate. Won't pretend to be normal. He'll continue to be his fucked up self. What he can promise though, is a meagre understanding of what Waylon is feeling. He'll help to the best of his ability. Some days they still wake up and want to die—

But today is different.

"Let's go," Miles says. "C'mon. I'm sorry. Let's just, let's just go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Away from here, 'least."

"Yeah," Waylon says, running a hand through his oily hair, breath stinking of green beans and mornings.

They exit the apartment.

And while they're heading home to wherever home is, the problems of tomorrow crash in, silently.