Chapter Eleven

"I don't know what day it is, only a few days ago did I see you. Only a few days ago did my knowledge seem abundant. But now I journal simply because a crumpled piece of paper told me too. Some forces are at large, forces straight out of a fantasy book. I promise you; I will get to the end of it." 

Lifting up his head, the peculiar face of the old grandfather clock draws him in. It stares mockingly at him, it's eyes casting judgment in the form of pretentious golden hands, Spinning in circles, like some kind of brainwashing hypnotist. Waylen cocks his head to the side returning the pointless animosity. 

Waylen picks up the gray hard covered journal, holding it up expressionless. Fully aware that the clock is in fact not a person. Though he wasn't completely sure of anything anymore. 

"Even if I'm alone it seems I'm under surveillance. A part of me wants to skin the ancient wood till it's nothing but shavings." Waylen writes purposely, before heading to change for dinner. 

With the sound of the annoying clocks ticking, Waylen rolls his almond-colored eyes, trudging through each stair, on the brink of collapse. Completely aware that this odd place wanted him on an exact schedule from where he stood to how his heart beats and only when he stuck to it would he find peace of mind. It left no time to ponder things too hard, especially things not in the immediate present. As much as he wanted to document everything in this journal of his it didn't feel possible, even with the encouragement of this place. 

For the first time, Waylen dressed head to toe in blue, in a dashing three-piece suit completely free of wrinkles and discrepancies. The fabric tightly clings to his body, outlining his assets, with the exception of his dick, retaining a sense of modesty. Simultaneously giving off the air of a distinguished young master with a few extra dollars to spend. 

bringing his gaze to his unwashed sweatpants, a small frown makes its way onto his pretty face. Small, gray droplets stain it's old, worn fabric. Not to mention the crotch area secreted a foul smell upon close inspection. Firmly reminding him of the time less than a week prior to the mysterious caretaker. A time that made sense. A time filled with freedom with endless possibilities. 

Combing his overgrown hair, Waylen couldn't help but reach for the pair of scissors. Long bangs falling to his lashes, he couldn't stop himself from considering it. Sliding his fingers into the designated holes, the estate's lights randomly shut off leaving the whole room in complete darkness. 

 Sliding the scissors into his breast pocket, Waylen stares in front of the glass mirror. A large droplet splashes onto his pretty, long lashes striking a cold feeling into his beating chest. Moving his head up towards the dark ceiling in search for signs of moisture, another droplet made contact with his skin, this time falling onto his pretty pink lips. 

Waylen stands there calmly, feeling the anxiousness sweep over him in a large wave. Keeping his toung firmly in his mouth, fighting the indescribable urge to lick his lips. Not for the taste, but to find as much information as possible. This unknown is uncomfortable, so much so that he desperately wanted to fall back down to his bed. Yet even this unknown brought a sickening sense of familiarity. The familiarity everyone wants wiped from there poor brains. 

Bringing his face back down to the mirror, he was met with a pair with glowing red eyes peering into his soul. 

A healthy shiver travels down Waylen's back, before gently shutting his eyes again. Only when his eyelids lifted did everything return back to how it was, mostly. 

***

Xavier lays restlessly in the bedroom of W.S. humming his pitiful tune. What was once a grand master bedroom teaming with his scent, seems to have finally lost it. Nothing is the same anymore, only faint traces of heartbreak. 

The once bright red walls seem dim, with the old dark wood on the brink of collapse; slowly pealing itself up in uneven strips from the bed frame. The whole room smells of dust from the evident lack of cleaning. The only clean things being the clothes that hung graciously in the closet. But even those showed explicit signs of age, except for a portion Xavier sectioned off to wear for himself. 

Xavier knew he couldn't lay in that bed of his forever. No matter how much comfort it brings to his longing body. 

"You should just get over it." Xavier complains out loud, fully aware of the repercussions. He didn't care how pissy this prison got as long as his own pathetic words got around from time to time. Nobody important ever seemed to truly take it to heart, just the fools' weeks away from their death bed.

"It will never be the same," Xavier finishes losing all energy in his body, not even bothering to fight the drowsiness that attacked him with such aggression. He knew full well that the estate will win just like it always has. Only a true beast will ever be able to forever escape this thing. Everyone will eventually get dragged back. It is only a matter of time.

The sleep induced by the estate has never been a pleasant one, completely at the mercy of all who aren't completely affected. A scary thing for a person in a position of power, especially a person who isn't well liked by the servants, who are immune to these side effects. 

By the time Xavier awoke, the sword of red he managed to carry around for so long disappeared from his side leaving nothing but a bitter place in his mouth and a cold place at his side. Johnthan Riggs has now every right to kill him from this stupidity. So, he dresses himself quickly, thinking of the many excuses he will use to not be the first casualty.