Chapter 2: Friends Like These.
Authors Note:
After this chapter things are going to start picking up. Less Blaire complaining and more Blair beating. Excellent.
…
…
Jeremy was alive.
God fucking damn i-!
First came the confusion.
The murky mess of thoughts and fleeting, blurred images of his surrounding gradually slipped into Jeremy's consciousness. For a while be barely knew his own name let alone why he was in this dusty, decrepit looking room, and even when the memories did begin to return they did so slowly and with little meaning.
Next came feeling.
The sensation of his stomach beginning to turn on itself and letting the acid eat away at the linings of his stomach causing a sickly feeling of hollowness to swallow Blaire up. More concerning was the increased pain he could feel from his arms and legs. The painkillers had dulled enough to allow sleep had returned with a vengeance. The sheets he was laying on felt sticky and Jeremy's sleep muddled mind only vaguely recognized the moisture would be from his wounds bleeding as he slept and for a moment he was still too bogged down in sleep to be alarmed by this.
And finally there came awareness.
Confusion faded into the back of Jeremy Blaire's mind as he remembered exactly why he was here. He remembered the asylum, the screaming, the blood, and now most vividly he remembered the fire. He still perfectly remembered how it had lit up the area around the asylum and the relief the cleansing fire brought with it. As he lay there, cringing at the sensation of his wounds parting and remolding to the blankets when he moved, Jeremy once again remembered how badly injured he was.
For a while Jeremy did not move. His mind became more alert with every passing second but he was not yet ready to deal with the bullshit that had to come. He could feel his legs, raw flesh and blood sticking to the sheets around him, and his mangled arm lay uselessly by his head. As Jeremy lay on the dusty, vermin filled mattress, he allowed his mind to wander.
Usually he wouldn't bother letting trivial, seemingly pointless thoughts float through his mind. He was too busy, too disciplined for that sort of nonsense, and most importantly, Murkoff would stand for stray thoughts. Private thoughts were the key to rebellion, a thought of disobedience was as good as having committed a crime with one's own hands.
Jeremy Blaire knew this because he enforced the punishment for those that dared let their mind wander too often. Idiots like Waylon Park got killed because of their inability to remained focused on a single goal, because they dared to think 'why' and 'what if'.
But there was no Murkoff here. There was no one to keep an eye on Blaire's every little action and thought. For the first time in years Jeremy was left completely on his own. The thought did not make him sad at all, loneliness was a novel feeling that Jeremy had not experienced in many years – he'd enjoy the simplicity of it for a while longer.
As his mind began to sort through seemingly pointless thoughts, Jeremy became aware of sunlight filtering in through the crabby little window across the room. It was gentle, lighting up every little speck of dust in its path towards the bed and across the wooden floor. Jeremy found himself staring at it with a sort of fascination he wasn't aware he could have for something so mundane. But that was why it caught his attention. It was mundane, innocent, something one experienced every day and did not need to look at a second time.
That single beam of light signified everything that Jeremy did not have or need, and simultaneously everything that Park had desired. It was both agitating and baffling to Jeremy. That single beam of light could not buy him food, nor could it give him any of the things he'd need for simple survival but he knew that it was something many of the patients and employees had wanted. A simple sign that not everything was stained with darkness, that there was still some warmth and light left in the world – that one day they'd be able to see the sun and not be behind fences.
When thinking about this he remembered overhearing some of the workers talking about summer, about the thought of the warm days to come with the hope of a break from work. He even remembered what one of them had said at the time.
"It's because the sun is warm, and the asylum is cold." Jeremy repeated spitefully, groaning as his voice sent him a painful reminder that he hadn't had anything to drink since the riot. How long ago was that now? Two days maybe? How long he'd slept and how many hours had passed since everything had gone to shit, was all lost on Jeremy right then.
If the stiffness of his joints and thin layer of crust that was forming over the injuries in his arm was anything to go by, Jeremy assumed he'd slept well past a single day. If it had been two or three days he'd slept, the former executive couldn't be sure. However the horrible growling of his stomach and dryness of his throat told him that no matter the exact amount of time, it had already been too long.
The emptiness of his stomach was eventually enough to force Blaire to get moving. Just like the first time he'd woken up after Walrider made a ragdoll of him, Blaire found it incredibly hard to even sit up straight. A wave of nausea hit him when he finally righted himself, almost causing Jeremy to vomit, he would have as well if he'd not lost all the contents of his stomach the last time he was awake. Along with the dizziness there followed a sickly sweet smell, one that turned Jeremy's insides cold. It wasn't quite the scent of flesh rotting, not the same ungodly smell of decay, but it wasn't far off. Jeremy had smelt plenty of this particular taste while in the asylum.
Knowing that the sickening scent was coming from his injured legs, Jeremy hesitated in removing the sheet that had haphazardly been dragged over him. He was aware that sitting there staring blankly at the covering blanket wouldn't make the problem go away, but just for a few seconds he needed to gather his nerve.
When he finally reached for the blanket and peeled back the coarse fabric to see his legs, Jeremy felt both relief and frustration. The bandages he'd applied before collapsing were stained to the point that they appeared to have been made of red and yellow fabric rather than the original white. From a glance Jeremy could see his wounds were leaning more to towards infection than healing. His leg, the one he knew to be broken by the Walrider was swelling painfully and the dull ache in his chest reminded Jeremy that at least two ribs had been fractured as well.
Fear settled in.
What could he do if he couldn't walk at all? The limited amount of medical supplies he'd found would perhaps help to slow the rate of decay and keep some infections at bay but they wouldn't be able to reset the bone in his leg and Jeremy's unskilled hands didn't look that much more up to the task. He didn't even know what one was supposed to do about a broken rib.
In the back of his mind he could vaguely remember Rick rambling on about this sort of thing – he wished that he'd actually paid some attention to his friend's ravings. He was able to pick out something along the lines of 'nothing to do about it,' leaving Rick's mouth. He hoped that was the case with his ribs, rather than some of the less favorable things he'd heard Rick mention.
More to the point there wouldn't be any food around here. Anything that could have been left in the kitchen was no doubt well past its use by date and while Jeremy might be able to find some small rodents or bugs – he wasn't going to debase himself by eating rats raw. No, there had to be a better option available.
Deciding he needed to see what he had to work with, Jeremy slowly dragged his sore legs to the edge of the bed. Once he placed his feet against the filthy ground, Jeremy let out a sigh of relief when he felt some strength in his legs. However when he applied pressure to the leg suffering a shattered bone, he let out a low groan of agony. Now that his mind was clearer and the painkillers faded, the pain felt sharper and more focused in certain places. He wasn't being driven by the primal urge to simply run and survive anymore – now he had to think.
There was still the thought of the town at the base of Mount Massive. Jeremy was not keen on the thought of continuing the grueling hike towards town but the possibility of food and more painkillers eventually won him over on the idea. If he was going to make the track to the town, Jeremy decided he'd need to gear himself up properly for the trip.
The following minutes were spent seeking out a suitable stick to help remove the weight from Jeremy's most horribly damaged leg, and gathering up the few painkillers he had left. By the end of his hunting, Jeremy was fairly pleased with himself. The pain still lingered but with the promise of relief through the painkillers – which he had taken in moderation this time – and the helpfulness of his chosen stick, made the whole ordeal seem that much more bearable. In reality the stick wasn't actually from a tree, he'd managed to find a rusted pipe laying jammed up against the fall wall of the bathroom when he'd gone to retrieve his painkillers. It had a disgusting smell to it and Jeremy noticed it left rust on his hands when he held it – but it was sturdy and he needed the support, so it would have to do.
As Jeremy hobbled downstairs, he only now began to marvel at his own good fortune. One in his position might not be so inclined to see themselves as 'fortunate' but he truly was. The house was in itself a godsend. The fact he'd stumbled across it when he did seemed too good to be true, and as such he was weary of it. Nothing in this world came for free, nothing was an honest, genuine, no strings attached gift. So even the mere presence of the house unnerved Blaire to some extent. It wouldn't have surprised him if a serial killer happened to frequent the house, maybe he could find a camera in town and document everything.
Wouldn't that be something, Blaire staring in a Blaire Witch movie. Fucking hilarious.
With a small disgruntle growl Jeremy pushed that irritating joke aside. If he began to find amusement in bullshit like that he might as well just kill himself right now. However, it might not be a bad idea to record what he did, it seemed as though cameras could be surprisingly useful in such dire situations.
Briefly Blaire remembered having seen Park holding up a camcorder in their few encounters during the asylum. That thought brought up a feeling of rage in Blaire as he left the house behind him. Stepping out into the forest foliage again, it was light out, it seemed to be late morning or early midday, Jeremy would need to turn back when it looked like it was getting dark. He wasn't going to let himself get caught out alone in the words at night. Taking a moment to commit the image of the rundown house to memory along with its general location, Jeremy finally began to head downwards – it was his best bet of finding the town, and as he painstakingly made his way in the general direction of 'down', Jeremy thought of Park.
He'd clung to that camcorder like it was life itself, Jeremy realized now that in a way it was. Park had wanted to bring Murkoff to a grinding halt even before the riot, and after the horrors that took place in the past few days – he now had more than enough evidence on that camera. Well he had when Jeremy encountered him at the asylum entrance – Jeremy doubted that Waylon would have survived his injuries and even if he had, the Walrider would have made short work of the rest of him.
There was no reason to worry about that silly little camera that Park had on him. Likely the Walrider had destroyed it as well. Still, Jeremy reflected on that last act of defiance in Park, that small resistance he'd held onto even as the world went to hell around him. Why bother? Jeremy could not understand it, Waylon had risked everything for a little camera, for the slim chance he might be able to throw some dirt in Murkoff's eye. Was hurting Murkoff really that important to Park?
No matter which angle Jeremy looked at it, the action was meaningless – insane.
Somehow Waylon Park had always puzzled and infuriated him. From the very first time they met he'd decided that he'd never see things from Park's perspective.
…
…
When a new worker enters Murkoff's employment, Jeremy Blaire knows.
He knows because it is his job to know, no name goes unnoticed, no new face unseen – Blaire does not allow any holes in his absolute control of the asylum, it is his job to know and so he does.
So when Waylon Park got contracted into Murkoff, Blaire was the first to know and the first not to care. What was one more lamb wandering around? It didn't matter so long as Park did his job, kept quiet and eventually went away.
Jeremy Blaire knew he'd loath Park from the very first moment he heard the techie speak, he knew that Park wasn't going to follow his securely set order of events.
A two week contract, it wasn't that difficult a task was it?
Yet here he sat, fidgeting uncomfortably under the scrutiny of Blaire's gaze. In his hand Jeremy held the contract that Park had signed. It's rules were quite clear, perhaps a little bit sneaky in their wording and containing a few hidden rules, but clear enough for the most idiotic person to understand the basics.
This contract said that they owned him for the next two weeks, simple as that.
Still Park had come to complain; or rather Blaire had caught wind of Waylon's discontentment and thought it'd be best to kill the problem before it became a real irritation.
Glancing between the contract and his new employee, Blaire marveled at the mere fragility of the male's nature. He was not a fighter, that much was obvious. Waylon looked like he was one glare away from fleeing Blaire's office. Though, in all fairness that was by design.
Word traveled surprisingly quickly through the asylum. Whispers about Blaire's heartlessness and unrelenting cruelty had obviously reached Park's ears even if it was only the third day he'd been working. Jeremy had allowed these little snippets of gossip to fly, multiply and gradually twist into a sick version of the truth. If Park had heard that Jeremy punished employees by breaking fingers or humiliating them in the most intimate ways – Blaire was sure as hell going to enforce that image. Fear was control and control was power – Jeremy Blaire held all those cards in this arena, Park barely had a card to play.
Judging by the way Waylon continued to shuffle uneasily where he stood, shifting weight from foot to foot and repeatedly stuffing his hands into his pockets, only to remove them a moment later – these rumors had done their job to perfection.
Satisfied that Waylon Park had begun to fear him before they'd even properly met, Blaire lowered the contract and smiled. His false pleasant expression seemed to alarm Park further and Jeremy almost chuckled when the blood drained from Park's face.
"Now, Mr. Park." Jeremy began leisurely, keeping the usual air of cool confidence around him as he spoke. "A few people have been telling me that there's some grievances you'd liked to express?" Finally Jeremy dropped the contract, neatly folding his hands together as he observed Waylon's anxious twitching.
Complain. Jeremy thought viciously, daring Park to openly express his dissatisfaction to him. As Jeremy watched Park with a predatory gaze, barely hidden behind pleasantries, he dearly hoped Park would speak up. Go on, spit it out.
"Sir…" Waylon finally managed to speak up, dangerously close to stuttering as he did. "It's my family." Jeremy could have banged his head on the desk.
His family? Was that really the first thing he had to whine about?
Jeremy was getting fucking tired of employees complaining about this. Always moaning and bitching about contact with the outside world and loved ones. No one was allowed to speak with the outside world, it was too risky, even a toddler could have wrapped their brain around the simple concept.
If that was all these worms had to complain about, Jeremy was not interested. Their families? Who gave a shit about not being able to chat with a wife every now and then? They acted like it was painful to be separated, like not being able to talk to a spouse was like losing them forever. They were all weak.
And here Blaire had to deal with a real pain. With a genuine sense of loss.
What the fuck would any of them know about loss when their wives were at home with children and friends, and somewhere downstairs there was the only person Blaire had ever paused to give a toss about, – screaming.
Gritting his teeth Blaire took a moment to calm himself enough to speak reasonably with Park. Despite how he might feel about the little idiot of a techie, Jeremy still needed him to work till the end of his contract and cause as little commotion as possible – so out came the political smile.
"I understand Mr. Park." Blaire lied through his teeth.
"It must be difficult for you." He of course thought Waylon was pathetic. "But try to be reasonable." You stupid fuck.
"Two weeks is hardly any reason to complain, once your time here is finished I'm sure your wife and children will be overjoyed to see you. After all, distance makes the heart grow fonder – no?"
The bastard still did not look satisfied, or at the very least, oppressed enough to pretend otherwise. Frustration gnawed at Blaire's insides and he allowed a small slip up – needing to express some of his irritation.
"Is there still a problem Park?" Blaire asked sharply, dropping the 'MR' in his agitation. "What exactly is it that's causing you such grief? What else could trouble you so deeply that you'd come into my office?" And waste my time, went unsaid.
Blaire was not expecting the abruptness of Waylon's response.
"It's the facility sir, and the patients." Jeremy caught himself in time to mask his surprise. Of course he'd expected this to be the answer but at the same time he'd also assumed that Waylon would stumble over it and make excuses. His honesty was, frankly, quite alarming.
"W-Well…" Waylon quickly backtracked. "I've spoken to a few of the other workers an-and…they talk about the patient's treatment. I-I mean I just thought…"
This was the stuttering, nervous Waylon Park that Blaire had read about in his files. That reassured him somewhat, still Jeremy was suspicious of these 'other workers' he already had a fair idea of who Park was referring to and exactly what they would be saying.
However, what was perhaps most surprising was the fact that Waylon had been talking with any of the other employees at all. It had been an unspoken rule since the day Park arrived that people would not like him. Jeremy had of course issued this silent command himself, having decided that the peppy little tech-head needed to be taken down a notch or two. The idea that anyone would risk their own skin to interact with Park in a friendly manner stepped on Jeremy's nerves. It was by no means a crime but it seemed to undermine Jeremy's authority – he couldn't have that now could he?
"What concern is that of yours Park?" Jeremy responded smoothly, not bothering to keep the ice from his tone. "You're a techie, the patients are of no consequence to you."
Waylon looked alarmed and Jeremy say the way his shoulders tensed. Waylon knew damn well that the patients had no weight on his own work, he should just keep his head down and ignore the things that went on in the asylum.
"Moreover, discussion between patients and doctors should remain confidential." Jeremy had to stop his smile from twisting into a smirk when he saw the dread cross Park's face.
The threat was subtle enough but Waylon seemed to understand, he did not want his new 'friends' to be in Jeremy's line of sight because of his carelessness. It was too late for that, Jeremy had already been keeping an eye on Sinclair for some time now – he as becoming a nuisance and all pests ended up in the same spot.
Down below, strapped down and screaming their lungs out.
There was only one nuisance that Blaire found himself unable to shake. A brief mental image of the Warden's stoic face entered Jeremy's mind and while suppressing a shiver, he fought it off. If it had been another employee or even another executive, Blaire was certain he could have snaked his way around setting up their demise. But the Warden was all but untouchable.
One problem at a time Blaire. One at a time.
"If that's all…" Jeremy spoke up again, his tone dipping back into condescending courteously as he once again found his area of comfort. He let the words hang in the air, both an instruction for Park to get the hell out and a hook – baiting Park to try biting again.
Park was smart enough to keep his trap shut. At least the idiot had the good sense to look out for his own skin. A bunch of raving lunatics being a little uncomfortable was not worth opposing Jeremy Blaire. This should have pleased Jeremy thoroughly but something about Park's face agitated him.
That slightly sympathetic look, the expression of despair he barely tried to hide. Jeremy had seen other employees wear similar faces when being dealt with but Park's wasn't quite right. It wasn't self-pitying regret or even anger towards Blaire for fucking them over – it was a pity felt for someone else. Even now Waylon was giving his sympathy to the patients at Mount Massive Asylum.
Jeremy wasn't going to stand for that either.
"Mr. Park." Waylon had been heading for the door, head lowered with that infuriating look of compassion about him. "I hope you understand their position, just as you must know yours. The patients here are sick, perhaps not sick in the sense you've come to understand but ill nonetheless. They're murders, rapists, cannibals, self mutilators – if you can name it one of them has done it."
Waylon seemed to be physically sickened by Jeremy's words. Good, he should feel disgusted. Jeremy didn't care what the patients did, but they must repulse a weak hearted person like Waylon – there was no room for sympathy here.
"There is no need for concern, they're being treated more kindly than they deserve. Rather than rotting in prison or being culled, they're here to be cured. It's a gift that they be given that much mercy."
Waylon had his hand on the door handle and Jeremy could see how his breath caught in his throat. Fear kept his words muted, he knew he should blindly agree and escape – that would have been the clever thing to do. But Park ended up muttering words that dug their way under Jeremy's skin, pulling her nerves he hardly knew he had.
"They're just people…"
"What was that?" Jeremy hissed, unable to keep the slight snarl from his voice. Waylon tensed and did not turn back to face his furious boss.
"Sorry to bother you." Waylon replied, acting as though he'd not accidently let the previous words slip by him. With that he finally took his escape, fleeing from Mr. Blaire's office as quickly as his skinny, techie legs could carry him.
He'd tried to cover up his mistake but Jeremy had heard it, the three familiar words furiously burning away in his mind.
Just people…
Just. People.
Sinclair!
In a small burst of rage, Jeremy smashed his fist on his desk, sending a few loose items flying in his fit. That was it, last chance and straw in one moment.
That fucking therapist was twisting Blaire's patient into unrelenting knots. His every action grating on Blaire's nerves but never being enough to warrant any sort of formalized punishment. Even now Jeremy had nothing soil to use against the infuriating therapist but he'd have to find a workaround. Sinclair had to go – he had to go now, one more day and Jeremy was going to strangle the therapist himself.
With his hands balled into tight fists, Jeremy scowled at the wooden desk in front of him. The documents, with Park's file among them, suddenly lost their urgency. They'd be here when he was done attending to this one little annoyance that could no longer be ignored.
His papers would stay here and Sinclair was going to find his new home underground – strapped into the Morphogenic Engine.
…
…
Perhaps that had been one of his first mistakes. One mistake followed up by three or four more in the days that came after it. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, throw anything that posed a threat into the lower levels of the asylum, it had appeared to be a perfection solution. All it did in the end was create two more crazies to worry about, one bearing those fucking scissors and the other had a sword. A sword. Jeremy should have just put a bullet between their eyes, Murkoff would have been pissed but they'd covered up worse atrocities in the past.
It was one thing for Sinclair to sprout that compassionate nonsense about the patients, but to hear it come out of Waylon Park's mouth as well had damn near driven Blaire to insanity. Why was it any concern of Park's? Caring about his wife and kids was perhaps slightly understandable, loyalty was important, Jeremy understood that much.
But to stick one's neck out for a bunch of crazies that would sooner skin and eat Waylon than learn his name, well that just made no sense to Jeremy.
Despite the frustration and confusion such thoughts brought up in Jeremy, he was relieved to have been so focused on them when his feet hit something other than grass and twigs. The abrupt change in texture jostled Jeremy from his thoughts and the sight of solid, man-made road under his feet was a welcome relief.
With a glance up Jeremy was able to guess this was a main road. A single stretch of solid tar leading in both directions, cutting a path through the otherwise impenetrable forest. If Jeremy were to guess he'd assume that this was the road down the mountain from the asylum, so all he had to do was follow it and he'd eventually find himself some semblance of civil living.
The walk on a proper road came more easily than his awkward shuffle through the bush land. Jeremy would have immediately started moving again had he not remembered the importance of finding his way back to the house. It wasn't his first pick for accommodation but it had a few important traits he couldn't afford to pass up. First of all it was abandoned, meaning he wouldn't have to fight to keep it or actively hide, and secondly it was a fair distance from the town and remains of the asylum, meaning it would be a good place to lay low without the risk of nosy kids or police snooping around.
With all this in mind, Jeremy turned back to look at the path he'd come from. He could just make out the signs of the path he'd made and was confident that once he reached this spot on the return 'home' he'd be able to find his way. In need of a sign to tell him where this precise point was, Jeremy ended up unraveling some of the access bandage from his arm and tying it to the closest tree he could find.
The bandage was still sticky with puss and blood, making the removal uncomfortable and with one arm still essentially useless, even wrapping it around the tree was a challenge. Spitting low curses, Jeremy was able to jam that fabric into enough crevices for it to stay in place long enough to tie a proper knot.
Once he was sure that the bandage wasn't going to simply fall off, Jeremy stepped away to admire his work. It was, of course, utterly disgusting. The bandage was filthy and dotted in red and yellow substances – revolting to look at but certainly eye catching enough for Jeremy to find when he was heading back.
With a breadcrumb planted, Jeremy turned and continued his voyage in the general direction of 'down'. With an easier surface to walk on and those painkillers finally brining much needed relief, the walk became a much easier task. It still wouldn't be making his top ten favorite hikes but it was a considerably better endeavor than the night before had been.
When the first car passed Jeremy, he almost had a heart attack. Somehow the idea of a car passing by was so startling mundane that he hadn't expected it. However when he saw it appeared to be an old run down family car, Jeremy felt relieved. Both because it was not Murkoff and it meant he was close to his goal. A car full of kids wouldn't both venturing up too close to the asylum, not that they'd be granted access past a certain point anyway, so that meant they were down fairly low.
Some part of Blaire cursed the people in that car for not stopping to pick him up, god knows he could have used a rest from walking. But he also knew it'd be foolish to jump in any random hick's car, so walking continued to be his only option. Briefly Blaire considered conjuring up another distraction in his mind, perhaps one of the late nights spent working with Rick and drinking more than actually working. Or better one of the good days where he got to watch Park fumble and fall over his own two feet, sometimes with an added push from Jeremy.
Any of those memories would have been fine to dwell in but Jeremy found that no matter how he tried, his mind wouldn't think of anything except the asylum in its final hours. His small remembrance of the breaking point he'd felt before sending Sinclair to the lower levels had brought with it all the memories of just what Sinclair had to say on the matter when he was free to roam the asylum with the rest of those nutters.
Father Martin had been mad, but he'd been a man the patients respected and looked to for guidance. They got scared so they'd turned to religion, to Father Martin.
The Warden had been just as merciless, but he'd also been someone that the patients related to and trusted. They had been alone and rejected, so they'd accepted the Warden, even if they did fear the man somewhat. What they held for the Warden was respect derived from mutual understanding.
Sinclair...well he had not been like those two, he was not feared or respected – he'd been adored.
Something like a child that the patients could dote on, someone that offered warmth and companionship when the asylum was full of hatred and fear. Sinclair wasn't physically strong or even that frightening at a glance – Gluskin had all those traits – but he did have immunity from some of the asylum horrors.
The twins wouldn't harm him, it seemed that even Walker allowed the man to hold his little 'therapy sessions' among the patients at times. He was by no means beloved in the asylum – such a thought was laughable – but he was safer than most. The patients that had clung to his small acts of compassion before the riot now clung to his guidance in the carnage, they'd been more than happy to try and track Blaire down when Sinclair had asked them to.
Just more reasons to add to the pile of why Blaire hated Sinclair.
Even sending him to the lower levels had not completely eliminated the problem that was Sebastian Sinclair, if anything it'd only caused further complications down the line.
Memories of scissors in his side, twisting, came to Blaire's mind and he unintentionally brushed his fingers over the side of his torso where the holes were clumsily stitched together. Recollections of passive smiles and laughter also flooded his mind. Warped versions of therapy sessions set his teeth on edge and no matter how desperately Blaire tried to shut out those memories, they continued to tug on the corners of his mind.
"Now, you know that this isn't going to help your recovery at all." Sinclair's voice rung loud and clear in his head. The words coming about at a time he was firmly strapped into Sinclair's little interview chair. "We're here to help you Mr. Blaire."
Scoffing at the memory alone Jeremy decided to avoid strolling down memory lane for a while. He did not need to have a little rerun of those events, if he ever thought of them it'd be too soon. But if he could not erase Sinclair from his mind entirely, he could at the very least remember a time when Sinclair was under his boot rather than the situation he'd been in only a few days before.
However despite all of his efforts, Jeremy could not seem to remember the scenes he wanted. Anything related to the youngest Sinclair brother always ended with either memories of running or the male's smile.
More than anything Jeremy hated that smile.
Sinclair seemed to a thousand years away before his exposure to the Morphogenic Engine. His smile, while distant and often distracted, was always warm and genuine. Even when things seemed to go horribly wrong for the therapist, or Jeremy would make a point to threaten and reprimand him – the male just kept on smiling.
Perhaps this would not have agitated Jeremy had he thought it was a farce, a smile worn for civil conduct – but it just wasn't. When Sinclair smiled, no matter how out of place the situation, it was genuine. His soft nature and ridiculously kind heart had dug at Blaire's nerves from day one.
Waylon and Sebastian were both like that. Waylon who was so morally sound and righteous had damn near caused Jeremy to rip his hair out in frustration. Sebastian's innocent way of smiling and his dedication to his patients was just as bad, but rather than scorning Sincliar like he did Park – Jeremy just felt uneasy around the therapist.
There was no real reason to think about either of those people anymore though. They were dead, either burned with the fire or taken out by another resident of the asylum.
Waylon Park and Sebastian Sinclair were-
Abruptly that thought was cut off as Jeremy staggered around the bend of the road and was greeted with the welcoming sight of buildings. They were a far cry from city structures but from where Jeremy stood he could very clearly see office buildings and shops, a town that was vaguely familiar to him. He'd rarely needed to leave the asylum but he had passed through this dreary little place on the odd occasion, be it for golfing or going to make a house call to an employee's disgruntle family.
All he had to do now was find the things he needed. More bandages, pills, food, maybe even some clothes. All of which would have to be stolen. He could not risk a hospital nor could Blaire actually ask someone for help, though this time it had nothing to do with pride. If Murkoff caught wind of his whereabouts, Jeremy was confident they'd have him properly punished for his failures.
It had always been made excoriatingly clear what failure meant in the hands of Murkoff. Shortcomings and disobedience would be met with the same response, and Jeremy didn't fancy trying his hand at explaining what had happened back at the asylum.
He was the best of the best, Murkoff accepted nothing less than perfection, and for a time Jeremy Blaire had been just that.
As Jeremy neared the town, he began to shift off the highway, intending to stay out of the main roads and keep mostly to dark corners. He felt like a cockroach, scurrying around in the shadows. It was a filthy, degrading feeling but it was a step up from the alternative – he wasn't going to opt for death over slight revulsion.
It was getting close to closing time for most stores around the time, a few more hours and the only places he'd find open would be supermarkets and fast-food joints. No, he needed a proper pharmacy first and then maybe a fresh food outlet, the stores he was sure had the least amount of security and/or cameras.
Jeremy was aware that he looked like a wreck, if too many people caught sight of him there'd be questions. The blood, the tears in his clothes and bandages would bring far too much attention to his existence. He had to be cautious.
This proved to be incredibly difficult. Thankfully it was in no way peak hour so very few people were wandering around, but the act of going into a store and making off with some merchandise without a single person noticing his obviously suspicious appearance was going to be a chore.
The incredibly frustrating need to check over his shoulder every few seconds was also beginning to wear down Blaire's nerves. Every little thought and action he had was making him sick to his stomach, all this skulking around, barely better than a common beggar. He'd never had to beg for anything in his entire life, everything was freely taken or given.
Oh yes, he fought tooth and nail to climb the ladder to where he had been in Murkoff. He'd lied, cheated, abused and killed to get where he belonged. But begging had never been part of that game, not for him. An impressive education, set path of success laid out for him should he want it – everything rightfully belonged to him from the day he was born.
And now he was back down at the bottom, lower than he'd been even when he was nothing more than a sniveling brat.
Anger was what kept Jeremy focused. Humiliated, degraded, wounded, Jeremy had forced such experiences onto others in the past and now he took the rage those feelings brought up inside of him, and used it to achieve the things he needed to in order to survive.
Small towns were pitifully trusting, Blaire had little trouble stealing a large, unsightly black jumper. It had just been left outside some brandless little store with a 20% off sign plastered to the rack. If there was a camera to catch him Blaire hardly cared, no one was going to notice the loss of the pathetic piece of clothing.
Once out of sight around the corner Jeremy forced himself to adorn the jumper, it was hideous but it was also a perfect cover. It hid the majority of his bandages and most importantly his face. He still needed the stick to walk and his legs were still visible but this at least gave him some coverage, and as an added bonus he could hide what he stole in its large pockets.
With that taken care of he could turn his attention to more important items. First things first, he needed medical equipment. It took him a bit more time to locate a shop that appeared to be sterile and stocked to the brim with painkillers, but as he sought out the shop he'd also caught sight of a small market like area that was selling food. Perfect, there wouldn't be any cameras there, so he'd only have to be cautious of prying eyes.
The pharmacy would require a bit more care. Even as Jeremy stepped into the store, he could see three or four cameras posted around. They wouldn't review the footage unless he made it obvious what he was doing or took enough to arouse suspicion. He had to be fast, in and out, no need to pretend he was browsing. If they never saw him it would be as if he'd never been there at all.
Blaire was in luck – a welcome relief from how the rest of his life seemed to be going – there was only one worker in the store when he entered. A young girl that looked more invested in her phone than he job.
As Blaire pocketed a packet of pills, he felt a familiar sense of resentment coil in his stomach. She should be working, should be focusing all her efforts on being the best, getting a better pay slip, serving her bosses to the best of her ability – not playing solitaire on that tiny fucking screen.
Even though it grated on his nerves, Blaire knew it was better that she was being inattentive and lazy. Her poor work ethic had just given Blaire about fifty dollars worth of equipment. He hardly needed to hurry, picking out the brands he knew and the items he thought he might need later. By the time he'd left, Jeremy was positive that she hadn't even known he was there in the first place.
The feeling of the packets and bottles of pills shifting around in Blaire's pockets was oddly satisfying. He'd been out of control of his own life for too long now, just knowing he'd been able to pocket the dearly needed medical gear was enough to boost Jeremy's mood.
Right, that's one major item ticked off the list, time for the second most important – food. Jeremy would have killed just to get his hands on his usual well cooked food but he knew the best he was looking at would be some raw fruits and vegetables, maybe he could find himself some bread. God, what he really needed was a martini.
He would have killed for a properly cooked meal, he would have done worse for a martini.
And if at all possible he would have done it to Park.
But of course that was impossible now. Blaire considered this train of thought with a spiteful smile while judging the ripeness of an apple.
The market had a few people wandering around, last minute buys for a cheap price before the salesman packed up for the day. As such the person who Jeremy assumed was the original owner of the apples he was currently pocketing, was distracted with another customer. Happily chatting away in that idly friendly way that small town folk did. It was a fascinating mix of kinship and polite, small talk – never quite friends but never truly strangers. It made for the most lengthy, pointless conversations, and for Blaire that meant more food.
The man who was speaking with the stand owner was obscured from Jeremy's watchful gaze. Much like Jeremy the male was wearing a hood but unlike him, the hood was white and considerably more fashionable. Despite being unable to see the second male in the conversation, Jeremy swore he could see scars on the man's hand. Not that it mattered at all, he was simply watching to make sure that he wasn't seen himself. That left Jeremy to his thieving and thoughts.
Waylon Park was dead, and as much ad Blaire wished otherwise, he could not kill a dead man a second time. Some part of him was disheartened by this knowledge but the larger part of Jeremy was simply delighted with the sentence 'Waylon park is dead'.
Damn near humming to himself, Jeremy decided he could maybe take one more orange before he had to sneak off. As he reached for the last brightly coloured fruit, Blaire caught sight of a familiar crest, and the food he'd gathered clumsily slipped through his fingers, left to fall against the ground with a soft series of thuds.
Standing by the stand that Blaire had been snatching his apples from was a small group of men. They appeared to be talking to the same man that had earlier been chatting to his neighbors and Jeremy didn't have to hear their voices to know what they'd be saying.
They were asking questions, they were Murkoff.
All the colour drained from Blaire's face. He wasn't ready, he could be seen by them, he had to go. He had to be gone now. Abandoning the food he had unceremoniously dropped to the ground, Jeremy turned on the ball of his foot and hobbled as quickly and discretely as he could in the opposite direction. Even if his leg had been up for running he wouldn't have tried it, too obvious, they'd catch him in an instant if he were to make it evident that he was fleeing.
Murkoff would of course have people in the town, asking questions and silencing others that dared to ask them. They weren't looking for him, but they were looking for loose ends and as of right now Jeremy fell into that category.
Without so much as a glance over his shoulder Jeremy left the town, not daring to look back for the slim chance he might see men in suits tailing behind him. Had he glanced back Jeremy would not have seen Murkoff personnel, he had not been seen by them at all but that wasn't to say no one had taken notice of his shambling figure.
"Oh." The elderly man who had finally finished talking to those strange men in suits noticed that some of the fruit appeared to have fallen from his stand. Immediately he felt irritated, knowing that he could just dust them off and sell them if he wanted, but his conscious kept him from doing that to his customers. The fruit was now useless in his mind. With a sigh of frustration the man approached the fallen fruit, muttering about how sure he'd been that they were stacked properly.
It was only then he noticed that someone else was already gathering the food. "Ah, there's no need for that my boy!" The old man spoke heartily, recognizing the familiar face that was helping him, they had just been talking about the local hospital after all. "I'll clean that up, don't you worry."
"Actually…" The male in the white hoodie glanced up at the shop owners face and smiled warmly. "I'd liked to buy these if you don't mind."
"Those ones? Oh, heavens no. They've been on the ground, no, no. I'll get you something fresh." How could he sell dirty fruit to this man? Why he was barely more than a boy and he had such a hard life. Spending all his time in that hospital, always wearing that hoodie because of his accident. No, he would give the boy the best he had and nothing less than that.
However when he noticed the forlorn look on his customers face the old man then added hastily. "If you really want those, I'm happy to throw them in for free. No good now that they've been on the ground." Once again a kind smile formed on his face and the elderly man was relieved. He could still smile so brightly despite his unfortunate life.
"Why are you getting so much food my dear boy?" He asked curiously, while packing a small bag for the other, placing both good quality product and the dirtied fruits in the bag.
"They're for a friend." The other answered, tossing an apple in the air carelessly before he looked at the shop owner with that familiar warm smile on his severely burned face. "I'm sure they'll appreciate the gesture."
It was only when Jeremy found himself back at the tree he'd tagged with his bandages that he felt secure enough to look over his shoulder. No one. Letting out a heavy sigh of relief Jeremy continued to drag himself back to the house, deciding that he was more than ready to fall unconscious on that vermin filled mattress again.
Seeing Murkoff had shaken him quite badly, he could just feel the slight trembling in his legs as he made his way back through the barely carved out path to the rotten house. As well as the distinct sense of danger there was also disgust, with himself for running. There was no other option but Jeremy still loathed the weakness that came with the simple act of fleeing.
For the first time since Rick had been taken away, Jeremy found himself wondering why he'd ever gotten involved with Murkoff. Of course he knew all the pros, the money, the power and abuse of both those things, but suddenly the cons were piling up too high and Jeremy struggled to justify his choice at that moment.
With fears and doubts plaguing him, Jeremy stumbled back into his little slice of hell. The door let out a shrill wail of complaint as it was pushed open, threatening to break off at the hinges and when Jeremy set foot on the old, decaying floorboards they to had something to say. The whole house let out whines and groans of displeasure, having been left to rot here by whoever had built it.
It had lost its purpose for existing and now the old house was abandoned.
"Oh shut up." Jeremy snarled under his breath. "At least they didn't tear you to the ground."
The house should count its blessings that it was still standing, it did not need to worry about its old owners coming to demolish it. They didn't have to be weary of that idea, not like Blaire had to be.
He made it upstairs, back to the little bathroom and bedroom, back to the place he'd eventually be able to rest again. It was only as Jeremy rest his walking stick against the wall that he finally realized…the food! A low growl of rage. He'd dropped the food and the horrible hollowness in his stomach was no more bearable.
Only seconds away from ripping out his own hair, Jeremy had to calm himself with the knowledge that he'd at least acquired more painkillers and some sleeping pills. But even as he choked down one too many of each, Blaire knew that on an empty stomach it was probably going to end up doing more harm than good. But he needed this, god did he need this.
His broken leg and ribs, his shattered arm and shredded flesh, all of it could be momentarily forgotten in sleep. Even his ordeal at the asylum, the threat of Murkoff and starvation, all could be put on hold while his eyes were shut. At least that was his theory, but if the nightmares resurfaced in place of the blissful darkness he'd find himself right back in the asylum, running for his life all over again.
Stumbling out of the bathroom, Jeremy made for the bed. This time he didn't even bother checking his wrappings, he didn't have the time or care. He just needed to stop existing for a little while longer.
As his back hit the lumpy, old mattress and Blaire shut his eyes the strangest thought occurred to him. He wondered what it would have been like in the Park household.
Well the bed would be soft and warm, with an ever-present body sleeping next to him. The house would probably be filled with the sounds of their little brats playing and the smell of home cooked meals. So unlike the musty, rotten smell that clung to the very walls of this run down little shit hole. Knowing Park it'd probably be a bit of a mess, kids toys and his own little gadgets left lying around, Blaire could only hope Park had trodden on his fair share of Lego pieces over the years.
The Park household would be full of light and open spaces. Pictures on the walls, no doubt full of happy smiling faces of Waylon's pathetically normal family and past pets. If Jeremy remembered correctly he'd had one or two pictures back at his own home. One of him and Rick out playing golf and another that was of a family cat. At least…he thought it was. Jeremy couldn't remember and he knew it had nothing to do with his gradual slip into sleep, he hadn't looked at those pictures in at least two years, he could barely remember if he even had a cat, or if he ever had, if he liked the thing.
Why he was thinking of something so trivial while falling asleep from a mix of drugs and exhaustion, Jeremy couldn't be sure. But as his sense of the world began to fade away in the back of his mind, he couldn't help but wonder what Lisa Park would say to her husband had he still been alive. She'd probably tell him something sappy like 'sweet dreams' and kiss his cheek. Disgustingly sweet, enough to make Jeremy feel sick to his stomach. A simple 'goodnight' should have sufficed but he imagined the two would be more lovey than that.
The thoughts began to break apart and lose their coherent structure the longer Jeremy laid on the bed. So much so that he became numb to the rest of the world, a careless way to be. It left him vulnerable. It must have been at least half an hour before this mistake was paid for.
Jeremy's foggy mind was just able to pick up the sound of something stirring downstairs. The familiar wail of the door creeping open should have alarmed him but Jeremy was already too far-gone to even register the implications of the sound. Even as the floorboards creaked and the stairs groaned under another person's weight, Jeremy was unable to fully register the sounds and only moved further into sleep.
Jeremy's sleepy mind did, to its credit, try to get him to open his eyes but the best he could do was peer out past barely parted eyelids. In his blurred vision Jeremy was only able to make out a distant smile, a figure standing at the end of the bed, watching him.
The last thing his semi-conscious mind picked up before the world turned dark for a second time was a simply spoken phrase.
"Goodnight."