“If you had any sort of fucking second thought, a distracting stimuli and measure, you wouldn’t be standing here,” his sharp retort doesn’t have to map out all the complexities (or simplified puzzle pieces in his mind coming apart in the recess of his brain) in order to find exact translations. Yet, no panic should shackle his tongue as it once had as all the translations got caught in his throat. How his residual light shines on his soul, the fluorescence through his translucency. There is a truth and it burns his throat when he lies; while he may come off as duplicitous, all the emotions trailing and scattering over his eyes would give everything away. How it reaches out to him, grabbing his throat like claws, digging nails where the truth forms an adam’s apple and he’s gasping for breath. He likes darkness better; he likes the way it makes him comfortable; even in his youth, when so many youth around his age feared the absence of anything with tightly clenched fists and trembling arms, no waves of tremor would pass through as his eyes shone like a wolf’s penetrating gaze.
The way it didn’t form tendrils falling across his face every time he looked onto the very trees that seemed unconquerable. The very unknown that remained beneath the seemingly impervious veil as his heart became a neon sign that screams. And since he had found himself a decisive footing, he’d always be on the hunt and he’d be the one to choose who he should devour. And the same darkness that forms the midnight in the world embeds in his eyes. He owns the night in the midst of the stretching day and his eyes are laden with dark rosebuds, giving away brilliant iridescence. Sharpness flashing instantaneously, as polluted gaze sharply pivots. “It does not roll of like a fucking mother tongue, it’s the adaptation through process; more like a second language, in lieu of a nebulous realization that drives the fucking metallic blood to become solidified, to press against my chest in order to embrace it.” Even when his heart created paths he couldn’t take, even when his heart wanted stories he couldn’t write, the love he never owned had exacerbated his need to create a red collage of blood, fire and ash.
As if his life had been painted very clearly in front of him; with his body a purple and black night sky with roses blossoming on his head and neck. With his lips ever so slightly ajar, catching the ash and smoke in his lungs, despite wanting to scream into this red, red world. And he’s much more capable of drawing the night’s curtains, like the endless sea, as he’d surreptitiously remain behind the penumbra of diminishing darkness, like smoke, like fading color of crimson against an approaching dawn. And the battle is just beginning with every muscle of him being consumed by the dusk tide, his moment as he armors himself up.
His memories become landmines; unexpected and expected, blindsiding him when he knows it was coming anyways. How they leave him in pieces, a fractured whole of a self that hadn’t been still put back together, one cracked and brittle piece at a time, stronger when put back together. And his mouth seems to flow in turbulence as a heart like his eclipses every damn crumbling cathedral, of its emptiness as the expanse stretches for miles. And such frozen gravity pulls him, as moments become snapshots of the path the water was taking, but the unmoving stillness of them is only thing that’s preventing him from such alertness, such fastidious transcription of his own volcanic fury biting his skin, then pierce it and slowly nibble its way to his core. Lingering on his bones as it’d caress them and perhaps break them as well.
So long the violence has festered in him, feeding on his insecurities, mistakes and missed opportunities. It has woven a web all around his muscles. All he needs is one fucking shot and from that onward, such life extended beneath the uncharacteristical mercy will become a harbinger to his almost-destruction. It had achieved its goal and wasn’t the world orbiting around, to let all the fucking cycle repeat over and over again? Unfortunately, it may be right around the corner. And all the untold and repressed stories become such a grippingly colorful and bursting with frantic energy as they burst further into the hollow column of his brain matter. He does not have to claw through the compacted earth to excavate Mischa’s remains or follow Gabi’s trails back to America or Romania. His body may be stiff and reserved, but how his blood sings, frantically dancing to the rhythm of his heart.
Such familiar, yet unfamiliar surge of emotions become steeled edge against his heart, as softness interwoven with shards of glass meet Will’s with hardening intensity. An equal parts of blushing from the exposure and blood colors him whole as he takes a deep inhalation. “The fucking universe holds its propensity to expand into its own edges, we can fight about the roles of nature and nurture, but in my fucking descension and slipping touch of reality, I let torturous darkness grapple me with its eroding force.” And in hindsight, it’s all vacuous emptiness. Without reincarnation and the salvation of his philosophy, as he yearned to thrive in sustenance.
The deadly chess game was finished. It was only a shame that it had ended in a stalemate. He had been expecting a righteous victory that would make his chest swell with a powerful sense of pride. He wanted the glory that would have painted his nerves in gold and injected a stream of fire into his very veins. His essence would have been aloft, flying high on the sensation that had grasped him. He had reassured himself that such triumph wouldn’t have felt as beautiful if the ending had been what he had pleased. In the end, the Red Dragon had only been yet another pawn in fate’s twisted agenda and it was quite possible that Dolarhyde had been the final key to unlocking Graham’s potential. The empath was thrust into this world of deranged minds and bloodstained walls without first being prepped about he might experience. The world took advantage of that and sought to break him down in every possible way, only to rebuild him…a better version of him.
There were times when he felt like a ticking time bomb and this statement would have only been more relevant when Jack had begged asked for his assistance. Will was aware of the side-effects that his empathy had cursed him with, yet he allowed himself to be dragged into the dark mists and bloodcurdling screams. Ignoring the voice of wisdom within himself, he subjected himself to the torment of nightmares and visions, that all worsened as time passed. He had been too stubborn to ask for support and reveal his deteriorating mental state to Crawford. Graham’s WANT to protect the innocent had pushed him towards the edge. If it wasn’t for the acceptance of the invitation that had started it all, where in the world would he be now? He might be fixing boat motors on Lake Eerie, creating different callouses on the palms of his hands with each passing day. Maybe he would have been able to find everlasting peace there, but there would have always been a voice that called to him to return to the field…and embellish in the horrors that were reflected in his mind.
His skin has felt the blossoming of black and blue bruises and the snapping of bones. He’s been torn open by a brutal near-disembowelment and trauma has grasped his senses so firmly that he felt as if he was walking through another dream. Everything had seemed dulled and spaced in a way that he could not explain. Beyond all of the torments that the world had thrown at him in the past, he was still alive. Amazing, huh? He’s pretty sure that he’s accepted the fact that he was broken past the point of repairment, but he didn’t desire death that he was ready to jump at the first opportunity that presented itself.
There was a warning in Nigel’s tone, like a foreboding growl from an irritated wolf that could lunge at any instant. It might have been foolish that he was not ready to flee, but fear simply remained dormant. It was like it never existed at all. And surely, he, of all people, knew just how much fear he carried within himself. So where had it all gone? There was no way it could have evaporated from his form like water that transformed into steam. The strangeness of it might have astonished himself enough to make him question his sanity, yet he wasn’t drawn to the absence of the trait. Perhaps, his curiosity was overpowering any trace of terror that he should have been feeling. But he’s never been this intrigued by anyone…not since Hannibal.
Nigel was haunted. Well, all men were disturbed by something, but there was a particular nature that drew his interest. Will wanted to explore what had created such a man as this one, however, the note of cautiousness was ever present. Rushing into an investigation into someone that could easily snap his spine in half wasn’t going to be a wise decision. Graham may be intelligent, but he wasn’t someone to make too many reckless choices. His plans were normally thought out as long as they were made in advance, but like in all strategies, there were always holes and miscalculations. Now, one mistake would certainly cost him his life.
“Speaking of roles,” Will carried on, listening for a moment as the snow crunched beneath the weight of his shoes. There was a slight limp in his walk and it highly agitated him in a sense of pride and his swiftness. If he had to quickly maneuver out of the path of a bullet or an oncoming attack, he would be slowed. A prime example of a handicapped target. “Is yours to wander the Earth without a sense of direction? Without a goal, you’ll surely never feel satisfied in your life ever again, unless…if that’s what you want to accomplish.” Oh hell, he was sure one to talk when he truly had no idea of what he wanted to do with his life now.
The air keeps pumping, and he breathes. If he could just keep moving, the world will be swell as he’d live moment to moment, instead of rotting in the seconds spent wishing on the past and fretting away the future as he’d certainly lose momentum. But he slows down beneath the growing vastness of the world and his thriving pendulum of palpitating energy loses speed and its rudimentary force as his mind begins to churn and the air starts to burn. With breaths like brewed hurricane and his heart as ravenous and voracious, he permeates the earth with his undying fervent radiance, despite his form superseded by such splintering effervescence of northern light. Such a blessing and curse to own the midnight sky as the cataclysmic anger refuses to tone down; it’s already imprinted on his brain as his unevaporating anger simmers with such inherent power. A memory of disjointed scenes shock together, as he falls into the submission of splashes of burning colors, multiplying and rising to the surface.
How his gaze reeks of death and decay, glass shards pricking and bleeding, as if he had a wicked vine twisted around his throat. Such infestation would leave no life as black surrounds the icicles, clinging to every inch of the ambiance. With scar tissues too deep to be erased, despite being able to still heal and fade. These lie, easy in the darkness and thick as molasses, pour out in tune with a heavily beating heart, rejoicing in their sick symbiosis. Where his heart treads, that’s he will end up in an endless and inevitable codependence, until neither could go on. The spectacle odyssey of his life had been already achingly long and frighteningly short at the same time; with more than half of his life hurtling by as the rest of the world existed behind a pane of glass covered in fingerprints and smudges of his struggle, watching him, sometimes wavering in mocking salute. He may as well have been on another planet, tripping and flailing, falling over his own fucking feet, even when the isolation had been underwhelming.
The saying was supposed to come true, a carnivorous smile is a curve that sets everything straight. When he finally was able to infiltrate through the vehement grounds of the estate in his mind, the confines reeked of stale blood and a cacophonous remix of boars and pigs scattering about; despicable grunts of their insatiable viciousness and voraciousness towards the human flesh and blood and sights of ravaged limbs and viscera become an embodiment of the gates of hell. The impenetrable adamantite bars inflaming with inextinguishable translucent whirling dance of incinerating fire. Perhaps it had been the metaphorical landscape of his mind, continuing to trudging onwats, hoping against hope, pleading with the fucking God he cannot believe in. And that very smile does not reach his eyes nor it exudes softened growl of the unleashed energy firing within his eyes. They may have shared the world, shrieking, then rendered into deafening silence around them as they were threatened, bled, maddened and bellowed through their near-fatality, yet Nigel’s eyes of an animal continue to grope the world with its resilient intention, without ever bypassing the subtle slant of the other side as he begins another war, the fucking war to end all wars.
And within their imperceptible embrace that will speak for his unspoken words and an embrace to decrypt his unsaid thoughts, the presumptions of his severed life will continue to surge and brim forth beneath her unending patience and genuine love. And such consumption that used to paint intricate swirls of incomprehensible desire, the epitome of silent wonder and mervelous dance across his senses turn wicked, obsidian black of dried blood as darkened void of his eyes burns with a fire that could set the entire town ablaze as he suffocates into the malignancy of his threat. Beneath his world, which has already gone mad, the only sensible option would be to feed his delusions and live for himself; he does not need another intruder who would ingest and make an attempt to discern him. He will let the blood drain him from the other as he’d complete what Hannibal had failed and let the chariots of his mind run rampant as he’d finally cleave the shut gates and return home.
Within that sempiternal wall full of wicked souls and damned demons, he could already feel his own strands of soul plucked out; as pleasant memories become nonexistent. Those preexisting ones marred by unanswered questions. He stinks of sweat and newly spillage of blood; his own, along with wretched scent of brain matter and fluids. Excretion and piss. He would’ve have accepted it greedily, plummet further into the absence of humanity and human condition. Wild beastly savagery upon the land of composed. As if he couldn’t ever fucking register the dualism of his own existence as he loses his sight and his touch as the sprouted gold mine of his temporary solace shatters instantaneously. “Even the vagabond wanderer knows one’s fucking set destination if the north star of one’s mind guides so,” and such blinking lights stare at him from the sky, unmoving from their spots. Perhaps matching his own eyes of dying stars, but even the dying ones become brighter than the candlelight already extinguished.
What does the other know about love? He’d slipped into a fucking coma and perpetually orbited the undiminishing world for the fuck’s sake as his desire still floods within him, so thick he chokes and hackles. His chest feels heavy as the tales of the sunflower lives on. Starved of memories as he waits everything to surge back, a tide to which he’d rush forward and fling himself too the waves as his weathered spirit by storm and drought gets thrown into the depths; of love and his soul. His thinning benevolence severs by nanoseconds and he finds his blackened silhouette lean ever so slightly towards Will as his form becomes twisting shadows against the sky. Limbs that reach are as precise and efficient as winds brushing against the leaves, as the abysmal tunnel salutes the inevitably familiar, eternal night.
“The most fucking interesting thing about you is how uninteresting you are,” retracted gaze adheres towards his pale brows, as scattered locks fuel what little thinning barrier there is; an impulse to destroy is and always has been a self-destructive one and his power remains still hidden, hiding, lost and in secrecy. “Not a fucking thing will serve as a cleaving agent to surrender my passage, the passage I earned much rightfully so.” Will hasn’t seen nothing yet, for he’d rip the fucking canopy out of night from the sky, so all that remains could be the glory and light of a billion naked stars, without all the hemorrhaging desolation of hatred, perhaps misdirected, most likely meant to become a homing missile.
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