In the late hours of the evening, the callused fingertips that belonged to none other than Will Graham, caressed your own. Whispered shushing and words of affirmation fall from his lips, his free hand cradling your sullen form, as if you were an animal yearning for solace.

Those hands of yours were stained and soaked in the remnants of a someone you once knew, a past lover, their scent lingering on your tongue, a macabre testament to the feast of flesh that had bound your fates. It was all your doing.

And perhaps Will was to blame, for asking you to commit such an egregious act, for demanding that you feed.
“Sh-shh… you were meant to do this. They’ve become a part of you, whether you wanted it or not.”

To him, it was the ultimate act of devotion, the ultimate sacrifice. Yet, you couldn’t escape the truth: you were the one behind this; this was your design.

Your very own masterpiece stared back at you, the memory of its creation a hazy tapestry of fragmented thoughts and cries of despair. Laid out for you, on your very own silver platter.

“Try it. You don’t have to like it.”