Now, as he stares into Will Graham's wide, dilated eyes, he sees something else.

Will is trembling in ropes, lying on the floor of his own bedroom. He knows Molly and Josh are tied and locked in the bathroom. He needs to keep Dolarhyde distracted.

The killer watches the thin, pale face before him. The cut on his cheek bleeds nicely. Dolarhyde's heart speeds up; he wants to lick the crimson trail. Graham parts his dry, bloodied lips to say something.

"I know you can stop him, Francis."

"I can't. I wanted to but you made Him angry."

"Yes, you can," Will rasps. "You will."

Dolarhyde looks angrily at the investigator who holds his gaze back fervently. Those eyes are piercing into him as if HE KNOWS. Will Graham isn't ugly but isnÕt beautiful either. He is slim, wearing a body of a thinker with a madman'Õs eyes. And a mind like his own.

Now, being calm and calculated, he bends down, his face edging closer to Will.

"You read my journal, didn't you?"

Will nodded. "I know you were trying to stop. Don't let HIM kill you."

Francis groans. That journal is an embodiment of his memory, his life. His every nightmare, every shameful moment, every fear, elation and secret desire was recorded in that big Book. He wanted it to be burnt with the house, along with the Painting, along with Grandmother'Õs teeth.

Now it had not only survived; it was reborn inside Will Graham. And he knows Graham is a living projector.

Graham is staring at him with those sharp blue eyes, as sharp as Grandmother's slaps and spits, as sharp as the pieces of mirror cutting into his flesh when his half brother slammed his face into it. Those eyes are cutting through his brain, through the back of his skull as if he KNOWS.

He sees his own image those blue reflections; and NO! Cuntface is weeping.

"I wanted to trust her," he mumbles, his mouth producing a strangled, wet noise. "But she was just like some other bitches." His spits the last word out.
"She didn't mean to use you or hurt you, Francis." Graham averts his eyes to the knife in the killer's hand, which is lowering to his side. "She was crushed by your rejection, remember?"

Dolarhyde stares hard at Will, and the man can see emotions whirling in those hazel pools.

"That morning, she thought it was over." Will says slowly. "But you tried to stop because you wanted to help her."
"I have wanted to."
"She knows now, Francis."
"Why do you care? You think I don't know what you're trying to do?" Dolarhyde grits.

Graham holds the trembling hazel eyes, and he feels, despite fear and anticipation, that he is being drawn into a black hole.

"Because I know who you are."
"And Who am I?"
"You'll never be the Dragon, Francis. And you know that. You and him are now two beings. You know you'll never become HIM, so you tried to kill him, didn't you?" Graham drops his voice as low as Dolarhyde's.

Angered, the killer backhands Graham with the fist holding the knife. The impact almost snaps Will's neck, and his lips start to bleed anew.

"SHUT UP!"

Chest puffing, veins protruding on his neck, Dolarhyde breathes fire. How dare Graham speak like he has been living inside his head?

It hurts.

He knows the Dragon and him are now forever separated. It breaks his heart to hear it from this man before him speaking his failure for him.

No...don't fall into that trick again, you filthy harelip. No, my name is Francis, I am a good boy. I will be a good boy! Please donÕt hurt me anymore...

Looking down at Graham, he sees blood tainting the man's face and chest where he has left a serious gash with his knife, making the shirt soak with the fluid. He smells the tang. Then, he realizes for the first time that the man is beautiful. Something is coiling in him, fast, spiraling up and down inside his chest, like current and electricity running rampant in his body. The sight of blood excites him, the scent fevers him, making him want to smear himself with that beautiful red flow, wipe it on his face and lick his palms the life of others.

And those wide blue eyes are speaking of fear. It elevates him to a higher excitement. Will Graham has interested him before with his intelligence, now he arouses him with his bleeding.

"You remember everything you see, don't you? How about I put pieces of glass in your eyes so you can see me forever?" He whispers just to make Will tremble, and touches the man's face.

Will swallows hard, fear making his stomach clench and his breathing difficult. Dolarhyde lifts his knife, and for a moment Will can't stop himself from closing his eyes, expecting the stab somewhere in his gut.

Instead, he feels a hot, thick tongue wiping at the corner of his mouth. His body goes rigid with shock.

Dolarhyde swallows the tangy juice, panting. He can feel his erection pushing against his trousers, begging to be released and to impale itself inside a human body, to mark his existence.

The killer slides the blade inside Will's shirt and cuts it open, revealing the manÕs well-toned chest. Will's jaws tighten, his lips forming flat lines trying to suppress his heart from leaping out with horror. He fails completely from stopping his body from shuddering, searching his mind to conjure up words to stop the monster.

Dolarhyde lays his palm on Will'Õs chest, and he feels the thundering race. He doesnÕ't want to kill Graham; he'd love to see the man tremble and submit to him. He stretches his back, wishing he had his camera with him. Opening his mouth, revealing his own set of white teeth, Francis bends down and bites into the flesh on WillÕ's neck and shoulder.

His ears are filled with a long, painful howl. His mouth is full of blood as he sinks harder. Graham's body spasms and touches his skin. The killer wraps his arm around WillÕs back and presses their bodies together.

For him, this is closer to joy than any sex could be. He hates those beautiful women, women who were disgusted by his face, just like his mother; and who used him just like Grandmother.

Now, they have seen who he is, and they remember. So will Graham.

The investigator's heart smashes against his chest in time of the pulse that is dancing against his tongue. Francis closes his eyes in ecstasy, swallows, and withdraws. He rests back on his heels and speculates his mark.

It looks beautiful on this man. His own teeth, his own being. Not the Dragon's. He is a man and he can bite. He's glad he left GrandmotherÕs in the fire.

"Ugggnh..no...," Will mumbles raggedly. His eyes are clouded with darkness. The hot, white pain shoots from his neck to his every nerve ending. It was raw like a hammer into a skull.

The killer's face breaks into a genuine smile; his eyes glittering, cheek blushing like a boy watching his birthday gift. He cups Will's face and whispers in his low, throaty voice, "Shh...don't cry, or He will hear you and hurt you."

Will slowly focuses on the face before him, he stares at the scar on the upper lip, on the lips that are smudged by his blood, and sneers, "You can't hurt me, motherfucker."

"Um hmmm. I think I can. And I will make you remember."

Dolarhyde smiles, lowering the blade near Will's left chest, and starting slashing a long, straight line into it.

He speaks evenly, his voice assured and measured. "Every night you're asleep, you'll see ME in your dreams. Because you have stolen my memory." He cuts a horizontal line on the top of the first line. "You will remember ME, Will Graham."

Cut. Slash.

Cut.

Will bites his lips to stop himself from screaming.

Finishing, Dolarhyde gazes into Will's eyes for a long moment, as if recording him. Graham will live and tell. Unlike Freddy Lounds, Will Graham remembers.

He knows the police will be here soon, but he will take his chance. He pulls his shirt up because he needs to feel everything. Then, not wanting to risk the chance of getting kicked, he leaves the ropes on Graham and slices the pants open.

Will lies utterly still.

Dolarhyde rips what is left of Will's pants to look at the long, ugly gash above his pelvis. Tracing his fingertips on the scar carved by Dr. Hannibal Lecter, he unbuttons his own military pants.

And slashes again.

+

The room is all white. So white he swears he can see his own face on the wall.

"You'Õre sure you want it this way, Will?" John Crawford sits down on the chair next to the patient bed. He looks at the hallowed faced man, but all he sees is an empty shell of the best investigator, his friend, and a man he once knew.

"Did she give anything to you at all?" Will turns to look at Crawford for the first time since he has entered the room. "Anything for me?"

Crawford looks down on his hands in shame. "No."

Will stares, his blue eyes dull. He nods.

"Will, I know this is hard for you, but I think you should step back." Crawford's face is grim and he looks ten years older as if this whole event has finally sucked the life out of him. Actually, he's broken hearted to see Graham like this. "It's time to stop."

Will's eyes flash madness, and he says, "No."
"Will."
"Don't." He shakes his head. "I'll get out tomorrow. You pulled me into this. You'd better stick with it."

For the first time Crawford let his eyes drift to the bite mark on Will's neck. He knows Graham is watching him watching the mark, but he can't take his eyes away. They move involuntarily to the engraving on Will's left chest.

FD

Crawford shudders inwardly at the thought of what it means.

"That bastard can't kill himself," Will grits. "I'll hunt him down and shove his fucking dick into his mouth."

Crawford cringes but can only nod in agreement. He owes that to Will. The nurse enters, driving him away. While walking down the hospital isle, thinking about the wife and son who have fled to the safer part of humanity, far away from insanity, he wonders if he has been one of the murderers himself.

Back in the room at night, Will Graham lies on his bed with eyes open in the dark. His mind keeps replaying every word Dolarhyde spoke, every bite, every slice. Every touch...

Getting up from the bed, he goes into the bathroom, and flicks the light on. He sees Francis Dolarhyde everywhere.

Now he knows why he needs to smash the mirror.


END
Dec 1, 2002.