wontgraham: (pic#10114454)
ᴡɪʟʟ ɢʀᴀʜᴀᴍ; ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ p̶r̶o̶f̶i̶l̶e̶r̶ ([personal profile] wontgraham) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden 2017-04-11 03:17 am (UTC)

me: i prob make will suffer enough | dark me: pussy

It's his teeth that get his attention first.

The grit between them. The way his tongue seems to stick, first to the roof of his mouth and then to the insides of those teeth. The dirty-penny taste to everything. When Will presses a dry tongue to the inside of his left cheek, he feels the raw texture of torn skin flapping. Pressing against his teeth drags out the dirty-penny taste more, where blood collected between them.

Swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper against rough wood, everything catching and nothing wanting to move right. Will isn't sure he could talk if he tried. Just breathing through his mouth is enough to make his tongue and throat light up with instinctive pain, dried out and tired. But he can't breathe through his nose - filled with pulpy, clotted blood, septum deviated too far to the right.

It feels like suffocating, like drowning, on the rare occasions when he wakes up after having closed his mouth in his scattered drags of sleep.

Will's right foot presses up against the closet door. It's sturdier than it looks, but that's all it is. It's not particularly high tech in Marcus Wray's ranch-style house out in a rural strip of Virginia, but it doesn't need to be. He's got enough distance from neighbors to make up for what his sound proofing attempts lack.

It's also been made adequately clear to Will that yelling for help isn't helpful right now. He's playing a dangerous waiting game, ticking off the habits of his captor as they flicker by, but without even sunlight to tell time. Every visit outside of the closet, the windows were covered in black paper, artificial light the only source.

Will's not sure if he's been here days or a full week. He's been hungry since...the second beating. Will can't tell time any other way, but it's been seven trips out of the closet so far. None of Wray's previous victims were killed after shorter than a month, so he has time on his side.

He just isn't really looking forward to sitting through it. His mind rattles at the edges, heart straining against his ribs when the quiet dark around him doesn't budge.

His hands aren't tied with rope. There's nothing cutting into his wrists. But the straight jacket tugged tight across his shoulders, looping his hands to the opposite hip, pulling everything in towards the center of his body, feels worse than bag ties or barb wire ever could have.

Caught. Put where he belongs - in a mental institution. They saw through it. He's diseased. Terror crawls across Will with thousands of tiny legs, pricking his attention into too many directions to focus. His breathing's getting out of control again. Will isn't even sure how many times he's lost himself to this fear while he's been here - of being institutionalized, locked up.

Wray might be a brute, but he knows how to dig the best horror out of his victims. He'd recognized Will from the story about Garrett Jacob Hobbs. It had gone downhill from there.

Will's a phenomenal actor when he needs to be, but even he hadn't been able to fake his way out of his first panic attack.

This time, he yells. Sure enough, his voice is too broken to do more than rasp painfully. Dried blood flakes off his upper lip. The only fortune is that Wray can't hear him anymore.

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