Chapter Text
Warm blood rushes out onto white sheets underneath his hands. The man underneath him struggles for a split second, hands gripping his arms, before the light disappears from his eyes and he goes limp. Watching him die shouldn't feel as good as it does, but God, it does. His mouth curls up into a vicious smile. And once his body is limp, Will begins to slice up with the knife, from his abdomen to his chest, opening him up. It isn't until he reaches his sternum, thick blood pooling around them now, that the man's wife awakes.
Thankfully, she was a deep sleeper up until now. Thankfully, that gave Will a chance to plan what he would do with her once she did wake up. He even gives her a head start. She sits up, confused at first (as Will had predicted) but then she looks to her right. Then she sees the silhouette of Will, straddling her husband's lifeless body next to her, knife glinting with blood in hands. The room is dimly lit by a small, weak light on the far side of the room, but Will's eyes have adjusted. He can see the fear in her eyes when she flails, falling out of bed and screaming for help.
Nobody will hear her. They're the only house around for miles.
He lets her have a head start, almost lets her make it to the bedroom door before he leaps out of the bed with careful grace, bare feet hitting the carpet, and lunges for her. Will reaches out, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her roughly back toward him. She cries out in pain and fear as Will draws her small frame against his, holding her tightly. There's no way she can escape now, and she quickly realizes that.
"Please, please stop," She begs, hands scrambling at his arms. He's holding her tight, though, too tight for her to get a good grip on him. Too tight for her to scratch him. "Please, God, I'll do anything. I didn't even see your face. I won't tell them anything I won’t-"
And that's when Will drives the knife deep into her stomach. She's not going to die as quickly as her husband. Will had killed him fast - efficient - by slitting his throat deep. She, on the other hand, slumps to the floor on her knees in front of him, bleeding out slowly. She whimpers in pain, and Will kneels in front of her, pressing a finger to her lips. "Shhh," He murmurs, "Don't panic. It will make it worse."
Her eyes are wide with fear, mouth open in a silent scream and she slumps forward into him. "There you go," Will murmurs, stroking her hair with a bloodied hand, "It'll be over soon."
The woman's body finally slumps against him after another minute, and Will pulls her away from him, allowing her to fall back on the ground.
It isn't until he looks down at himself, covered in blood, that Will realizes that he isn't dreaming. No, this isn't like one of the awful dreams he has every night. Those are realistic, yes, but they're nothing like this. They don’t feel as good as this just did.
The blood is sticky, warm and uncomfortable on his clothes. The knife is heavy in his hands and he drops it with a loud thud on the floor. He stands, running his hands through his hair in a panic. Blood is dripping off of the bed, now, where he killed the husband.
His heart is hammering in his chest, hands shaking as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials his psychiatrist’s number.