Two Sides of the Same coin - Chlodxyeah (2024)

Chapter Text

Will Graham's mother should have never had a child.

From the very beginning, she lacked the instincts, the empathy, and the emotional maturity required to care for another human being.

Her pregnancy had been neither planned nor welcomed, a harsh truth that Will was made aware of painfully early in his life.

Deprived of maternal affection, Will's soul bore deep scars, shaping his character profoundly and, within the void of her neglect, a relentless shadow took hold, leaving a permanent mark on the man he would become.

Will was seven years old when he first understood that his mother was different from the other mothers in their small Louisiana town.

It was during his first sleepover at Carl Hope’s house. Carl was a small boy, much smaller than the other kids in their second-grade class. He wore thick glasses, and one of his legs was shorter than the other, causing him to wear a platform shoe.

Carl was bullied severely, and even as an adult, Will could never comprehend how seven-year-olds could be so cruel to each other. Their young minds were still developing, barely grasping the world around them.

Will Graham wore glasses too. He and Carl had bonded over this on their first day of second grade when Carl’s family moved to Louisiana. From that moment, a friendship was forged.

Upon stepping up to the doorway of Carl’s house, the stark differences between their lives struck Will like a thunderbolt. The Graham household, cloaked in the musty scent of mold and cigarettes, stood in sad contrast to the pristine sanctuary of Carl's home.

In the midst of Carl's invitation to remove his shoes upon entering his abode, Will couldn't help but hesitate. His gaze lingered on the neat row of footwear nestled on the white shoe rack beside the door, a silent testament to the comfortable domesticity that Carl's family enjoyed.

Reluctantly, he complied, peeling off his shoes and attempting to hide the holes in his socks beneath. As he stepped onto the polished wooden floors, he couldn't shake the feeling of inadequacy, as if his socks betrayed a secret he couldn't afford to expose.

Inside the clean, airy kitchen, Carl's mother, Silvia, greeted them warmly, her presence soothing and calm. Silvia was a plump woman with a friendly smile that instantly reminded Will of their school librarian.

Will couldn't help but compare Silvia's welcoming demeanor to the temperament of his own mother. He could count the amount of times he’d seen her smile on one hand.

“You must be Will!” The woman took his small hand in hers, a semblance of a handshake. “You can call me Silvie, I’m so happy to finally meet you, Carl’s told me a lot about you!”

Her voice was like syrup, soft and inviting with a slight Midwestern accent that made Will feel safe.

Thankfully, his silence did not offend Silvie. She offered him a glass of sweet tea, which Will gladly accepted. The drink was unlike anything he had ever tasted before, a perfect blend of citrus and spice that soothed his troubled soul. He found himself in awe of the kindness and hospitality she extended, a stark contrast to the cold indifference he had known for so long.

It was like night and day and, even at his tender age, Will understood that this was what he had been missing. Silvia exuded gentleness and care, asking questions and showing genuine interest in the answers. Will’s own mother didn’t even know he was spending the night at a friend’s house, she didn’t care.

That night, Will cried himself to sleep. He allowed Carl to believe it was merely homesickness, but in truth, it was anything but.

The following morning, after borrowing a toothbrush and a spare set of underwear and socks from Carl, Will reluctantly made his way back home to his mother. The ease and comfort he had briefly found in Carl's household now felt like a distant dream, replaced by the harsh reality awaiting him upon his return.

His mother lay sprawled on the sofa, a plume of cigarette smoke surrounded her. The drawn curtains cast the room in a dim, gloomy light, while the flickering glow of the small television in the corner illuminated her. She didn't even acknowledge his presence as he entered, nor did she offer a word of greeting as he passed by and retreated into his bedroom.

Will's bedroom was his sanctuary, a haven he had carved out for himself in what was originally intended to be a large closet. His mother had relegated him to this space years ago, but he didn't mind. It was the only corner of the world that truly belonged to him. Among its walls, he curated a collection of treasures—a mishmash of books rescued from the streets, forgotten toys, rocks, and delicate snail shells. Once, he had even harbored a bird until its restlessness urged him to set it free.

In his bedroom, Will found solace. Here, he could drift away and envision himself back in Carl's house, with Silvie as his own mother. He imagined what she might make for dinner and how she’d wake him up in the morning with a gentle voice and a loving kiss to his forehead. This was his favorite thing to imagine, a vision of a world where a loving mother, a nurturing home, and a semblance of normalcy existed.

Will cried a lot as a child.

—

By the age of 13, Will had started to feel a sense of pity for his mother, Kathryn. The more he delved into the reasons behind her animosity toward him, the more he found himself able to empathize. He learned that she was merely 16 years old when she gave birth to him, a child conceived from a brutal assault inflicted by a member of her parents' church.

Kathryn took every opportunity to remind Will of his paternity, especially as he grew older and began to resemble his father more closely.

It disgusted Will, to be compared to such a monster.He would stare at his reflection in the mirror, longing to shed his own skin and replace it with something that his mother could love, that anyone could love.

He shaved his head frequently as a teenager, despite the mockery from his classmates. Just a year earlier, Kathryn had grabbed him by the hair and uttered words that cut deeper than any bully could.

"It's like looking into the face of the man who ruined my life."

After that, Will made a decision. He resolved to do whatever he could to alleviate his mother's pain.

When he returned to show his mother his freshly shaved head, a glimmer of hope flickered within him. Perhaps she would feel proud of him, perhaps she would finally recognize his efforts. He should have known that this was an impossible task.

"Why on earth have you done that?" Her words were like shards of ice.

"You didn't like my hair," Will's voice trembled. "I thought this might make me look less like..."

His mother's laughter cut through him, harsh and cruel. Will had always believed that heartbreak was a metaphor, but in that moment, he realized it came with a tangible, crushing weight.

"It's not just your hair, it's your face," she retorted, her words laced with disdain. "It's the way you speak, it's the way you are. You're everything like him."

This made Will cry. He hated crying in front of his mother, she was never sympathetic, never made any effort to comfort him. Instead, she remained fixated on the television, indifferent to her son's silent sobs beside her.

Despite Will's desperate pleas for her love, all she could see was the son of a rapist, a haunting reminder of the man who had caused her so much pain. And no matter how hard Will tried, he remained nothing more than a living, breathing replica of her abuser.

It hurt Will to the core to hear the comparison, but he never retaliated. He could see the immense pain his mother carried, the anguish reflected in her eyes and the trauma that had seeped into her very being. He recognized the depth of her suffering and understood the origins of her hatred towards him.

Despite the agony it caused him, Will knew that he deserved it.

—

Will became self destructive at 14.

The newest addition to his mother's revolving door of boyfriends had recently moved into their cramped house. Despite not being physically imposing—especially compared to Will, who had recently shot up three inches in height—the man, Greg, possessed a personality that filled every corner of their small space.

Greg was an alcoholic and drug user, a fact that had brought him into Kathryn’s life. They had met while bar hopping, using Kathryn’s unemployment benefits to fuel their binges as they staggered from one watering hole to the next.

Greg was a truck driver by trade, which sometimes kept him away for days at a time. However, whenever he returned, his mother seemed to delve deeper into tragedy.

Will awoke one night and left his bedroom to get a glass of water. He had not expected to find Greg asleep on the sofa next to his mother, both completely naked. A needle still hung from his mother’s arm.

Anger and worry surged within Will in equal measure, his stomach churned with nausea. He fled the scene swiftly, seeking refuge in the cool embrace of the bathroom floor. With trembling hands, he locked the door behind him.

As he sat there, questions hammered relentlessly in his mind.

Why did he have this life?

What had he done to deserve this?

How could he help his mother?

Would his mother ever love him?

Would he ever sit at a table and eat a meal like the kids in his class?

Would he ever be able to ask for help?

Would he ever stop hating himself?

In the midst of his turmoil, Will's thoughts drifted back to Carl's and his mother, Silvie. Carl had moved away when they were 10 years old, leaving him friendless.

A pang of longing twisted in his stomach. He yearned for the solace of a mother's embrace, the companionship of a friend, the simple comfort of being comforted. It dawned on him that he had never truly experienced love before.

Desperation clawed at his insides; he needed something, anything.

Will didn’t realize how tightly he’d been squeezing his fists until he released a breath and felt the scream of pain from his palms. A small drop of blood fell from his hand.

It had hypnotized him as he brought his hands up to inspect closer. Eight small crescent shaped cuts in the center of his palms, blood bubbled up on each. It was mesmerizing and immediately something Will wanted more of. The feeling of absolute control overwhelmed him, followed by pure dopamine. Will would look back at this moment for years to come with both sadness and jealousy.

—

Days began to blur together for Will. He made a habit of leaving for school early, sidestepping any encounters with his mother and Greg if the man had spent the night. This routine made things simpler and Will believed it was probably best for all involved if he remained as inconspicuous as possible.

However, despite Will's best efforts to remain invisible, the threats began, creeping into his life like unwelcome shadows. It wasn't long before the hitting followed, each blow a painful reminder that his attempts at avoidance were in vain.

"What do you think you’re doing?" Greg had demanded one day. Will's school had closed early, forcing him to complete his homework at home for once.

“Homework.” Will replied, he had his school bag sat on the chair next to him, and his English homework and a copy of ‘Little Women’ lay open on the kitchen table in front of him.

"No, smart ass. I mean what the f*ck do you think you're doing here, at the table?" Greg's voice grew louder, his anger palpable. Will felt a surge of confusion at the question and an even greater sense of unease at Greg's escalating volume. Logically, he knew he wasn't doing anything wrong. Other kids at school sat at their kitchen tables and did their homework, sometimes with their parents' help. Why was he not allowed to do the same? Why was Greg getting angry at him? Will was trying his best at school; all he wanted was for someone to be proud of him.

Will remained silent, unsure of how to respond. He gestured towards the work in front of him, hoping to convey his innocence, but his actions only seemed to further enrage Greg.

Greg snatched the book from the table, his laughter echoing through the room. Slowly and deliberately, he began tearing pages from the book, his eyes locked onto Will's the entire time.

Will's heart sank, Greg continued.

"You a girl, Will? You must be, reading books like Little Women." Greg's voice dripped with derision as he taunted Will, laying out the bait and waiting for a reaction. But Will refused to take it.

Greg's frustration boiled over. "You f*cking answer when I ask a question!" he bellowed, his face inches from Will's, his grip on Will's chin tightening to ensure unbroken eye contact. Will braced himself for the inevitable bruises that would mark his skin the next day.

"I'm sorry," Will whispered, his voice muffled by Greg's fingers pressing into his face.

"Again," Greg demanded.

"I'm sorry, Greg," Will repeated, his cheeks burning with shame.

"Get to your f*cking room, otherwise next time I'll do more than this," Greg threatened. With a swift motion, he hit Will across the face. Will's body recoiled, tumbling off the chair and crashing onto the floor below. Without a moment to process the shock, Will scrambled to gather the scattered pages of his book, his homework, and his school bag before fleeing to his bedroom.

Will left his room that night once everybody was asleep, grabbed a knife from the kitchen, and cut himself for the first time.

—

By the time Will was 15 he spent most of his time at school studying, now going into 10th grade, his studies became increasingly important to him. Will had always been academically gifted, he wasn’t sure why, but the sureness of science and math had always appealed to him. He loved spotting patterns and would never shy away from an academic challenge.

Despite his prowess in math, Will also excelled in English. He found solace in reading, escaping into the worlds crafted by authors as a means of temporarily fleeing his own reality. Surprisingly, Will discovered a talent for writing as well. It was one of the few areas where he received genuine praise from his teachers.

Will's bedroom remained his sanctuary, a refuge from the chaos that reigned outside its walls. On one side, an old single mattress lay, its seams painstakingly sewn back together by Will over the years. Multiple blankets, salvaged from the trash through Will's expert skills at dumpster diving, adorned the mattress.

At the opposite end of the room stood a small desk illuminated by a battery-run lamp, allowing Will to complete his homework in his own room. Both the desk and lamp were discovered amidst the debris of nearby dumpsters. Will would always be surprised by what people were willing to throw away.

The desk was cluttered with books, their spines worn and pages dog-eared from countless readings. They became Will's lifeline, his escape from the harsh realities of his homelife. With each turn of the page, Will could visualize himself as any character, and live their adventures as if they were his own.

Will’s bedroom was his haven. Was.

Sunday, May 21st, 1995, 1:02am.

Will was awoken from his broken sleep to a weight on his legs. He could smell Greg before he could see him. The scent of vodka burned his nose and the closeness of the man made his eyes water. Greg had never entered his bedroom before for any reason.

Will couldn’t pull his legs from under the weight of the man, he tried to sit up but found himself immobilized by fear as Greg began to speak.

“Your mom told me about your dad, what he did to her.” Greg slurred, his words sending a wave of nausea washing over Will.

Greg pushed Will down, pinning his arms beneath his weight.

“Revenge.” Greg had called it, as if Will and his father were the same person. As if Will was responsible for the same act that Greg was now implementing on him.

Will’s mind drifted away yet again. He found himself in different books, different characters and eventually settled on the book Wind in the Willows. He saw himself discovering a river for the first time.

The water was calm and inviting, stretching out before him in tranquil beauty. Will waded into the river, the gentle current flowed around him, yet he remained untouched by its wetness.

He was able to think there. Standing by the tranquil river in his imagination, Will's thoughts churned as he grappled with the torment of being constantly compared to a father he had never known. He pondered the injustice of being punished for simply being related to a man, whose actions he had no control over.

As he walked deeper into the river he felt the cooling embrace of the water against his skin.

In this new sanctuary, amidst the soothing sounds of flowing water and the gentle rustle of leaves, Will found himself questioning if he could remain there forever, sheltered in the serenity of the river. His river.

Alas, an hour later, Will returned to his body, his mind reluctantly pulled back from safety.

He was in pain, he was sweating, he was alone.

It took a long time and a lot of courage to leave his room. Slowly, he made his way through to the bathroom, only stopping when he spotted his mother sitting drunkenly on the sofa. She shot him a look of utter disgust and took another drag of the cigarette in her hand.

The searing pain of rejection cut through Will like a knife, leaving him reeling with anguish and despair. In that moment, as he stood before his mother, yearning for a love and acceptance that would never come, he felt a crushing weight settle upon his shoulders.

He wanted to scream, to plead with her for the help and comfort he so desperately craved. But the look of disgust she had cast upon him, the indifference in her eyes, had all but ruined him.

No matter how much he yearned for a relationship with his mother, no matter how hard he tried to be the son she could be proud of, he knew deep down that he would never be loved.

Especially not now.

—

The violation of Will's body by Greg became a frequent occurrence after that, a cruel ritual that inflicted irreparable damage upon his mind and spirit. With each instance of abuse, Will's self-hatred deepened and his sense of worth became eroded by the relentless onslaught of pain and degradation.

At age 16 Will was finding life progressively difficult to handle. His emotions got the better of him often and he found himself at war with his own mind day in and day out. The cycle of fear and hatred continued.

It was a Tuesday morning at Live Oak High School and the previous night had been a particularly bad one in the Graham household.

The eyes of his fellow students followed him as he walked into the classroom, their gazes filled with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. Will’s clothes hung off him in an unnatural way and he had a slight stale smell to him that the boys in his class liked to bully him for.

Will had resorted to washing his clothes in the bathroom sink, a makeshift laundry routine born out of necessity, using a stolen bar of soap from a local convenience store. Despite his efforts, the clothes often retained a faint mildewy scent as they dried, something his classmates noticed almost instantly.

He was no longer allowed to use the old washing machine that was in the basem*nt of his house; his mother had banned him a few weeks before. She had stated that his clothes ‘tainted’ theirs. Will didn't protest, didn't argue back. As the years went by, the list of rules governing Will's life grew longer, each new restriction adding another layer of confinement to his already constricted world. His mother and Greg became his prison wardens, tightening their grip on his life with each passing day. What had once been a simple list of guidelines had morphed into a tangled web of household laws, each one designed to keep him firmly under their thumbs.

No longer was he allowed to wash his clothes, to eat a meal in the house, or to express his emotions without fear of reprisal. The simple joys of life —books, music, television—were all denied to him, replaced instead with mandatory silence.

As the list of rules grew longer, so too did the sense of isolation that enveloped him.

However, despite his mother’s control, Will refused to be entirely captured by his circ*mstances and he kept his routine of leaving for school early each morning, slipping out of the small house under the cloak of dawn's first light. Out in the world, before and after school, he became resourceful, teaching himself the art of fishing at the nearby lake and surviving on whatever he could catch. He scavenged for scraps of food in bins, salvaging what he could to stave off the gnawing hunger that plagued him day and night.

Often, he waited near a local sandwich shop, waiting in the shadows until the leftover bread was tossed in the dumpster. But even these desperate measures were not enough to satisfy the hunger of a growing boy, and more often than not, Will went to bed with a gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

Will guarded the secrets of his home with a fierce determination, shielding the truth from the prying eyes of his classmates.

It was one thing to be the skinny kid who smelled a little funky, but to be labeled as the victim of abuse, to wear that scarlet letter for all to see, was a burden too heavy to bear. Even Will himself struggled to comprehend the twisted reality of his existence, let alone expect others to understand.

The stares from his classmates, the whispered rumors that swirled around him like a dark cloud, served only to deepen his sense of isolation. Each sidelong glance, each whispered comment, put him on edge.

Will settled into his seat in physics class, ignoring the whispers.

But as he eased himself into his chair, a sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips, drawing the attention of his classmates and even the teacher. Their stares bore into him, their curiosity palpable in the air.

Desperately, Will tried to conceal his discomfort, to ignore the burning sensation that radiated from his chest and face from embarrassment. But the damage inflicted upon him by Greg extended far beyond the confines of his mind, leaving him physically in pain too.

With each passing moment, the weight of shame threatened to overwhelm him, a constant reminder of what went on in the hell of his own home. And as the class carried on around him, Will found himself grappling not only with the pain in his body but with the crushing weight of his own self-loathing.

"Is something wrong with your seat, Mr. Graham?" Mr. Alves's inquiry sliced through the classroom, drawing every gaze back to Will.

Will shook his head, but the persistent discomfort gnawed at him, rendering him unable to find a position that didn't elicit a sharp cry of pain.

As he squirmed in his seat, the laughter of his classmates began to ripple through the room like a contagion, each chuckle and snicker amplifying his embarrassment. With every mocking glance and stifled giggle, Will felt the weight of their judgment press down upon him.

Desperate to escape the scrutiny of their stares, Will longed for nothing more than to disappear into the safety of anonymity. But as the laughter echoed around him, he realized that there was no refuge to be found, no sanctuary from the relentless taunts of his peers. In that moment, he felt more vulnerable than ever, a solitary figure adrift in a sea of mockery and ridicule.

Without realizing it, he found himself yelling back, his voice rising in a crescendo of fury. He screamed at the kids around him to shut up, he screamed at the teacher to go to hell, he screamed until his throat was raw and his lungs burned with exertion.

But it wasn't until he heard a girl's disgusted voice pierce through the chaos that he finally stopped and paid attention.

“Ew, what is that?” His gaze followed the direction of her finger.

Blood. A crimson layer covered the surface of his chair and the back of his pants.

The laughter of his classmates echoed in Will's ears like a cruel symphony of mockery, each jeer and taunt like a dagger to his already wounded pride. He couldn't comprehend their callousness, their indifference to his pain.

With a sense of detachment, he grabbed his bag and quietly made his way out of the classroom. from the corridor he could still hear jokes of him ‘having his first period’ and the screams of Mr Alves to return or he’d call the principal.

The teacher never told the principal and the blood was never reported.

In the suffocating confines of the toilet cubicle, Will found himself teetering on the edge of despair. For the first time in his life, he seriously contemplated ending it all, the allure of suicide beckoning to him like a siren's song.

As he dragged the blade against his skin, tracing deep lines across his flesh, Will's mind churned with conflicting emotions. He weighed the pros and cons with a cold detachment.

But amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf him, a flicker of hope emerged, a tiny ember in the ashes of his despair. What if, he thought, what if things could get better? What if, against all odds, there was still a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel?

In that moment, the 'what ifs' became his lifeline, a beacon of possibility. And as he stared into the abyss of his own despair, Will found himself clinging to that fragile thread of hope, grasping desperately for a reason to keep fighting.

—

Will’s saving grace was that, despite everything, he remained gifted at school. At 18 years old Will graduated top of his class. With his diploma in hand, Will looked out at the sea of strangers before him, their faces a blur of indistinct features. And yet, in that moment, he felt a profound sense of accomplishment, a recognition of all that he had overcome to stand where he was today.

The day after he graduated Will finally got the courage to ask his mother for help.

Greg had gone on another long haul trip, he wasn’t expected back for a week, leaving the two of them alone in the dirty house. Will left his room at 7pm, something that was strictly prohibited, and walked up to his mother. She did not look up.

Summoning all the courage he could muster, Will took another tentative step forward, his heart pounding in his chest like a drumbeat of fear and anticipation. His mother sat slumped on the sofa, bathed in the flickering glow of the television.

“Get back to your room.” She slurred, the words slinking out of her mouth like acid.

"Mom?" Will's voice wavered, a mixture of fear and desperation swirling within him.

"No talking, back to your room," she snapped, her tone laced with irritation.

“Mom.” Will stood his ground, his voice carried a little more the second time. It got her attention, she looked over to him, fire in her eyes.

“What did I just say to you?” Her teeth were clenched as she spat the words at him, Will hesitated, but he knew this was his last chance.

“I’ve- He’s- Greg.” Will tried desperately to catch his breath. “Greg.” He repeated.

“W-w-what about Greg?” His mother stuttered, mimicking him. Will took a deep breath.

"He's been... hurting me," Will forced the words out, his throat constricting with every syllable. "I need your help. I need you to make him stop."

When Will pictured this scenario in the quiet hours of the night, his mother crumbled to the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks. In his imagination, she would beg for his forgiveness, screaming apologies on behalf of the man that had caused her beloved son pain. "I love you more than anything, Will," she'd profess earnestly, her words carrying the weight of genuine remorse. Determined to make amends, she'd take decisive steps, changing the locks, ridding their lives of Greg, and they would be a real mother and son, like the ones he’d read about, like Carl and Sylvie.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the dull drone of the television in the background. Will held his breath, waiting for his mother's response, his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped bird seeking escape.

“I know.”

At first, Will thought he’d misheard her.

“You - huh?”

“I know.” she repeated, her tone chillingly indifferent.

“You know?” Will repeated again.

“Are you f*cking deaf?” Her words sliced through the air like knives. “Of course I know what he’s been doing, he hasn’t exactly been shy about it, has he? And you’re not exactly a quiet participant!”

Will had never thought about what his body might do while his mind drifted away, he assumed he remained silent, still, compliant with fear.

"The screaming, my God, it's incessant," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "The crying and the screaming. If I never heard your voice again, it would be too soon."

For three whole years, Will had been screaming, crying for help. And his mother had ignored him.

"You know?" It was all Will could manage to say. Kathryn rolled her eyes and stood up, bringing them face to face. Despite towering over her now, Will felt small, overpowered, defeated.

She met his gaze squarely. "You deserve it."

—-

Will seized the first opportunity to escape, scrimping and saving every nickel and dime over the summer until he finally had enough for a train ticket to New Orleans. He had seen an ad in the local paper for a job with free board and free meals, and he jumped at the chance.

Joining the police force wasn't a dream career for Will. He didn't care about the job itself. He would have taken any opportunity to get away from that house, from his mother, from the pain, and from his own inevitable suicide.

As he stepped out the front door, clutching a small bag of clothes, Will wasn't surprised when his mother didn't look up to bid him farewell. Closing the door behind him, he left without a backward glance.

—

Will was 26 when he was stabbed.

A rape in progress. Will was the first on the scene and as soon as he made eye contact with the woman at the end of the alley, his heart dropped to his stomach. She lay on the ground, her face pressed sideways into the dirt, silently pleading for salvation as the man stole everything from her.

He had to act.

So he did.

Will tackled the man above her, sending him sprawling.As he grappled with the assailant, he felt a searing pain rip through his shoulder as the knife sank into his flesh. Will collapsed to the ground, gasping for air, his senses reeling from the shock of the injury. His partner swiftly apprehended the criminal, hauling him into the back of their car.

Will let himself breathe through the pain as he lay on the ground, the stab wound deep, but not life threatening.

“What do I do now?”

The small voice echoed in Will's ears, stirring him from his own anguish. With a determined effort, he pushed aside his agony and shifted his focus to the distressed woman. Her vulnerability struck a chord within him as she sat, hunched and exposed, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks.

“What am I going to do now?” She asked again. Pleading.

Despite his own injuries, Will made his way over to her. She shrank down, curling into herself, clearly traumatized by the ordeal.

"I won't touch you, you're safe now. What's your name?" Will gestured for his partner to bring a coat from the car and call ambulances for both of them. Gently, he wrapped the coat around the woman, covering her exposed top half. She flinched slightly as the coat made contact with her skin, something Will had anticipated.

"Melinda," she whispered, her voice quivering.

"It's okay, Melinda. I won't hurt you. I promise, you're safe now," Will's voice resonated with reassurance, it was the only thing he could do. Despite the weight of his own past pressing down on him, he attempted to offer her solace, his words a shield against the horrors they had both endured.

As the ambulance arrived with unexpected haste, Melinda was ushered into its safety while Will received urgent medical attention. Amidst the chaos, their eyes met, and in that fleeting exchange, an unspoken bond formed—a silent acknowledgment of shared suffering and survival.

—-

Will began to imagine himself being stabbed more and more again after that.

As he walked down the bustling streets of New Orleans, his thoughts would drift into vivid, terrifying visions. In these imaginings, shadowy figures emerged from every corner, brandishing knives, machetes, and sometimes even swords. Each encounter played out in his mind with disturbing clarity.

He imagined himself fighting back, every move a desperate dance for survival.

Sometimes, he saw himself escaping, his breath ragged but his body intact.

Other times, the fantasy ended in failure, blood staining the pavement as he was overpowered once again. In those moments, Will’s thoughts would turn to what came next.

He imagined the sterile lights of the hospital, the rush of paramedics, and the cold, clinical smell of antiseptic. He would reach out to Alana Bloom, his voice weak and tremulous, and ask her to sign a DNR. In this way, he felt a strange comfort, knowing that the choice to live or die would be out of his hands.

He wasn't sure what to call these daydreams. They weren't quite nightmares, nor were they fantasies. But whatever they were, they made him feel prepared. Each scenario his mind conjured was meticulously detailed, exploring every possible worst-case outcome for any trauma that might befall him.

Will had met Alana Bloom while training at the police academy. She had just graduated from college and was training as a psychiatrist under the mentorship of some renowned professionals. Alana took a shine to Will almost instantly. Both were quiet and introspective, finding safety in each other’s company without judgment.

Alana’s kindness was unlike anything Will had ever experienced. She offered him a shoulder to cry on during tough times, and together they shared their lives. Their friendship developed effortlessly, each finding comfort and acceptance in the other.

Will also suspected that Alana used him for her psychiatry practice. Yet, he didn’t really mind. She never imposed advice on him or attempted to analyze him openly. Instead, she was simply there, a silent and supportive presence whenever he needed to talk. Will reciprocated, becoming an unlikely support system for her, too.

However, despite their closeness, there were aspects of his life Will kept from Alana. Some thoughts and experiences were too dark to share with someone he considered so gentle-hearted.

Their relationship was always purely platonic, and that was how they both liked it. As Will grew older, the lingering trauma from his childhood became increasingly apparent to both of them. His inability to function like others their age was something Alana understood deeply. She respected his boundaries and never pushed him beyond what he could handle.

When Will was stabbed in the line of duty, it was Alana who helped him navigate the aftermath. She supported him in leaving the force, recognizing that it was a necessary step for his well-being and recommended college when he was left in the stasis of unemployment.

When Will was accepted to George Washington University, Alana moved with him. They found a small, cramped apartment downtown that Alana lovingly described as "quaint." Will found that endearing.

He had never truly aspired to be a police officer; he had merely followed that path out of convenience. Now that convenience had been and gone, he had to start thinking about how to live his life.

Their apartment, though modest, became their own. It was filled with books, laughter, and late-night conversations. Alana continued her work in psychiatry, while Will immersed himself in his studies.

However, despite this newfound stability, Will continued to be haunted by nightmares, even into his thirties. In these dreams, he saw himself transform into his father, into his mother’s boyfriends, and even into his mother herself. The dreams were disturbingly Freudian and something he told nobody about.

Will had fled to the police academy in a desperate attempt to escape the toxic environment of his childhood home. But no matter how far he ran, they followed him in his mind. In his dreams and waking hours alike, memories clawed at him mercilessly. Greg's rage materialized in the stern expressions of his instructors, a constant reminder of his former life. Even in mundane encounters, his mother's eyes seemed to haunt him—etched in the indifferent face of the local laundromat owner,

He heard their voices in his head daily.

“This is called revenge, boy.”

“I wish you were dead.”

“No eating in my house.”

“You’re just like your father.”

“You deserve it.”

Will's childhood from ages 15 to 18 remained a locked chapter of his life, one he had never opened to Alana. She knew so much about him, yet this period was shrouded in silence. He had never disclosed the numerous assaults inflicted by his mother’s boyfriend, Greg, nor had he shared how being used and abused became a part of his daily existence. The weight of these secrets bore down on him, a constant reminder of the pain and shame he carried. Even after all these years, a part of him still believed he deserved it.

He had never told Alana about the nights when fear paralyzed him, or the days when he walked on eggshells, trying to avoid triggering Greg's wrath. He never spoke of the bruises hidden beneath his clothes or the emotional scars that ran deeper than any physical wound. His past was a prison of memories, and the key was buried under layers of guilt and self-loathing.

Will’s self harm, however, was something Alana had come to be aware of as the years progressed.

Her psychiatric specialty focused on the impact of family trauma and coping mechanisms, so she understood the complexities behind his actions. And as their friendship deepened, Will grew less fearful of her seeing the scars that marked his body. Often, he barely registered their exposure when Alana was around.

In their small apartment, the phrase "harm reduction" became a regular part of their conversations, especially as Will neared the end of his degree. Alana never pressured him to stop harming himself entirely; she knew that such demands could do more harm than good. Instead, she always made sure their first aid kit was stocked and that he was safe, even in his destruction. Alana had also retaken a course on wound care just in case Will ever needed her, not that he ever did. Will had taught himself to sew as a teenager, a skill that he never imagined he’d end up using on his own skin.

Despite his self-reliance, Will appreciated Alana more than she knew. She was his best friend, his only friend really. So, when he completed his degree, they both found new jobs and prepared to move once again. This time, however, Alana was no longer willing to be his roommate.

“I’m sorry, Will, we’re in our 30s! I have a girlfriend! You know how much I love you, but it’s time to get our own lives.” Alana’s voice carried a note of exasperation, something Will rarely heard from her. His constant begging had worn on her patience, and he could tell she was struggling to balance her compassion with her need for independence.

Will understood her logic. Alana deserved her own happy life with her partner, free from the shadows of his past. But the thought of being alone again filled him with fear. He had grown so accustomed to Alana's presence, her steady support, that the idea of living without it was almost unbearable.

When the moving day finally arrived, Will hugged Alana tightly, trying to convey everything he couldn't say out loud. She hugged him back just as fiercely, whispering, "You’ll be okay, Will, I’m only a drive away. You’re stronger than you think."

As he watched her drive away, Will took a deep breath and turned back to face his new reality. Maybe Alana was right, maybe he did need to grow up.

As he’d gotten older, the main change he’d noticed in himself was how intense his daydreaming had become. His visions were vivid and consuming, allowing him to visualize entire scenarios from anyone's perspective. This heightened empathy made it difficult for him to hide his abilities, and soon enough, he found himself working for the FBI as a teacher,

In his new role, Will helped younger minds understand the perspectives of killers, using his unique gift to delve into the darkest corners of the human psyche. He was able to articulate the motivations and thought processes of criminals with uncanny accuracy, offering insights that were both chilling and invaluable.

Alana often reminded him of his talent, reassuring him that he was a good teacher. Despite their separate lives, their bond remained strong and with their new living arrangements, Alana gently nudged him towards the path of homeownership.

Will had always been meticulous with his savings. Growing up poor had taught him to value every penny and soon, he had saved enough to buy himself a house. Nestled in the serene surroundings of Wolftrap, Virginia, his small house stood alone amidst fields and woods with no neighbors in sight. He knew he should feel proud of his accomplishment, yet a sense of pride eluded him. Positive feelings about himself were becoming harder to grasp as he slipped into loneliness.

Will had always loved dogs, and over the years, spurred on by his isolation, he ended up rescuing nine of them. The end of his driveway had become a grim hotspot for abandoned animals, and Will couldn’t turn a blind eye. He cared for the dogs deeply and, now Alana was living with her long term girlfriend Margot, the dogs became his family. He cared for them deeply, often better than he cared for himself.

As time went on, living alone became a stark reminder of his own neglect. All his life, Will had felt like he was on the run, keeping himself busy and distracted. But now, he was stagnant. His days fell into a monotonous routine: go to work, go to the store, feed the dogs, drink, and go to bed. That was it. For months, this was all he knew. The realization of his own unhappiness settled heavily on him, an inescapable truth in the quiet of his home.

That was, until Jack Crawford entered his classroom.

Whispers often circulated among Will’s coworkers. He could hear them, the murmurs about his "gift," his "party trick." Some called him a mind reader or a psychic, while others labeled him a freak. Bullying was not new to Will; he had grown accustomed to it.

Jack, however, was different. He was curious about the rumors and sought answers. Through conversations with both Will and the FBI’s psychiatrist, Jack discovered the truth. Will likely suffered from an empathy disorder that allowed him to vividly envision the perspectives of others. This disorder, far from being a mere party trick, made him an exceptionally talented criminal profiler.

And so, three years later, Will found himself standing in the Meadowlark Botanical Gardens at 1:15 a.m., staring at the decaying bodies of fourteen men. The whispers of his coworkers seemed a distant echo, his unique ability, once the subject of gossip and scorn, had led him here, to a place where his skills were desperately needed.