littlepriest: (✩ three)
Detective Rustin Cohle ([personal profile] littlepriest) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden2016-12-08 11:12 pm
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Open Post: Detective Rustin Cohle




"Wᴇʟʟ, ɪғ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʜᴀs ɢᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ғᴀɪʀʏ ᴛᴀʟᴇs, ᴛʜᴇɴ ɪᴛ’s ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴʏʙᴏᴅʏ."



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wontgraham: (pic#10809662)

for his shithead alter ego, let's get some filthy gross past-au in here

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-02-27 03:39 am (UTC)(link)
The ninth ward isn't the only shitty, still-impoverished place left in Louisiana. Will's been to most of them, knows them well even after being transferred officially to New Orleans police.

Sometimes, they still end up driving outside their areas for calls. It can piss off the other local cops, but Detectives Graham and Broussard aren't known for respecting pecking orders. So when they get the tip-off that a noise complaint and reported lone gunshot down in Iberville might actually have been a drug chain getting a nasty interruption, they saddle up and drive over.

Two hours later, it turns out their location is lots of chickenwire fences marking off weedy lawns and thin, barking dogs. Will pulls them against the side of the road, half the tires into the soft dirt of what passes for a shoulder in this residential area. They both get out of the car, ignoring the neighbor two mobile houses down who's peering out her blinds with a scowl to see what the cops are up to on her street now. Will reads tired hatred and burnt-out fear, cigarette ash drifting across the road from her.

Turns out the tip-off about the house was right. Three guys leave, in the lamp-breaking hustle that follows them trying to ask about noise levels. Two guys end up caught in the aftermath, and both of them put their guns down for the cops leveling guns right back at them. Broussard takes the thicker one, out in the kitchen from where the guy tried to half-heartedly sprint away.

Which leaves Will with the taller, lankier one, the one who tracks his every movement with sharp eyes. He's quiet as hell but his face is a loudspeaker, and Will looks away first, sweat pooling at his lower back.

He's already dropped his weapon onto the floor, as suggested. "Turn around, hands behind your back." Will's still got his gun out, pointed at the guy's shoulder - he watches this stranger's eyes, sees the way he clocks that the gun isn't actually pointed at his heart, watches him read so much before he starts turning into a loose, relaxed circle around to face the wall.

The handcuffs ratchet loud in the sudden quiet. Metal gleams as it encircles one bare wrist and one that Will can just barely see dark ink spilling down towards, but a leather jacket covers the rest.

Dust clouds off it, when Will pats his pockets down.

It doesn't take more than five seconds to find the large bag of crystal this guy was carrying. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law." Will's cautious about putting the gun back in his holster, doesn't snap the button back into place, leaves it easily accessible. Whoever owns this house could easily still be inside. "Not that you seem like a nervous talker."
wontgraham: (pic#10114454)

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

[personal profile] wontgraham 2017-04-11 03:17 am (UTC)(link)
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.