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There are a lot of things Waylon can accept. He can accept that through all the death, gore, and despair he’s beginning to forget what his family looks like. Their faces blurring into one large amalgamation of crude features and restless haunted eyes. He can accept the ever-present thought nagging at the back of his mind. The thought that maybe there was no life before this and that memories of a family and a normal life were nothing but a dream. A sad feeble attempt to try to escape this place with illusions of a happy life in the suburbs. He can accept the ever-present pain sitting on the edge of his mind and the soul-searing rage that makes him want to lash out, to burn, to destroy. He can even accept Gluskin’s insane rantings about the upcoming wedding and how every day he’s thankful that he found such a beautiful and caring wife. But what he can’t accept, what he refuses to accept, are the random acts of kindness.
It started with flowers, a well-arranged bouquet of azaleas, white camellias, and red tulips. Waylon had his suspicions about Gluskin’s choices and was fairly certain these flowers had some deeper meaning but didn’t dare to make any guesses. The gifts were all fairly typical until about a week ago. Gluskin had come to him, a strange almost dreamy smile on his face, his eyes alight with something other than anger and disgust, something that Waylon didn’t want to name. He had sat down next to him, pressed a lingering yet chaste kiss to his cheek, and laid something in his hands, it was an expertly crafted pair of mittens. Waylon had looked at them for a long time utterly bewildered, sensing his confusion Gluskin had spoken up. “I wanted to make something for you darling. It’s been getting colder lately, and I thought these would help to keep you a little warmer…well until I’m able to do it”, he said with a bit of a wicked grin. At that moment he was absurdly thankful that he had managed to sweet-talk Gluskin into letting him sleep in a separate room on the pretense of propriety.
But as much as it sickened him to admit it, he was a little touched by the gesture. He had noticed the madman’s eye traveling down to his hands during some of their visits together, the way he had held them. Massaging and kissing his calloused fingers and aching bloodied knuckles from when the anger and agony had grown to be too much and he had flown into a rage, punching the wall till his bones felt close to splintering.
He had assumed Gluskin had some kind of strange fetish, but obviously he was making observations to better aid him in the sewing. Gluskin had obviously taken a good amount of time to make them, and they were inexplicably clean despite the filth they were surrounded by. “Thank you”, he said softly, feeling something akin to actual gratitude. The Groom smiled again, “Anything for you darling”, he said and left to wander the lonely halls of the asylum in search of their dinner. That night Waylon had laid on his cot feeling a sickening combination of pity, fear, and something that he was too ashamed to acknowledge. He laid there for hours in the dark, the mittens held in a vice-like grip, and his thoughts too frantic to let him sleep.
But tonight was even stranger. Gluskin had been gone for most of the day and as glad as he was to get some time to himself he couldn’t help but feel unnerved. “What’s the bastard planning?”, he wondered as he laid on his cot in the half-light of his room. He hated it, not knowing what was going on, not knowing how long he had been tucked away in this hell hole, being coddled but always in fear that he was close to death. He was sure this kindness was just a front for a new round of abuse, at least that’s what he desperately wanted to believe. The other option, the one that repulsed him, was that perhaps there was genuine love growing for him in that madman’s heart. As disturbing and twisted as that thought was he almost hoped that was the case, perhaps he could use his misguided feelings to make his escape.
Waylon felt a hot wave of shame roll over him. Was he really going to stoop so low as to manipulate this delusional man’s feelings for him to make his way out? “What other choice do I have?”, he thought bitterly, if it came down to blows Gluskin was sure to win, and he didn’t dare try to run with his still injured leg. No, he would have to fight dirty. No matter how kind the gesture he refused to get taken in. He had to survive, he had to get out and get back to the family that he was slowly forgetting. As he mulled all this over the door of his room opened, “Good evening darling”, said that all too familiar voice, and moments later the Groom appeared.
Waylon instantly notices that he looks cleaner than usual, and his usual shirt, vest, and dress pants have been replaced by a suit and tie of his own making. Draped over his arm is an exquisitely made gown, once again Waylon isn’t sure when he had time to make it but remembering the number of bodies in the gymnasium, he realizes that the Groom has had many other brides to sew for. “Too bad they didn’t last long enough to keep him from looking for another one”, he thinks angrily. He looks over only to notice a look of agitation slipping over the Groom’s face, and he reminds himself that he most likely is looking for a compliment from his “fiancé”. “You’re being very rude darling”, he says in overly sweet tones, “I go through all this trouble to look nice for you, and you can’t even say anything?,” he asks, the first hints of anger slipping into his voice.
Waylon shakes his head “That’s not it sweetheart”, he says, smiling the best he can. “You look even more handsome than usual. I have to admit I was left a little speechless”. The Groom seems to believe him because he briefly puffs up with pride and saunters over, the dress swaying over his arm as he walks, he sits down next to him and kisses him briefly. “You always know just what to say”, he breathes into his ear, his free hand cupping the back of his head gently, and Waylon feels his resolve crumbling. “It’s so hard to be patient. I’m looking forward to when I can see just how talented your tongue really is”, and Waylon feels as if he's about to gag. “But not tonight”, he says as he lays the dress across his lap. “I have something special planned for us tonight, and I want you to wear this.”
Waylon looks at the dress for a moment and feels the last shred of his restraint slipping away. He wants so badly to tell him to screw himself and jump out the nearest window, but he knows better. Even after all this time, he still doesn’t have a concrete plan of escape and it’s driving him crazy with desperation. So instead, he swallows his pride and says in a low voice “Thank you, it’s beautiful”.
“And you’ll be beautiful in it”, the Groom says as he turns to leave. “I’ll leave you to it. Now don’t take too long darling I’ll be waiting down the hall”, and with that, the Groom leaves him alone. Waylon looks at the gown again, it’s a beautiful shade of blue and for some reason, he can’t help but think about his own wife. The one he can barely remember, the one he’s not even sure is real sometimes. He can see a vague image of her face in his mind and he thinks about how she would look in this dress, and he feels his throat close up a bit as he barely holds back a sob. As he slips out of his filthy uniform and into the gown, he silently swears to himself that he is going to get out of here one way or another. He doesn’t dare look down at himself, he already feels ashamed and emasculated but for the second time tonight, he swallows his pride and makes his way out the door and down the hallway.
As soon as he steps out of the doorway he’s amazed by the transformation the place has undertaken. The hallway is lined with glowing candles, the walls adorned with baby’s breath and roses that must be fake, they look too alive, too free of decay. Also on the walls are sprawling love notes, heartfelt declarations of adoration addressed only to “My Darling” or “My Love”. Under any other circumstances, Waylon would find this incredibly touching. But he can’t forget the way that other man had looked right before he had been brutally ripped apart by the saw. He can’t forget the screams of terror that plague his dreams, the threats thinly veiled with sweetness, and no amount of flowers can cover the gore and blood that still stains the walls. So then why does he feel so conflicted?
It's strange to think that sick bastard went through all this for him, someone he’s only known for a few short weeks. He can’t help but feel a strong wave of pity for the man, he’s never going to get that simple wish of having a family. No matter how hard he may try to achieve it through surgeries and delusions it will never happen. He thinks of his own children, his sons, how much they mean to him, how much he wants to get back to them. His eyes suddenly burn with repressed tears, as twisted as it is he can’t help but feel sorry for him. He’ll never get to know the joy that comes with children, he’ll never experience the profound miracle of birth, the happiness and pride that comes with their first steps, the love and care that comes with a partner. So when he opens the door and walks in the room, the first bitter tears sliding down his face, the Groom takes it for elation.
“Oh darling”, he says walking forward, handkerchief in hand “I’m so glad you like it” he says pulling Waylon into a tight embrace. Tears are still flowing unbidden from his eyes, and the Groom proceeds to gently wipe them away. “Now, now darling don’t cry. This is supposed to be a happy occasion don’t ruin your pretty face with your tears” he says drawing him over to a small table. Waylon wipes his eyes, suddenly feeling foolish, and looks around the room briefly, he’s transformed this place too. The table is adorned with a patchy looking table cloth and flourished with the same roses that are decorating the walls outside. On the table, he’s laid out a small selection of canned goods and plastic utensils, and once again Waylon wants to ask him where’s he finding all these things but he supposes it really doesn’t matter. He sits down feeling uneasy as the Groom takes his seat across from him, “You look ravishing darling” he says, eyeing him up and down briefly before laying a relatively clean napkin across his lap. Waylon thanks him again, he feels so bewildered and off-balance that all he can bring himself to do is sit there and eat in silence.
He doesn’t understand why he had felt so bad for this man across from him, why did this situation affect him so much when everything else in this place hasn’t even phased him? The Groom notices his silence, “You’re awfully quiet tonight darling” he says dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You were quiet even when we first met, not that I mind of course but sometimes I wonder what’s on your mind”.
Waylon looks down at the table, he looks at the Groom, the flowers, the barely hidden and visible outline of a pile of bodies behind him illuminated by the soft glow of the candles. “Why did you do all this?” he asks hesitantly, “It’s all beautiful, and I think it’s great… but why?”. The Groom gives him an indulgent smile, “Oh, darling. I thought that should be obvious by now, it’s because I love you”, he says, coming around the table to cup his face between firm hands. “I’ve been waiting for someone like you for so long” he explains, “Someone who would understand, someone who wouldn’t leave like all those… traitorous sluts”, he says with a barely restrained snarl in his voice.
“You’re not like the others though”, he says, “You’ve been so good to me, and so I wanted to do something nice for you. Court you, and since I can’t take you somewhere nicer this is the least I can do” he says still cupping Waylon’s face, his thumb caressing his cheek. Waylon glances at those hands, those hands that have ripped, and destroyed, and bloodied so many others, and he closes his eyes suddenly feeling sick. It’s all too much. He can hear his own blood rushing in his ears, and he feels close to tears again but instead, he says in a voice almost as soft as a whisper, “Thank you again. This means so much…”, he trails off, and the Groom kisses him on the forehead before helping him to stand. He holds out his hand, bowing a bit from the waist, “May I have this dance?”, he asks and before Waylon can even reply his hand is taken and he’s pressed close to the Groom’s chest.
That swirling torrent of emotions is settling on one very clearly, and that’s discomfort. He can hear the other man’s heartbeat, he can feel his breath on his neck, feel the heat rolling off his body, smell the stench of decay that's not far off. He’s tempted to run but Gluskin is holding him close while he walks them over to the phonograph as it begins to play. It’s a different tune, thankfully, than the one he’s been humming incessantly. Though he’s not overly fond of the fact that this is an incredibly slow song and Glusin is lazily leading him around the floor one hand in his, the other on the small of his back, their bodies pressed firmly together. Walyon doesn’t recognize the song, all he can bear to think about is that this should be over soon. He’s rigid against the other man, uncomfortable and ashamed.
Ashamed that he can’t be stronger, that he can’t take a chance and just punch the bastard in the face and start running. He’s ashamed that he’s letting Gluskin use him like this. That he’s letting him run his filthy hands over his body, that his hand has left the small of his back and has wandered down to his ass, that he’s letting him grope him without a second thought. He’s too ashamed to speak, too scared of what might happen. So he lets it continue on and berates himself for feeling sorry for this man, for getting caught up and confused. He berates himself even as Gluskin whispers adoring words in his ear about how beautiful he is, how he can’t wait for the wedding night, and all he can do is agree with him.
Finally, finally! After what feels like an eternity the music ends, and Gluskin seems to have had his fill as he leads Waylon back to his chair. He almost falls into his seat, his legs feel like lead, and his body feels sore and abused. He feels defeated, and he just desperately wants this all to stop. He rubs his eyes wearily, trying to hold back another wave of tears as the Groom walks off for a moment only to come back with a small box in hand. “Darling”, he says gently, “You’ve made this evening so wonderful and I’ve been thinking about it quite a bit this week, and well, I wanted to make it official”. Waylon feels confusion again but that’s suddenly yanked away in favor of a strange mixture of fear and awe. In the box, is his old and tarnished wedding ring. They had taken it from him, along with so many other things, just as they had prepared him for the engine. “Will you marry me darling?”, the Groom asks, and Waylon can barely breathe.
He takes the ring carefully out of the box, cradling it in his hands like it might fade away any moment. He stares at it turns it over, and finally slips it onto his finger. He runs his hand over his face. It’s almost too much to bear. Thinking of his own wife, how he had popped the question, how her face had lit up and she had cried tears of joy in his arms. He feels his own tears streaming down his face as he looks at the ring, and he feels strong arms come around him in a close embrace “Oh darling, you’ve made me the happiest man in the world”.