Will Graham

Hurt/Comfort
“People don’t see reality, Will. People only see a version of reality that their eyes project them through. What do you see, Will?”
“I see myself taking the life of Abigail Hobbs.”
“And do you believe in what you see?”
His voice was shaking. It cracked on the word. “Yes.”
“Did you kill Abigail Hobbs?”
A chill washed over Will Graham as he finally said, “Yes.” He whispered it to himself, the words wimping quietly out of his chapped lips.“I killed Abigail Hobbs.”
Staring into nothing, seeing nothing but what his eyes led him to believe, he picked himself up and ran for the door, fumbling to even get it open. He left his car behind and darted in the rain, his crystal eyes filled with madness. His dense mind, polluted with flashing scenes of himself as a murderer, a cold-blooded killer. He killed killers for a living. He might as well have killed himself.
The raindrops grew bigger and more painful against Will Graham’s bruised back. It was dark and unsafe, and with every few steps he took, he would trip hopelessly; Will could feel the coldness of the blood seeping out of his knees. After entering into the warmth of his home, he knew exactly what he was going to do next, his frantic thoughts not giving him a break. Immediately, the kitchen lights flickered on and Will’s hands searched through drawers. His nimble fingers grabbed the first sharp knife he found. He stared at himself in it, out of breath and out of energy.  You murderer. You don’t deserve to live. You don’t deserve a life when you've taken one away of another human being. You are nothing. You are pathetic. What is wrong with you? Mustering up every ounce of vigor in his veins, he pushed the knife through his stomach, making sure it was in deep enough. He groaned in physical pain as the stainless steel pierced through his flesh. His muscles around the wound immediately tensed, surrounding the knife that was inside of him. Taking cold, shivery breaths, his body curled up on the floor. He started saying his thoughts out loud. “What is wrong with me?” He waited for someone to answer his question. No one did—but he knew someone who could.
With his muscles contracting heavily around the stab, the blood stopped pouring and the knife was completely sealed into his body. He was able to pick himself up, but fell across the kitchen counter a few seconds later. He picked himself up again. He knew where he was headed next.
The only person.
The only person Will Graham thought of as he wobbled himself out into the rain was also the only person he found himself trusting, the only person that could respond to his question without him disbelieving in the answer. Will pushed himself through the cold showers once again, his stab stinging himself even more. With his legs painfully moving faster, by the time he had reached her doorstep, he collapsed, unconscious.
Linda heard a thud from her front door that didn’t sound like thunder. Her dog scuttled towards the source of the noise, barking and scratching against it. “What is it, Prince?” Linda took her coffee mug with her towards the door and carried the husky away, opening it herself. The mug broke.
“Will!”
Tears started to form at the corners of her eyes. In front of them, Will was laying on the wet pavement with the hilt of a kitchen knife protruding out of his stomach. She bent down close to him, shielding him from the rain even though it was useless. She touched his cold chin. “Will, Will, wake up, Will, please.” She buried her face so hard into his chest, it probably hurt him even more. She felt him breathing. Linda kept calling his name and shaking him. After a few attempts, she was relieved to see Will’s eyes opening, even if it was just a sliver. He remembered his question. He wanted to ask it, but instead he grabbed onto her clothes and blurted, “Hold me.”
Linda held him in the rain and started to lift him up slowly, giving him warmth. He stood on his own but quickly fell into Linda’s arms once more, his helpless body gangling on top of her. Will wrapped his arms around her. She let him.
They were both soaking wet as Linda carefully half-carried Will onto the couch. She ran to shut the door and came back to Will in a second,  pieces of her wet hair escaping from her ponytail. “Will, who did this to you?”
Will started to breathe heavily, his chest going into a spasm. He did not answer. He did not even look at her. His hand just searched for hers.
Linda didn’t want to go, but she had to if she wanted to keep him alive. “I’ll be right back, okay?”
He continued to tremble.

Locking his hands tightly around hers, Linda unbuttoned his shirt with her other hand. “Will, close your eyes. Everything will be okay.”
Will looked into her eyes before he closed his, unsure of what she was doing. Still, he did not say anything. “Will, I promise,” she nodded. Grabbing the knife, she pulled it out of him. His clasp on her hand tightened. Another groan.
There was a loud one and a few quieter ones as Will started to break into sweat, sealing his eyes as much as possible. Linda grabbed the supplies that were assembled beside her, bandaging him up hurriedly. Will moved to sit himself up. “No, no, no,” Linda sat down next to him and set his head on her lap. “You don’t move.”
He tugged on her clothes some more. “Closer.”
His cold body started to shake again. And then he sat up. “I’m—” he didn't know what to say, so Linda just shushed him, holding his head and placing it onto her shoulder. She dug her fingers through his hair, combing it in between her fingers, running through the wet tresses that clung to his sweaty forehead. “Yes, but I’m—”
“Be quiet, Will.”
“I—really need you. Right now,” he breathed.
“I know,” she said, still caressing his brown hair. “I know, okay? I’m here.”
He put his legs on the couch and twisted his body towards her into knots, tucking his head snugly on her shoulder, still mortified. Still scared to death of himself. He clutched her hand again.
“Please.” The tender beg tingled and tickled Linda’s neck. “Please don’t leave me.”