wow that description of the last ask...why did she blame Will and what exactly did he do that freaked her out so much?

The letters. The drawings. The picture of them.

It was all laid out in front of him like something profane. It should not exist. It should never have existed. His vision blurred at the edges, nausea climbing his throat in thick, wet waves. His body rejected it before his mind could. He turned, heaved, emptied himself onto the floor.

Then he found him. Ended the man.

But he let him live. That was the worst part. The cruelest part. He let him live so he could feel it, could know, every second, that Will Graham had peeled back his skin and poured something dark inside him that would rot him from the inside out.

Then he came home. Blood dried stiff on his shirt. He tore it from his body and threw it at her.

She flinched.

He had been drinking.

Way too much.

His hands found her hair. Her back hit the wall.

She gasped, but he wasn’t looking at her. Not really. He was looking at something inside her, something that was made because of him, because of all of it, and he understood now. Why she said it was his fault. Why she came home shaking. Why she hated herself.

His hands found her face.

He could barely see her through the static in his brain.

He would never know of anything she did anymore.