[center][img]http://fontmeme.com/embed.php?text=Wyatt%20Rothenberg&name=Sweetly%20Broken.ttf&size=100&style_color=FFF6F0[/img]

[b]Location:[/b] [i]On The Road/The Henderson Estate[/i]
[b]Interacting with:[/b] [i]Tatiana Korvo[/i][/center]

[hr][hr]

Wyatt shouldn’t be driving.

Hell, he shouldn’t even be doing anything, unless it’s collapsing into bed.

He’d had at least a half a dozen coffees in the last hour, another half a dozen Red Bulls the hour before that, and now, he had a cup filled with a disgusting mixture of the two clutched in his right hand. It tasted like battery acid (not that he’d ever tasted actual battery acid, ever heard of metaphors?), and his heart was probably about two seconds away from imploding, but right now, it was the only thing preventing Wyatt from causing a horrific car accident.

Now, on a normal day, a nine-hour drive would be a cakewalk for Wyatt. He’d done this before; multiple years running, in fact, but he’d been awake for a grand total of twenty-one hours, and it was really doing quite a number on his cognitive faculties. He’d been stuck at work all the way till two in the morning unpacking and shelving new stock. Why couldn’t they just wait until next morning to do it, you ask? Simple – because Byron Whitaker, assistant branch manager of Trenton’s very own vintage record store, was a massive douchenozzle.

If you told Wyatt that the guy was actually, [i]literally[/i] the spawn of Satan, he would’ve filled a spray bottle with holy water and went to town on him, no questions asked. At this point, it wasn’t even hard to believe anymore. Why else would someone take so pleasure in tormenting their subordinates? Clearly, this was the work of a greater, [i]eviller[/i] power, who instead of damning [i]godless sinners[/i] to hell, made them work ridiculous amounts of overtime for close to minimum wage. On Christmas Eve, no less.

He doesn’t think he’d hated a person more in his entire, twenty-six years, six months, and twenty-seven days of life, and that wasn’t even an exaggeration. Even with a frazzled, caffeine-addled brain, and precisely zero hours of sleep, Wyatt could feel the fires of hate scorch through his veins, leaving behind a toxic trail of complete and utter loathing.

...Or maybe it was just his body screaming at him to stop chugging that Coffee-slash-Red Bull abomination. It could’ve been either, really, but Wyatt was too focused on driving straight to care.

To say that it was a terrifying experience – well, that would be the understatement of the century. This was probably the worst decision he’s ever made. Once or twice, Wyatt could’ve sworn his rustbucket of a car lifted a couple inches off the ground. It was physically impossible, of course, according to Newton’s laws of motion, but that knowledge didn’t comfort him in the slightest, and he looked up just in time to see a sign at the side of the road.

[i]‘Entering Dortches. Population: 937’[/i]

This was going to be a [i]long[/i] trip.

[hr]
By some kind of miracle, Wyatt managed to make it to Wilmington in one piece. Sure, his hands were shaking, his hair and clothes rumpled, but he was here, alive and unscathed… [i]mostly[/i].

The same, however, could not be said for his car. For starters, there were at least a dozen empty cans of Red Bull strewn across the backseat, multiple coffee stains on the upholstery, and the rear bumper was barely hanging on (courtesy of Wyatt reversing straight into the wall of a 7-Eleven back in Richmond). Honestly, he doubted the car would survive the winter, and in a weird sort of way, it made him kinda sad. Maybe he could give it a proper send-off, viking style, burn it atop a funeral pyre, and all that jazz.

...The sleep deprivation really [i]was[/i] getting to him, wasn’t it? He supposed this was where the delirium finally set in.

But as muscle memory took over, Wyatt made a sharp turn to the left, and soon enough, he spotted the telltale silhouette of the Henderson Estate looming in the distance. The snow-covered  trees were a familiar sight, reminding him of the get-togethers of years past. Third year in a row – how time flew.

The next thing he knew, he was pulling into the driveway, though he did spot a few familiar faces out of the corner of his eye. That shock of bright red hair stood out against the snowy landscape, and he instantly knew who it belonged to. If he could actually make it to the front door without faceplanting from exhaustion, he’d love to say hello to Tatiana.

And then probably pass out in the parlour afterwards in front of a roaring fire. Yeah, that sounded nice.

With a turn of a key, the engine sputtered to a halt, and Wyatt climbed out of the car, slamming the door shut with a bit more force than was probably necessary. The wheels of his luggage rolled noisily against the uneven ground as he approached the massive building, and it was only then that it occurred to him that he wasn’t at all dressed for the weather. Apparently, a t-shirt, a flannel shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of jeans wasn’t enough to ward off the chill. Which, to be honest, he should’ve expected. Fortunately, he came prepared with extra sweaters of the ugly Christmas variety.

Unfortunately, however, those were still tucked away inside his suitcase – so it was likely in his best interests to get inside before he froze his fingers off.

“Yo, Tatia!” Wyatt called out, speech a little slurred, and bared his teeth in a half-hearted grin. “What’s up? It’s good to see you.”