Will Graham is being devoured.
He can hardly breathe as he gasps and grips his white bedsheets. They are soaked with dirty, disgusting sweat, like they would be after one of his nightmares. He, too, is coated in that grimy sweat. It sticks to him as his eyes stare up at the ceiling, pupils small and shaky.
Paralyzed by fear, he is helpless to do anything at the hands of his intruder. His body tries so desperately to dispel them, but.. it is futile.
For his body is being eaten. Stomach torn open, his vividly coloured intestines stick out. The pale pinks and bright reds are tangled, and they shouldn't be. It's wrong. Everything is wrong. This whole situation, and the goddamned bastard (that he knows, even if he can't recall his fucking name) who is performing the act itself.
He can see them out of the corner of his eyes, too, and just seeing his organs in plain sight.. well, it simply adds to his terror. Will feels like he should push them back in, even if they won't fit right anymore. Even if they're half eaten.
Blood stains the sheets, though Will can't really give a damn. Sure, blood is a pain in the ass to wash, but he won't be doing the cleaning. He'll be dead by the end of this, unless Jack can somehow patch him up. Which he doubts. Even if they got the best doctors onto him, nobody would save him. If they did, they wouldn't save his diseased mind, so full of holes and glitches that it's impossible to really know what he's thinking.
What Will truly finds strange about this whole experience, however, is that he is excited. Excited to meet death, and greet it with open, loving arms. No more hallucinations, and no more nightmares. He will escape everything, even his madness.
Sure, he feels pity for his dogs, and Winston - oh, Winston. Alana can take care of them for him, he thinks. She'd do that for him, wouldn't she? Take them all on walks, feed them their favourite treats, and let them all sleep on his bed, since they always push and shove to do so anyway. It's a spot that needs to be filled, and all those dogs will be happy to fill it.
They are friends, after all, and he thinks she's the only one who really ever cared about his mental health. Jack didn't give a shit, and kept pushing, and pushing, and fucking pushing.
But none of that matters now, not when death's cold grip is so near. He can feel it choking him this very moment.
…
Gritting his teeth almost bitterly, Will glances down at his trespasser. It's a man he recognizes for sure, but what is his name? He just can't recollect it for some reason. Maybe it is the blood on his mouth that is keeping Will from distinguishing him, or the ruffled hair and untidy appearance.
The man looks right back up at him, smiling slyly like he's discovered some secret about him, a secret that he himself does not know. From his expression, Will can tell that he's up to no good. His fingers creep and crawl across his skin, much like the unnerving feeling of a spider. He does not speak, nor does he reveal his intentions.
A sudden bite on his numb skin makes his eyes roll back, and it feels more like pins in his skin than anything. Hoarsely, he coughs, and the blood dribbles down his chin and lips. His system is failing him by now, and he doubts that he'll last a minute or few more. Will's eyes flutter, struggling hard to stay open.
Death's door is nearly in sight, and he can see it opening, just for him. There's no light, no kind soul to take his hand into the warmth that is supposed to be the end. Maybe that's for the best. Maybe he deserves no kindness, or light, or anything. Nothing good is given to Will Graham, and nothing ever will be.
The mysterious man laughs softly and moves up closer to him, planting a kiss on his bloodied lips. Will can hardly focus on it. "I can see that you are quite a mess, William, and I'm sure you can see it too. But you've been enjoying this, have you not?" His already crimson-stained hand reaches down and twists itself in his intestines, pulling greedily to force a gargled cry from Will. More blood spills up from his throat, with terrified tears ready to drip down the sides of his pale face. It feels like this is all some sick, twisted joke.
"Yes, I can tell you have. You have provided me with a wonderful meal for this evening, Will." And, with one last elegant laugh, the man kisses him as he chokes on his own blood.
…
Waking with a start, he's covered in sweat. His hair sticks to his face as he sits up in the stiff bed, shaking. Chest heaving with rushed breathing, his eyes dart around wildly, and tears really do slip down his cheeks this time. His orange jumpsuit feels suffocating, and so he tugs it off, letting the fresh air relieve him. But there, in his boxers, something stands as proof of his embarrassment and humiliation. Just like every other damn night.
He's disgusted by himself.
Ha.
Death really would be better than this.