It's a sentiment that's been running through Jefferson's head for weeks, and he's tried his damnedest to shut it out, but lately, it's more insistent than ever, like it's coiling around each and every one of his thoughts.
Of course he doesn't belong here. Wayward Pines is a small, podunk Mountain town, and he's from... another nothing-town. In Maine.
No. He's from New York. The city. Or is it somewhere else entirely? He remembers a shining, emerald city, but he knows he's not from there. Neither is he from the superstitious village without color. He may have lived in a cottage he's dreamt about. The name Tulgey Wood also sticks out in his mind.
Regardless, he's not from here. He's an outsider, a misfit, and he's always been one. Jefferson, the strange man who owns a tea shop and dresses in a way that's both fashionable and unusual, sticking out when he ought to work at blending in. He's known for being... troubled. High-strung. Dramatic. Eccentric, when people are feeling charitable with their words.
After yesterday's storm, he could hardly sleep. And in the shop today, he's listless before closing early. The memories (He's starting to think of them as 'memories' now instead of delusions-- probably something he ought to seek medication for.) are getting to be too much. Too loud, crowding in his head until he feels as if his mind's about to burst. For a few hours, he simply stays inside his motel room, drinking alone, trying to drown out the cacophonous racket in his head. And as the sun sets, he finally wanders outside again, dressed in a way that's unusual for him, even if it's perfectly normal for others. It's like he wants to hide, to try at blending in. To belong here.
But he doesn't, and he never will. He feels even more like an odd duck when he's out among the St. Patrick's Day revelers. He's in a self-destructive enough mood to force himself to stay out with them, drinking whatever he can get his hands on until he's drunk enough to be both belligerent and loose-lipped. He's ranting about fairytales and other nonsense, namedropping people like Rumplestiltskin and Dr. Frankenstein and Peter Pan-- who, just so you know, is a real prick.
It's pretty clear that he's well on his way to getting a not-so-friendly visit from the sheriff. ]
Jefferson | 17th | Open
It's a sentiment that's been running through Jefferson's head for weeks, and he's tried his damnedest to shut it out, but lately, it's more insistent than ever, like it's coiling around each and every one of his thoughts.
Of course he doesn't belong here. Wayward Pines is a small, podunk Mountain town, and he's from... another nothing-town. In Maine.
No. He's from New York. The city. Or is it somewhere else entirely? He remembers a shining, emerald city, but he knows he's not from there. Neither is he from the superstitious village without color. He may have lived in a cottage he's dreamt about. The name Tulgey Wood also sticks out in his mind.
Regardless, he's not from here. He's an outsider, a misfit, and he's always been one. Jefferson, the strange man who owns a tea shop and dresses in a way that's both fashionable and unusual, sticking out when he ought to work at blending in. He's known for being... troubled. High-strung. Dramatic. Eccentric, when people are feeling charitable with their words.
After yesterday's storm, he could hardly sleep. And in the shop today, he's listless before closing early. The memories (He's starting to think of them as 'memories' now instead of delusions-- probably something he ought to seek medication for.) are getting to be too much. Too loud, crowding in his head until he feels as if his mind's about to burst. For a few hours, he simply stays inside his motel room, drinking alone, trying to drown out the cacophonous racket in his head. And as the sun sets, he finally wanders outside again, dressed in a way that's unusual for him, even if it's perfectly normal for others. It's like he wants to hide, to try at blending in. To belong here.
But he doesn't, and he never will. He feels even more like an odd duck when he's out among the St. Patrick's Day revelers. He's in a self-destructive enough mood to force himself to stay out with them, drinking whatever he can get his hands on until he's drunk enough to be both belligerent and loose-lipped. He's ranting about fairytales and other nonsense, namedropping people like Rumplestiltskin and Dr. Frankenstein and Peter Pan-- who, just so you know, is a real prick.
It's pretty clear that he's well on his way to getting a not-so-friendly visit from the sheriff. ]