The only thing Will dreams about in his cell is vomiting. Vomiting white light.
He is making him do it. He holds the scissors and the scalpels, he holds everything. He holds Will's face gently with one hand as the other reaches around to press and push at his stomach.
On the best of days, Will successfully avoids looking directly through the mirror at his own mouth. On the worst, his reflection shows a blurred void where his mouth should be. He used to laugh, and lecture, and sing and give piercing insights, now all he has become is tainted.