[Will's already considered that option, has been around long enough to know some of how this place functions. Chilton's not giving him anything new to mull over (or put off mulling over), makes it easier for him to continue on in that spinning, turning socks inside out before putting them in their couples. Saved for last, her scarf already stowed away in the middle where no one could see it without having to do a little digging.
Frederick Chilton invades and Will makes no move to stop him, acknowledges the new presence only in how he might move around him, if he has to. Let him see, give him less to extrapolate. Work in the light for once, and, oh, it's impossible to hide in any shadow when he catches where Chilton's hand is going. The sound of the frame moving away from its surface hits his ears like an out of tune kettledrum, larger and louder than it has any right to be. In fact, Will's almost certain he imagines it, that there was no noise at all except for what plays in his head. What stops him in his tracks, has him staring at Chilton with the last pair of her socks held limply in front of his stomach. He takes in the picture as though he's never seen it and is afraid he'll never see it again if he dares to look away. This isn't the fear of seeing what sort of reaction such a display might pull out of Chilton, what he might analyze this all to mean. This is pure, unbridled horror over the loss of Abigail Hobbs.]
She has nowhere else to go. [Slips out, thick and terrified, because however much Will might hope that help arrives to that house immediately, there are four people with severe injuries waiting on said help, and while Will might argue and scream for them to see to Abigail first, last he remembers...he wasn't able to do even that. Will tries to keep from vocally choking, stumbles despite himself. It's clear that where he might be unable to keep himself from thinking about it, he's kept himself from saying it.] It's only been a few days. She'll be back.
[How many times has the psychiatrist in the room heard the delusional put forth their delusions in an effort to make it true, knowing that's not how it works? Will Graham is adding onto that number without being trapped at the BSHCI.]
no subject
Frederick Chilton invades and Will makes no move to stop him, acknowledges the new presence only in how he might move around him, if he has to. Let him see, give him less to extrapolate. Work in the light for once, and, oh, it's impossible to hide in any shadow when he catches where Chilton's hand is going. The sound of the frame moving away from its surface hits his ears like an out of tune kettledrum, larger and louder than it has any right to be. In fact, Will's almost certain he imagines it, that there was no noise at all except for what plays in his head. What stops him in his tracks, has him staring at Chilton with the last pair of her socks held limply in front of his stomach. He takes in the picture as though he's never seen it and is afraid he'll never see it again if he dares to look away. This isn't the fear of seeing what sort of reaction such a display might pull out of Chilton, what he might analyze this all to mean. This is pure, unbridled horror over the loss of Abigail Hobbs.]
She has nowhere else to go. [Slips out, thick and terrified, because however much Will might hope that help arrives to that house immediately, there are four people with severe injuries waiting on said help, and while Will might argue and scream for them to see to Abigail first, last he remembers...he wasn't able to do even that. Will tries to keep from vocally choking, stumbles despite himself. It's clear that where he might be unable to keep himself from thinking about it, he's kept himself from saying it.] It's only been a few days. She'll be back.
[How many times has the psychiatrist in the room heard the delusional put forth their delusions in an effort to make it true, knowing that's not how it works? Will Graham is adding onto that number without being trapped at the BSHCI.]