"Expose yourself to your deepest fear; after that, fear has no power, and the fear of freedom shrinks and vanishes.
You are free."
― Jim Morrison
Chapter Ten
Those Who Assume
The darkness of night provided a somewhat decent cover as Waylon continued to stumble down the streets and sidewalks of Springfield. His face was pinched red with mortification, for even the thought of him being seen in such a distraught mess made him cringe. He could only imagine the faces or comments his appearance would earn him, knowing well that his masculine face would reveal what the makeshift female body was concealing. It wouldn't take a genius to point out that, instead of the woman that left the theater, he was merely a man in drag – an emotionally unstable one at that.
However, the streets were abandoned for the most part; not many threaded the path he was on as the theater he and his friends had been using was just an empty, supposedly-haunted theater from years long before they had even been birthed. It was discouraging that what once was such a lavish and proud cinema had been reduced to rubble, but that fact was now the only thing to provide him with any type of refuge.
His vision was blurred and his head was throbbing as he'd forgotten he was wearing both contacts and glasses. He groaned in distaste, regretting his hasty departure and the ramifications that came along with it. His head tilted backward, his squirming vision gazing up at the dark sky that loomed overhead, and he uttered curses to whomever or whatever had led him to that theater in the first place.
"This is all Julio's fault," he groused as his arms crossed over the silicone chest beneath the tight-clinging fabric of his dress.
"What exactly is all my fault?" Julio pressed as his car drove leisurely, intimidatingly close to the other, who jumped away from the sudden voice.
Waylon's body tensed for a moment as a thousand nightmares penetrated his heart and threw it into a chaotic pattern. His hand rushed to his chest, the silicone bosom greeting his fingers and fueling his antagonism. His body twisted in the direction of the voice, stomping toward the vehicle and leaning against the window of the passengers' door.
"Damn it, Julio, you nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Gave jew a heart attack?" The driver scoffed with a laugh as he shifted the car into park. "How do jew think I felt when I saw jew walking down the street looking like… well, like… that?"
Waylon hissed softly, biting back the bitter rage that scalded his tongue, before speaking in a stiff, strained note, "ugh, never mind that. What are you even doing here? Spying on me?"
The other shrugged with a mischievous smirk, his body leaning across the seats and pushing the passengers' side door open, and countered calmly, "maybe..." The calmness of his tone, however, was reduced to a somewhat uneasy titter as the glare from Waylon gored him with daggers, "excu-uu-use me for trying to lighten jour mood. But, no, I just followed jew to make sure something like this wouldn't happen."
"… then why in the hell did you let me walk three miles? I felt like an idiot! What if one of those no-good workers from the plant saw me like this-,"
"Waylon, Waylon, relax," Julio shushed, patting the empty seat beside him. "Just get in. I'll take jew home, okay?"
A series on insults, sarcastic comebacks, and refusals coated Waylon's tongue, sharpening it with outrage. However, the clouds pending above were the first to unleash their wrath, releasing an abrupt downpour of rain that practically forced the man into the cramped car. He scowled, his head lowering toward the floorboard while his stomach lurched toward the ballet flats dressing his feet. Despite the animosity he felt toward both the weather and the driver, there was a twinkle of relief – the rain had washed away the signs of tears and leftover makeup residue, and the car provided him an escape from the weather.
Swallowing whatever ire soured his tongue, he sighed and slumped against the seat, his pride wavering just long enough for him to press the conversation forward, "… alright, fine, just take me home."
The witty remarks that had been expected had bypassed them, throwing the car into an uncomfortable purgatory of hush. Each was on the verge of speaking, yet neither wanted to mention the inevitable nor admit to the faults that brought them to that point. While both burned with the yearning to bring up the outcome of the dinner, neither wanted to open wounds that may or may not have existed.
Nonetheless, as the asphalt grew darker and the rain heavier, there was nothing much to keep their minds distracted from their thoughts. The scenery beyond the windows was seemingly desolate, masqueraded by the darkness of night and the cascades of rain blurring the windows.
"So," Julio was the first to break free of the conversational purgatory, clearing his throat while avoiding eye contact, "how did Monty react to his precious Maribelle having a pe-,"
"Julio!" The cantankerous passenger spat, embarrassed and appalled by the incomplete statement. The embarrassment was short-lived, quickly being replaced with a fiery agony. Waylon's posture collapsed, his forehead nearly pressing against the dash, and a hefty breath managed to force its way from beyond the corset. "I… I'd rather not talk about it. But, I'm pretty sure I can kiss my job goodbye."
"Pretty sure? What do jew mean? Either he fired jew or he didn't; so, which is it?"
The hatred of his hurried leave merely escalated at the question. He mentally scolded himself for not allowing Burns to speak his decision, making an assumption (no matter how accurate that assumption seemed to be). Waylon's head was near to burst, a migraine gnawing at as his frontal lobe, worsening his already weakened vision. A groan-like whimper tore from his body as he buried his face within the palms of his hands, sliding them down his face until the fell limply atop his lap.
"I am so stupid," he uttered to himself in a whisper of a sigh. His attention turned to Julio, the man's gold-tinted face holding what felt to be an uncommon concern, and continued, "I didn't even give him time to fire me. But, trust me, I know Mr. Burns better than anyone – I'm fired."
Julio shrugged a bit, his eyes wandering away when they momentarily captured Waylon's, nervously joking, "jew know what they say about people who assume, don't jew, Waylon?"
"… just drive."
Communication between Julio and Waylon had grown scarce once they'd departed from one another. The occasional text was tossed back and forth throughout the night, slowly whittling to the point of nonexistence.
The morning sun had risen, piercing the veil of Waylon's sheer curtains. The radiant fibers and warmth fell upon the restless man's face, waking him from an uncomfortable sleep. It warmed him for a moment, assuring him the fiasco had been a horrific nightmare; however, the beams soon taunted him as they reflected against the screen of his phone, leading his eyes to the screen and the notification of a missed text. His breath bated and his heart froze, pins and needles pricking every pore of his body, as he reached for the device and read the contents:
New Text Message from Julio:
Be sure jew give me the details on what happens between jew and Burns today.
"Damn it," he groggily swore beneath his breath, carelessly slinging the phone atop his nightstand as he arose from the bed.
His ribs ached, scarred and bruised from the corset that took nearly an hour to remove, crippling him for a moment before he toughened himself. With a cleansing breath, he forced through the pain and shuffled toward the confined bathroom across the hall. He grabbed a casual polo that hung from the hook on the door, seeing no point in wearing his traditional uniform, and sketchily let it drape over the hem of his pants.
"Alright, Waylon," he spoke to himself while observing the reflection of a broken man that tainted his mirror, "let's get this over with."
Paranoia – it consumed his very being as he roamed the halls of the plant. His shoulders slouched as he'd convinced himself he wouldn't be seen if he walked with his gaze plastered to the floor. Every laugh that polluted the air was about him, every whisper was filled with details of his scandal, every glance thrown his way was merely to question what gall he had to return to work – all assumptions that damned his sanity. Logically, he knew Burns wouldn't jeopardize further humiliating himself at Waylon's expense, but the illogical suspicions remained and he no longer put anything past anyone.
The brisk pace eventually carried him to contemptuous door of Burns' office. Waylon gulped, tugging at the collar of the sloppy polo, as his heart teased his gag-reflex and was nearly vomited onto the floor. Memories of the night before irritated his vision and hinder him for a moment, leaving him awkwardly standing before the door. His lungs turned to concrete and his legs to gelatin until he gained an ounce of bravery to knock.
A spine-chillingly melancholy voice carried from the opposite side of the door, "well, well, it is about time you showed up. Smithers, come in here, please; there are some things I feel we should discuss…."
"Don't be afraid of your fears.
They're not there to scare you.
They're there to let you know that something is worth it."
― C. JoyBell C.