#v: post-s2

[shcsallrightnow]

@synallactic

With the sunlight streaming in through the hospital windows, Abigail closed her eyes and felt warmed by the sun’s gentle rays, her features appearing sunken and sallow where they had once been full of life. In her right hand she clutched a paintbrush, but she had yet to apply it to her therapy canvas. The painting was supposed to “open her mind” and free her trauma. Quite frankly, Abigail didn’t want to open anything in her subconscious. She was terrified of what might come out.

After several minutes of blank staring, her therapist, Dr. Swanson, came over and whispered that a Mr. Will Graham had come to see her.

Abigail’s upper lip curled. “I don’t want to see him,” she bit out. “Tell him to leave.”

“He said it was urgent.”

“I don’t care.” All at once, Abigail began to furiously attack the canvas with several fierce, broad strokes. The paint was red -- an explosive expression of carnage and destruction as it streaked up and down the formerly stark-white.

Resigned, Dr. Swanson returned to the hall and spared Will an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Mr. Graham,” she said, “but Abigail doesn’t seem up for a visit today. Maybe you should try again tomorrow...or longer.” Emphasis on longer.

[shcsallrightnow]

Continued from (x) @mcrtyrdom

“Not with that attitude, you can’t,” Abigail quipped, watching the knife in his hand. “Am I about to get a demonstration? ‘Cause really, it can’t be that hard...there aren’t any majorly hard bones to cut through.” 

[shcsallrightnow]

Continued from (x) @ofxantlers

Night terrors were unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence. They had been exceptionally bad as of late. Ever since Abigail had helped Will dispose of his kill, she’d lain awake at night, wide-eyed and shaken by the noises coming from his side of the bed. Sometimes she would rouse him, but other times she would not. It was often best not to poke the beast on the other side of that thin dividend between consciousness and slumber.

But on this particular night, Will’s behavior had been frightening. The harsh, choking noises coming from his throat had scared Abigail to the point she’d reached for him with trembling fingers, turning him over and sliding her hands up over his unshaven cheeks. Her thumbs traced over the stubble and she swallowed the lump in her throat, gently coaxing and pleading with him to awaken.

When Will finally came to, he curled in toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist akin to a drowning sailor grasping at a buoy, and instinctively, she curled over him like a protective awning. Pressing her lips to his sweat-soaked brow, she carved her fingers through his hair and held him over her rapidly beating heart.

“I was already awake,” she promised gently. Resting her cheek in his hair, she caught sight of the ring on her finger and held him tighter. For better or for worse. That’s what the saying was, wasn’t it? And although they’d certainly experienced the worst of it -- more times than she cared to count -- she somehow felt lucky and alive lying there curled up beside him.

Rolling her palm along the small of his back, Abigail asked, “Do you wanna talk about it? When I was little...well...when I was older, too, my mom would hold me like this and we talked until I felt better. I know we don’t really talk about our nightmares, but it might be good to try?”

[shcsallrightnow]

❝What shall we toast to?❞

From: some meme I’m too lazy to find.mydearpatroclus

“Not being dead?” Okay, so perhaps that had been made in poor taste. Clearing her throat, Abigail lifted her drink and amended with, “How ‘bout both of us officially being declared sane? Or at least, in certain circles. That, and I’ll be going to school. I don’t think that’s too shabby.”