Will wasn't the only one that had bad memories of silence, though his wasn't quite so.. white. And come to think of it, it wasn't all that quiet either. But this reminded him, regardless, of when he was young, hiding in a cupboard in the kitchen with his sister beside him, waiting for his father's latest rage to die down, terrified of being found, of being hurt again. That was why this shit made him crazy, and why he was usually more annoyed when he got out of here than he was when they put him in. And yet they still never learned.
He was quiet after he spoke, waiting for a response, hoping for one, and relieved when one finally came. He smiled a little. "Perfection? Is that what you call it? I think you need to take a better look at my face if you wanna see what perfection looks like." And then he noticed the blood on his hands and he fell silent for a moment, a frown pursing his lips. "You're not bleeding too bad, are you?" He actually sounded concerned. And maybe he was, just a little. He never intended to grow up to be like his father, after all.