I Come to You in Pieces

Chapter Two


Day 2

The wood at the top of the stairs, probably rotten, creaked beneath his feet, and he was thankful when he finally reached the concrete floor at the bottom. He thought he was close to the ground floor of the asylum, but he wasn't sure. It was likely, at least, as he'd fallen such a long way.

The room he was in was large. Waylon couldn't see much past his own hands, but he could feel the vastness of the room, cold and dark, about to swallow him as he stepped further into it. Hugging the wall, he used the camcorder screen as his eyes. There were dozens of tables, all with sewing machines on them. 'Some sort of activity area, where the patients used to busy themselves during free hours?' He followed the wall until he reached the other side of the room. A light behind a large beige tarp cast haunting shadows. Music played softly… a radio? Waylon proceeded warily, unwilling to sneak up on an unstable patient.

The sight on the other side of the tarp made his stomach turn. Blood. A woman, unclothed, face covered, lying on a surgical table. A man in scrubs stood beside her, posed like a doctor, holding her hand in his. Creeping closer, Waylon realized that the woman was… not a woman. Breasts were sloppily sewn onto the chest, stitches clearly visible beneath the mounds of flesh. The swollen belly was haphazardly sewn together, the eye of the head inside peeking out. Bile rose in Waylon's throat. Between spread legs were no genitals – removed, most likely. Another head was positioned between the parted thighs. The whole scene was a makeshift birth; a gruesome mockery of the miracle of life. Waylon could vaguely remember seeing his own son's birth. It seemed vulgar now.

"I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear old Dad,
She was a pearl, and the only girl that Daddy ever had…"

Waylon turned away from the scene, regarding the radio with a small shudder. He'd seen too many things in this place to ever return to his own self, even if he did escape with his life.

In the next room there were more sewing machines, more boxes and shelves, but no visible exit. Waylon crept along, trying to remain as quiet as possible, lest 'the man downstairs' – Gluskin or not – be lurking nearby. He entered another room, just as devoid of anything useful as the last. It was eerily quiet; enough to work Waylon's nerves.

Following the wall, he came across a door on the third turn. Rushing toward it, he grabbed the knob and jiggled it. Locked. Waylon lifted his eyes–

"Darling!"

Stumbling backward a few steps, he regarded the man on the other side of the door. Smiling widely, one large hand pressed against the thick pane of glass, he had blood on his face and a bow-tie at his neck. They shared gazes for another moment before he turned and disappeared. Waylon was submerged in silence once more.

But not for long.

The sound of a door opening in the next room made his heart leap into his throat. Shoving his shoulder against the door in front of him, he found it wouldn't budge. "C'mon," he pleaded, trying the other knob.

"Did I frighten you? I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to."

His tone was friendly, words thick with some sort of lisp and they were innocent enough, but Waylon ducked underneath a table. Maybe this wasn't the man he'd been warned about. Maybe this man wasn't the one who had created that sickening scene in the other room.

"We've met before, haven't we? I know I've seen your face. Maybe… just before I woke up. Though it seems like a dream now, being here with you."

Waylon wrinkled his nose, hand shaking as he scanned the room with his camcorder. Was he being wooed? 'I'll be damned if that's gonna coax me out.'

"You don't have to be alone anymore. Darling, where are you?"

'Where is the bastard?' Waylon shut off the nightvision for a moment, trying to conserve the battery, and strained to hear footsteps instead. He sounded close. Waylon switched the camcorder back on.

Right beside him.

Waylon raised a hand to cover his mouth, afraid a noise would squeak past his lips and he would be found. The man was standing so close, Waylon could, if he was completely insane, reach out and touch his pant leg. The man was, for lack of better word, huge. Not as big as the guy with teeth; no, this man carried his weight in muscle. His leg, so close to Waylon, was nearly as thick as Waylon's own waist. He wore dark jeans with patches sewn into the sides, and black boots many sizes bigger than Waylon could fit into.

Waylon held his breath until the man moved away, daring to exhale slowly as the other circled around a table, humming softly. He wore a white shirt, tucked into his jeans on one side, and a black vest with patches, too. On his hands were fingerless black gloves. His shoulders were broad.

Gluskin.

The realization hit him hard as the man retreated to the adjacent room. Could this really be the same man he'd seen in the engine's main control room? The computer screen flashed before his eyes, a black-haired male choking muffled cries around tubes stuffed down his mouth and nose. The name in the corner: Eddie Gluskin.

Waylon winced as ink-blot-images swam before his eyes. The engine was still affecting him after only being exposed for a few hours. What havoc could it have wreaked on this man? Waylon didn't want to wait to find out.

Once Gluskin was far enough away, Waylon crept from table to table, using as much cover as he could. A door had to be open in the other room, unless Gluskin had locked them in here together. Waylon didn't want to think about that.

The vested man made another pass, murmuring something about "the emptiness inside of him." He walked with purpose, strides long. Waylon made his way back into the room once Gluskin was out of sight.

"Darling!"

He'd seen him in the light of the windows. 'Shit, shit, shit.' Springing up from his crouched position, Waylon ran, dodging tables.

"You don't have to run from me!"

'Like hell!' Waylon's mind hissed as he jumped over a fallen table. Too many twists and turns. He lost his bearings quickly, only aware of the footsteps behind him and desperate pleas. There's no place like home was written on the wall in blood.

An elevator shaft. No elevator. Waylon didn't stop. He leaped across, fingers curling around the red-painted rungs.

The ladder broke under his weight.

All he felt upon impact was the pain in his leg. A sob left his throat as he sat up. Blood soaked his pant leg quickly. A large chunk of wood had lodged itself in the flesh of his leg, just above his ankle. He somehow forgot to feel grateful that the elevator had only been a floor beneath them.

"Oh God, oh God are you okay?"

Waylon grit his teeth and yanked the wood from his muscle, another cry of agony tumbling from his lips.

"Tell me you're okay. I hate the thought of you suffering without me!"

Waylon raised his head, using the elevator cable to help him stand. Gluskin was leaning out from the floor above, face twisted in concern.

"Why would you do something like that to yourself? You'd rather… rather die, than be with me?" Waylon couldn't bear to answer. Gluskin's expression turned menacing. "Then die."

The elevator beneath him jolted to life, slowly beginning to ascend. Eyes widening, Waylon scrambled onto the lower floor before the gap closed.

"What have you…? Ha. Then we continue!"

Waylon limped from the shaft, sure Gluskin would come down in the elevator. He needed a hiding place.

More words written in blood on the wall: A woman's work is never done. Tears on his cheeks, Waylon staggered into another room, and another. A door. He moved toward it, but he was there. Panic.

"That part of you the world sees, they think it's perfect. As God intended. Even these idiots and lunatics see it. There's something special about you, on the surface."

Waylon tried to limp back the way he'd come, but Gluskin's shadow overtook him. Dead end.

A locker. Tugging it open, Waylon stuffed himself inside, closing it as quietly as possible.

"Hmm, close. I can… the smell of my love's arbor. Darling, you can't hide from me."

Through the slits in the locker, Waylon saw him. There was rattling against metal. Waylon pushed on the door. Locked.

The locker moved and tipped over, causing Waylon to cry out as he was momentarily disoriented. Metal was against his back. He saw the ceiling lights above him. He was moving along the ground.

"You make yourself a gift for me; a delicacy, to be unwrapped," he murmured, face appearing above the locker, "and unwrapped again. And savored." The whites of his eyes were red – completely in one eye, partially in the other – the result of broken blood vessels, he could only assume. Once he got past that, Waylon could see his eyes were a light blue.

More movement. Waylon had no idea where he was now. His leg throbbed, he was exhausted, only conscious thanks to the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He didn't know if he would have the strength to escape this time.

"I've been a little… vulgar, I know. And I want to say I'm sorry. I just… you know how a man gets when he wants to know a woman. But, after the ceremony, when I've made an honest woman out of you… I promise I'll be a different man."

A bride. The makeshift birthing scene. It was starting to make sense. Gluskin was delusional enough – although one of the more lucid patients he'd come across – to believe that Waylon was a woman, and he intended to marry him. Waylon almost laughed aloud. 'This is insane.'

Gluskin's face appeared above him again. "I want a family. A legacy. To be the father I never had." He sounded so passionate, and Waylon didn't have the heart to tell him that he couldn't fulfill those desires. "I'll never let anything happen to our children. Not like…" He broke off, looking away, displeased. 'Like your father?' Waylon finished silently.

Without warning, the locker tipped back upright, and Waylon found his footing. Gluskin's face obstructed his view of the room they were now in.

"You'll have to wait here. I know you must be just as eager as I am to consummate our love." He straightened to stand tall, easily a head taller than the locker itself. He pressed a gloved hand to the slits in the metal, Waylon catching a glimpse of the scarred skin of his exposed fingers. "But try to enjoy the anticipation."

When he moved away, Waylon wished he hadn't. His vision was limited, but what he could see left him sick to his stomach.

Chains and limbs hung from the ceiling – arms and legs, bloody and stiff. Beyond those, a surgical table with a connected saw blade, both covered in blood.

"Here, darling," the oddly soothing voice returned. "This will help you relax."

Before he could protest, he was hit in the face with some sort of gas, lungs full of the shit before he even knew what happened. He choked and coughed, vision blurring after mere moments. Consciousness fading, he had no option but to give in to the overwhelming fatigue.


Slowly, gradually, he came to, the effects of the gas rendering him incredibly groggy. It was all he could do to keep his eyes open. Blinking the blur from his vision, he tried to focus on the room before him. There was a man tied to a table, only clothed in a shirt. Waylon tried to gather the sense to speak, but darkness overcame his mind once more.

Minutes or hours later, he was conscious enough to decipher the words Gluskin spoke.

"Darling, I need you to try to bleed less. I know the fairer sex often endures the same wounds with more suffering, but you really need to make an effort."

Whomever he was speaking to was screaming relentlessly – the same man, Waylon recognized, once he'd forced his eyes open again. To his horror, Gluskin shoved a large surgical knife right between the man's legs. Agony filled his ears. He yearned to cover them to block out the awful sound. Blood spurted from the new wound, the man's legs flailing. It didn't take long for his cries to die down, body becoming lifeless. Gluskin hung his head over the now motionless body.

"No… I'm so sorry darling. Love isn't for everyone."

Distraught, Waylon fought the approaching darkness, but was forced to succumb to it anyway.

More time passed before he awoke again.

"Hold still now, darling. All these unsightly hairs."

Gluskin had another victim in his lair. Waylon feared he would be next, and struggled to stay awake, just for a little while.

On a different table lay another patient, completely nude. One leg was propped up on Gluskin's shoulder as the larger man ran his hands over the man's leg and chest.

"Oh! Silky smooth, like a little girl again. Now for the more delicate bits."

The man, whom Waylon had assumed was sedated, for he was so still, began to yell as Gluskin picked up a knife. He pressed the tip into the man's chest, dragging it down the length of his body, and pausing.

"No, no! Please, no!"

Gluskin braced the blade with both hands and sliced down.

Waylon faded away again, unable to determine if the lightheadedness was due to the lasting effects of the gas or if it was in reaction to what he'd just witnessed.

When he regained consciousness for the… hell, he couldn't even remember how many times now… Gluskin held a man by the neck, the naked figure positioned on his hands and knees on the table, facing the spinning saw blade.

"You've given up. You're ugly and you've given up on love. You're not even worth stringing up. Bleed here, and die."

He shoved the man's face into the saw, the sound of the blade cutting through flesh, sticky and through bone, jarring. Waylon was gone again.


A cool draft wafted over his body. It was pleasant… until Waylon recovered enough sense to realize that the feeling meant he was in danger. Ropes. Thick ropes surrounded his wrists and ankles. Blinking heavy lids open, his stomach sank when he saw the position he was now in.

Less than two feet separated the blade and his 'delicate bits', as Gluskin had put it. Unclothed, he felt utterly helpless and exposed to the man standing at the foot of the table. Was this truly how he was going to die?

Gluskin's face lit up when he saw his bride-to-be's awakening. "You have amazing bone structure. Such soft skin. You're going to be beautiful," he declared.

Slowly, his rousing mind began to understand. He was to be cut into, to be made into the makeshift woman from behind the tarp; the perfect bride. He wouldn't survive the procedure. Too panic-stricken to plead for his life, he could only listen as Gluskin spoke in that sweet, caring tone.

"A woman… has to suffer some things. It's not pleasant, I know. But just try to… endure. For my sake. For the sake of our children." He circled the table, gazing down upon him. "It won't take long. A few snips of the flesh here, and here," he gestured at Waylon's chest. "Cut away everything…" he glanced down, and Waylon barely kept himself from squirming, "… vulgar. A soft place to welcome my seed. To grow our family." Gluskin's hand, large enough to circle the junction of his knee, brushed along the inside of Waylon's thigh. The blond shuddered.

"The incision will hurt," Gluskin spoke over the buzz of the saw as it started up. Waylon could keep quiet no longer, terrified of such a gruesome death. Gluskin seemed to take no notice of his whimpers and labored breaths. "And the conception. And birthing is never easy. I'll make the cut fast. Just close your eyes and think of our children."

The table was on wheels, Waylon discovered, as Gluskin tugged it closer to the stationary blade. Every muscle in his body straining, Waylon squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to watch.

The sound of the blade slowing made him open his eyes, just in time to see an inmate bash something over Gluskin's head. The force of the blow caused Gluskin's hand to break the wooden plank Waylon's leg was tied to. While the two struggled, Waylon broke his arm free, rolling off the table and crashing to the floor with a wince. The variant hit Gluskin again, then scurried away. "Get back here!" Gluskin growled, giving chase.

Waylon seized the opportunity, climbing to his feet and locating his jumpsuit, discarded on the floor. He stepped into the legs and shrugged the fabric over his shoulders. Snatching his camcorder from a nearby table, he beelined for an open doorway.

The blond hadn't even reached the other side of the new room before he heard the familiar cry of, "Darling!" He dropped his camcorder, using both hands to propel himself past walls and over fallen tables. At his limping pace, he had no idea how Gluskin didn't catch up to him.

"Why would you do this to me?" came the pitiful plea from behind him. He hurried through a door and shut it behind him.

He was a wreck. His leg rendered him nearly immobile, and he was running on an empty tank. As the door was broken down, he spotted a broken window and climbed over the edge.

"Wait, don't! Don't!"

He jumped.

The courtyard was small, covered in grass that did nothing to cushion his fall. He landed on his already injured leg. His vision swam, and for a moment, he feared he would black out from the pain.

"You all want to leave me? Is that it? You want to leave me? Fine! Go! You and the rest of these ungrateful sluts!"

Waylon gasped for breath, the sound of his own breath startling even him.

"… Wait!"