Chapter 2

Eddie Gluskin's eyes widened a fraction as his bride came into view. The dress fit her as he had made it to, the skirts flaring out slightly before falling to the floor.

Waylon was shaking. However well made, the dress would never feel right. Gluskin didn't think this.

"Darling, you look so beautiful," he gasped. He moved closer to see better. There were goosebumps on Waylon's arms which weren't from the chilly air, and Gluskin saw.

Waylon flinched as gelid hands touched his arms. He saw something gleam and was about to run when the groom did something unexpected.

Gluskin drew him into an embrace, wrapping his arms around Waylon's back. Waylon's arms were suspended; he didn't know what to do, so he awkwardly touched Gluskin's back. His chin rested on top of Gluskin's shoulder.

"I'm so happy for us," Gluskin said. He let go before holding out the thing that had glinted before. It was an engagement ring, polished but scratched, as if it had been taken from a previous owner. He looked at Waylon.

"Darling …"

He didn't say anymore. It was obvious what he was doing, and he knew Waylon knew. He waited for a response.

Waylon swallowed hard. He wondered where his own wedding ring had gone; it wasn't the one Gluskin was offering, that one was different, but he didn't remember losing his own.

He remembered his proposal to Lisa and he remembered their children, their two sons. The three faces were like a dream; he could barely recall their faces.

Waylon looked down at the ring, then back to Gluskin's face.

He wondered how his sons would feel if they could see him as he opened his cracked lips, no voice coming out, as he tried to answer Gluskin.

He wondered how Lisa would feel if she could see him eventually nod, defeated.

He wondered how betrayed and abandoned they would all feel if they could see Gluskin take Waylon's left hand and slip the ring onto his finger.

Waylon knew, in a place like this, there would be no ceremony, no proper marriage, just the passage of a ring from the groom to his bride.

Gluskin looked at the camera. It had recorded it all. He turned away for a split second- and Waylon ran.

"NO!"

The anguished cry came from behind Waylon as he sprinted to the closest door, tearing it open and slamming it behind him.

Breath heaving, bare feet pounding the floor, Waylon made his way up a spiral of stairs that went up into darkness. He prayed Chris Walker and the rest of the Variants were nowhere near at this point in time.

Waylon's legs tangled in the skirts and he fell forwards, his chin slamming down; his teeth dug into his tongue and his mouth became awash with warm blood.

He could hear Gluskin ascending the stairs swiftly, getting closer, and struggled to his feet. There was a draft now, he was closer to air-

Waylon crashed through metal double doors and found himself on the roof of the asylum. Wind whipped at his dress and hair as he staggered forwards.

"Why would you run from me?"

Gluskin was through in the doorway, advancing towards Waylon. There was a note of desperation in his voice as he reached out. "Darling, why?"

Waylon backed away. He was three meters away from the edge of the roof. If he could jump over, would it all finally be ended?

"Don't," Gluskin begged. Waylon looked over his shoulder and saw that, past the roof, it stretched into darkness. As he made to leap Gluskin moved fast, grabbing onto the front of Waylon's bodice.

"What are you doing? Would you rather die than be my bride, darling?" he demanded over the howling wind. His expression darkened.

Waylon fruitlessly tried to bat Gluskin away as a hand bunched in his hair and held him out over the edge. The rush of adrenalin was gone now so he felt hollow and tired.

"I'm trying to be patient, darling. Stay with me," Gluskin said quietly. Waylon stopped struggling and he was drawn back, held close to Gluskin's chest. His legs shook and his mouth filled with blood.

With a last thought of Lisa, Waylon Park collapsed with stress and overwhelming exhaustion.

Gluskin looked down at his fallen bride before stooping and picking her up, bridal style. He made his way back to his room and looked at the table.

The table, spattered with dried blood, with a buzzsaw at one end and straps to restrict a person's movement.

Then he looked at his sleeping bride and his mouth thinned to a narrow line.

Gluskin placed her gently onto the table to look down at her. Her eyes were closed, as if she were dead, her mouth open a tiny bit. Her chest rose and fell irregularly. A bitter taste filled Gluskin's mouth. He ran a hand over the buzzsaw tenderly. He still needed to get rid everything vulgar, but to ruin the dress he had spent so long on …

The first thing Waylon noticed when he woke up was the unbearable pain. As soon as his eyes had fluttered open they screwed closed again and a harsh scream tore from his throat. He wanted to die he hurt so much.

Tears welled up, caused by the intolerable agony that was now paralyzing him. He tried to move but this only conjured another ragged cry.

Waylon looked around the room. He couldn't see Gluskin, so he looked down and saw the dress was still on him. A dark red line ran down the middle of his chest to his navel. Blossoming out from this line was more red, surreally bright. He gingerly pressed a fingertip to the line and sucked in a breath, stifling another cry. His fingertip came away from the wound looking as if it was daubed in red paint.

Waylon threw his head back, trying to assess the situation. Gluskin had cut him through the dress while he was unconscious, but not so badly yet, and he knew he had to escape before that happened.

Sitting up, the pain dulled to a throbbing ache. Waylon pressed a hand to his stomach before swinging his legs off the table and onto the floor. He heard footsteps and his blood chilled.

"Darling!" came a familiar voice. Waylon felt like crying, screaming and dying all at once.

Gluskin came from the darkness. He pushed Waylon back down.

"I'm delighted to see you eager to be up and about, darling, but you can't strain yourself just yet."

Waylon was hyperventilating, looking up at Gluskin with wide eyes. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat but found it had swollen enough to stop him from talking. Gluskin spoke to him.

"Hush, darling. Close your eyes. Don't try to speak."

His caring manner almost caused Waylon's tears to boil over. He wished nothing more than to curl into a ball and die a million times over from all the stress and fear and tension.

"You look so tired," Gluskin commented softly. He allowed Waylon to sit back up, supporting him with a hand. "Don't exhaust yourself just yet, darling. There's much more to go before you can rest fully."

Waylon clenched his fists and felt the ring dig into his taut fingers. Gluskin stood, regarding Waylon, before he strode off into the darkness. His voice echoed back.

"Don't go too far, now!"

Waylon remained on his back in the sparse light, staring at the ceiling. He looked at the buzzsaw.

How did it work? Was it efficient? Maybe if he used it on himself to get away from Gluskin …

No. He was not going to succumb to Gluskin's games. He was not going to commit suicide in the asylum. He was going to find his camera, return home, see Lisa and his sons, and-

And what? Tell them that, while he was away, he married a sociopathic, delusional, misogynistic serial killer who thought he was female?

They would either throw him in bedlam or leave him. Or both. He could imagine the ridiculous conversation in his head.

Good to see you again, Lisa. Oh, me? Don't worry, I just got married to a man. Who, you say? Nobody, really. You don't know him. But he is a murderer who sees men as women and singled me out. He proposed to me and I said yes.

Bang go the cell doors, out go the family. Bye bye Lisa. Everyone would think he was crazy.

That was it for Waylon. Although his story would be crazy, he would do anything to see Lisa's face again. Even risk being caught by Gluskin.

He stood up from the table, dizzy from blood loss. He pressed a sticky red palm to his face before stumbling forwards. He paused to listen closely. Nothing. Not even faint echoes of other Variants.

Waylon ran as quick as his body allowed, pushing past obstacles and crawling under tables; vaulting would cause the bleeding to start again.

He was just reaching for a closed door when a soft voice behind him said, "Darling, where are you going?"