Chapter Text
-
Winter, 15’
The first one came just four weeks after your arrest. The sky was clear and its stars aligned in exactly the right order to forecast bad news. You were making it perfectly impossible to carry out the bedridden promises I made before you surrendered by having a letter end up in my mailbox.
The truth was, I had been burning with regret for weeks. It was funny that the moment I found the letter, it was the only time I remembered why I wanted to forget you.
The thick envelope rubbed against my fingertips like sandpaper. As if it was slowly stealing my fingerprints. I thought of the softer texture of a plaid blanket, of the way my bed screamed when I woke up. I thought of how cold it was in America compared to Italy, and how the memories fell like the snow outside the window when they came back to me.
The teeth of your bonesaw in my head did not hurt quite as much as the curves of the handwritten letters that spelled out my name.
‘’Dear Will,
I hope this letter finds you well. If it does that means things have not ended the way I would have liked them to, but at least it will have found you. Which is all that truly matters now, in the end.
In all honesty, it pains me to write not knowing your status or whereabouts. It bothers me to live in uncertainty when it comes to your wellbeing. They won’t tell me anything over here. I may barely utter your name. It took me too long to convince Alana to let me write you this letter. I am sure you’re aware it will be thoroughly inspected by her, for that reason I’m afraid I cannot be very personal. I hope you can appreciate what I am able to tell you.
In a world where it’s proven that in rare instances shattered teacups do come together, it pains me to know I wasn’t capable enough to keep this one from breaking apart. Florence made me believe in miracles, Will. I dream of trying again. I dream of things moving in a different direction, of steadier hands and honesty. Things you and I fatally lack.
It is quiet here. Alana makes sure I am left without any opportunity for conversation. I have been watched for days, I have not been spoken to much. I have my ways, but when silence comes and darkness falls over the plain walls of this cell, I think of you.
Are you alone, Will? You must be. You banished both of us to the icy pit of loneliness. Is that what you intended all along?
I dream a lot. I wonder about the truth and ask myself how much of it was real. Not because I don’t trust my own perception. Perhaps just because I want to keep distance, to prevent heartbreak. I hope that you keep your track of the truth, Will. I hope that you’ll be there to tell me about it someday.
Remember my words. In times of comfort and perhaps a new life, keep remembering all that you and I shared. Don’t try denying. Let’s not bury the memories, simply let them gather some dust on the shelves of your wonderful mind. Let’s cherish our time together. With all its harm and bitter unease, I hope you keep the thought of me in your secret bell jar that holds your longing. I hope you have even the slightest look at it each night. Or maybe before dinner.
If you receive this letter, Will, know that the thought of seeing you again, soon or late, is enough to keep me satisfied.
Yours, sincerely,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.’’
After reading I threw on one of my old jackets and went outside to chop firewood. My hot breath vaporised in the air like cigarette smoke and I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this angry. Not this kind of anger. You once told me that my anger was composed. That it was dark, unpredictable. That, wherever it was there, it was always lurking in the shadows of my mind, ready to attack when given the opportunity. Ready to bite and withdraw again, almost entirely silent.
This was not like that. I could barely contain myself. I plucked my heaviest axe off the walls of my shed and it still wasn’t enough. I drove it down on bark after bark, splitting pieces like my life depended on it, and it wasn’t ever enough. There was a white-hot rage crawling through my chest and it had me sweating right through my thick wool clothes. I grabbed a big piece of wood and tossed it as far as I could into the frozen field.
‘’I am alone!’’ I yelled and heard nothing, no one, echoing my words. ‘’Thank God I am, you fucking son of a bitch!’’
And that was my truth. That was the only thing for me to keep track of. That I had intentionally chosen true loneliness over having to live and die yet another life with you.
When I got back inside I found a big splinter buried deep into the exact middle of my palm. Like a stigmata. I got crucified by my own feelings and had the idea that it would be wrong to take it out.
The pain was delicious. It made me hiss every time I tried to hold something properly. A few days later my palm was numb from an infection and I forced myself to take it out. I grabbed my biggest set of tweezers. Even with those it took me almost half an hour to pull the damn thing loose. When I finally got it out, a tiny part of it was still stuck underneath my skin. I gave up and accepted that my palm would heal itself, and that there would forever be a tiny black dot in the middle of my hand. It would torture me with the thought of you until it sunk so deep I wouldn’t be able to see it anymore.
In the end the letter ended up on the bottom of a drawer. It turned out I chopped firewood for weeks, but didn’t put on the fireplace until March. The cold was my only company. The quivering in bed was the only thing that made me suffer enough to not suffocate thinking of you.
-
Winter, 15’
The second one was almost tossed into the fire before I even opened it. It came six weeks after the first. For those ten weeks that passed I never cooked or bought any decent food. I ate garbage. Greasy takeout stuffed with chemicals that would have given you a heart attack, absurd combinations of leftovers, soup and bread for both breakfast, lunch and dinner, microwave meals, salty noodles and lazy five ingredient gumbo. I got through some of my days surviving merely on coffee and stale crackers. Eating gave me no pleasure. I only ate because I had to. Because I was fighting to survive. I ate on the couch, in bed, on the floor, standing against my kitchen island, at my desk, I ate anywhere but at the dinner table. I ate because I didn’t want to send myself to the grave so unromantically. It was the only reason.
Everytime I thought about the trials I got sick to my stomach. Jack came over because there were matters to be discussed. He came to my house because I refused to step inside the Quantico building ever again. I refused to go anywhere but my property and the town near it. He came by three times. Every time he asked how I was doing. Every time he knew I was not doing fine.
I would have to stand, he told me. I was their best witness. Their trump card. I could get you anywhere I wanted to. The electric chair, the euthanesia bed or a lifeless cell, it was all up to me.
The last time he came Jack handed me your letter. I was already on my way to grab wood for the fire when Jack said:
‘’You ought to open it. It’s formal. And very short.’’
He smiled and I found myself imprisoned in the gap between his front teeth, but there was no joy in it. He was devoid of all his colour. The bruising around his eyes matched mine. You surrendered and it was as if you took everything that made life worth living with you into captivity.
He giveth, he taketh away.
The letter was as Jack promised. I hated it that it was as he promised.
‘’Dear Will,
The dates of the trail have been set. You have been asked to stand. Will you let someone else speak for you or will you be there? I hope you will be. I would like to see you again.
Do tell me if you’ll come.
Sincerely,
Hannibal’’
‘’I won’t let him know anything.’’ I told Jack, who sighed, rubbed his eyebrows and stared at the buzzing space heater.
‘’But will you stand?’’ He asked. Winston barked and slipped underneath the table, draping himself over my feet. My dogs were the only thing that kept me going. They gave me responsibility, purpose. They reminded me that, once, I was seen and cared for.
Sometimes I looked at my dogs and thought you. Of a stray that I allowed to bite my arm, fed and still cared for. Because I was the only one to ever understand him, to accept him, in a world where everyone else was blind.
That stray was now about to be put behind bars forever, and I knew I was too far gone to help either him or myself. The best I could give him was theatre. I could pretend like I did not know him. It would hurt far less than looking him in the eyes as I pledged for his death, translating the voice of all those he wronged instead of my own.
I had never intended confinement. When I told you to run away you sat in front of my door with your tail between your legs until authorities came to get you. You made me believe in true love. You also made me believe it was the most harmful thing on earth.
I did not answer Jack then. I didn’t even offer him a drink. I waited until he stood up, told me to take care of myself and take this opportunity as a new start, and then slammed the door.
‘’What’s done is done.’’ His voice thrummed through my house like a hidden bass under the floorboards. Or like a beating heart. ‘’It’s over, Will. Look at it from the bright side. We can all breathe again. You can still get used to the light and learn how to appreciate it. I hope, for all of us, that it’s not too late for you.’’
I certainly didn’t feel like I could breathe again, but Jack was right about the light. The sun always kept rising, no matter how badly I clawed to the safe silence of night. It was over. I would act like the man in the courtroom was just a name in the newspapers. Like I hadn’t known him before the trial. In return I would make myself totally unrecognisable, so that if you tried to find even a trace of me, you would be left trying to hold onto air.
I would become empty space for you. The black hole in your memory and the only missing piece in the circus that would be your trial. That is how impersonal I would make myself in your presence.
The next time I saw Jack again was in the courtroom. It would be the moonscape that was his face with all its craters and its greyness that would greet me way before you, your presence oppressive as the sun, were brought into the room.
I folded your letter to a wad of paper and threw it right into my trashcan when I heard Jack’s car roar to drive back to Quantico. It calmed me a little knowing that your trial seemed so unreal that it felt like it was all lightyears away.
-
Spring, 15’
The third one arrived just a week after I got another package. A book was left on my doormat. I barely had to look at the name to know who sent it. There was a note sticking out of the pages.
Will Graham, I couldn’t have written this story without you.
There was a black and white photo of your face on the cover. It only showed your eyes, a mask covered the rest. I threw the book into the fire before I even opened it, along with the note. If there was anything I didn’t want to read, it was how my name was used for the sake of making you, and me for that matter, sound more insane. I knew the strategy that would be used in court. I would become a one-sided love story gone wrong, merely so that they could make your madness look more believable. The idea of being deemed the obsessive love interest of a world famous serial killer for the rest of my life sounded like exactly the wrong addition to the hellhole I was trying to climb out of already.
There wasn’t much I could do, either way. You would happily agree if they asked you why you did all of it. You’d gladly claim it was because of me. It would only make you sound more insane, and I would never be able to rid myself of that burden. You would smile and enjoy yourself because such a heavy truth could become so easy to share once used as a defence strategy.
Your letter didn’t make the fire like Freddie’s book. You were much more amused than I was, it appeared.
‘’Dear Will,
Have you read the article Frederick and Alana published together? You must have had a good laugh reading such nonsense. They are working tremendously hard for my insanity defence. How nice of them to do so, don’t you think? Our good friend Mrs. Lounds tried her hand at it, too. I heard she is writing a book about me. Or has written, by now. I would have loved to say that I find it fascinating, but remembering the bland half truths of her previous articles does not get my hopes up very much. There are already PhD candidates and second-grade psychiatrists flowing in to take my interviews, but they all bore me immensely. I feel what you must have felt when you were in my place. I take my daily pleasures out of getting on the nerves of the experienced and scaring the younger ones. Though I have too much dignity to even think about it, I do understand why some patients enjoy starting pissing contests with their visitors. There is nothing more amusing than a face colouring red with anger when you’re already behind bars.
The trail is approaching, you have not replied, which makes me believe that I will see you in court, Will. If it is the truth, do yourself a favour and confront me on paper before doing it with your feet on a wooden platform and a hand on the bible.
Sincerely yours,
Hannibal’’
In the meantime I blocked all of Freddie Lounds’ email addresses, even her fake accounts. I didn’t watch TV except for the sports and fishing channels. Never did I read even a single newspaper. It was as if I was holding my breath until the day of the trial. I walked with my dogs, let them run around in the fields and wished I could switch places with them. I wished that I could be the one darting through the snow without a thought.
I took very good care of them now that I finally got back. I brushed them two times a day, went back to making their food myself, bathed them double as often as before. Most of them even slept with me in bed. I didn’t have as many nightmares anymore, but what did sting was the empty space around me. As if I was used to the body of someone next to me on the mattress that had never been there. I missed something I never had, and my creaky double bed never felt so big before.
I called your old number only once. The phone rang ten times total. I sat through all of them just to get to your voicemail. It was well past three am, I went to bed dizzy from liquor and a lack of sleep, and stared at my phone screen until the numbers started to dance. I didn’t do it because I missed you, I told myself. Even your voicemail was better than my other options. I did it because I wanted someone to talk to and I didn’t know anyone else I could trust. And maybe because I wanted to hear your voice, even if it was just for five seconds in which an old tape replayed you saying your own name. I ended up with a voicemail of an hour and a half, but it didn’t matter. You wouldn’t hear it anyway. I didn’t remember what I said the next morning, only how I ended it.
‘’I figured it out, you know?’’ I could still hear myself whisper. ‘’I figured it all out on that boat. I knew what I wanted, Hannibal, that’s why I went to Italy for you. I wanted you. I finally let myself feel that way. I figured it all out! I was ready to… I was ready for us. I would have gone with you, anywhere, anywhere, and you… I swear, Hannibal, you’re damn crazy, and I can’t even blame you. I… Goodbye, I hope the regret eats you alive.’’
If anyone finds this, I’m dead, I thought the moment I ended the call. So I quickly deleted the recording and had a dreamless sleep for the first time in weeks.
-
Spring 15’
After the fourth letter I woke up to a broken mirror. Bleeding knuckles, too. They matched the asymmetrical star of shards in the glass.
‘’My dear Will,
Allow me to apologise for writing another letter without receiving a response. Alana was kind enough to tell me you received the others. I am grateful, since I have found that thinking of what I will write to you is quite a good way to pass the time.
Let me start by telling you of a moment I keep thinking about. Do you know how much you weigh, Will?
Somewhere between 160 and 170 lbs. 163, to be very specific.You were not incredibly hard to carry, but you were quite stiff. Your wounds weren’t life threatening. My saw barely graced your frontal bone, the scalpel never made it further than a slight cut. It was the cold that came bearing a risk. Snow is quite unforgiving.
There was just a blanket on your bed. No decent sheets. I dressed you in three layers to make sure the cold would creep out of your body as fast as possible. I gave you my jacket. You needed it more than I did.
Your skin was very pale. Is it still? You could do with a little tanning this summer.
I was honoured when you passed out in my arms. I didn’t expect you to be so harsh on me that night, Will. I thought I had been fast enough not to let the frost reach your heart.
I turned myself in to make sure you wouldn’t go through what I am experiencing now. I don’t know where you are or what you are doing, but doubt has never been a friend of mine. I won’t allow it to become one.
I’d appreciate it if you gave me a sign, Will. Even if it is just so that I can rest properly at night. As an old friend, as the man you sailed to Italy for, do me this favour. You were always cold, but you were never cruel.
Yours,
H.L.’’
There were pieces glittering in the sink, a few were scattered over the floor. I picked up the shards with my bare hands and only went to wash the blood off after I got rid of all of them. I knew what I dreamt of. And that breaking mirrors could sometimes feel like crushing bones. That, in a state of unconsciousness, it was almost the same as punching someone in the face.
I cleaned things up, bought a new mirror and forgot about it. The dreams weren’t new, neither was the sleepwalking. Your absence came with a darkness that ought to be filled in different ways. Nightmares were one of those ways.
The only problem with the new mirror was that it was longer than my previous one. Instead of stopping just beneath my chest, the thing showed my whole torso and stopped at my hips. I didn’t even realise when installing it, only when I went to take a shower. I peeled my shirt off and turned on the water. The steam rose up to the ceiling as I made the mistake of turning back to look at myself.
My eyes moved down to my own stomach immediately. To the pale line running right across my abdomen like a canyon splitting a landscape in two. Somehow it still stood out, even amidst all the others. I could trace my fingertips from one side to the other and feel the drag path it made in my flesh. The thought of your knife in my gut turned into arousal swirling right into my lower stomach. Like blood dripping from my navel to my thighs.
I don’t know for how long I stood there, hand on my stomach, half hard and deeply ashamed, but it was long enough for the mirror to fog over. I should have taken it as a sign to step into the water, but instead I wiped the condense off the reflection until only my stomach was visible. At least I wouldn’t have to look at the way my cheeks faded to a blush like that. Behind the blur I saw my own face move, happy to not be able to see my own big blown pupils and parted lips.
I pressed into the scar, massaged and kneaded it. I rubbed it with my palm until the skin around it started to burn. That way I could almost feel you there, just the tiniest bit of you inside me. Usually I was grateful that we never crossed physical boundaries, but in scarce moments like this I always knew that deep down, I wished we went for more.
The mirror went white for a second time, and I shook my head, turned off the lights and stepped into the shower before I could give in to touching myself.
Once in the shower I planted both my hands against the icy tiles and let the warm water pour over my head. I focussed on the way it trickled down my back, hoping it would calm my head a little. It just came up with more memories of you. Of an apartment in Florence where the light looked like liquid gold and felt just as heavy, too. Of your breath on my shoulder as you pried the bullet out, your arm around my waist, your thigh touching my knee. The smell of blood, metal and cologne. The smell of you, as you bowed over my wound and pressed my nose into your hair. The nauseating pain, the weight of the knife in my hands, your voice. I dreamt of museums and slaughter before I woke up bound to a dinner table.
The smell, God, the smell. And your disgusting soup, too. I pressed my face against the tiles between my hands. I wanted it to soothe my burning head and wished I could drown in the pathetic stream of the shower. I wished I could just go out like this, slumping against the wall like a ragdoll until they found me naked and grey on the day of the trial. It seemed like a more pleasant scenario than having to face you, cuffed and silent, in court.
-
Spring 15’
I wrote my response later that night. When I closed my eyes and let the pendulum swing, I imagined my pen was held by someone who did not know you at all.
‘’Dr. Lecter,
I apologise for the late response, but I am not sorry for not responding. You were supposed to stay guessing. You deserved to. I only write to let you know that you should stop writing, and that I’m not answering again.
I hope that your injuries have healed well and that you aren’t in much pain. I manage with a handful of painkillers every day. Recovery is slow, but bearable.
Do not reach out to me for personal reasons again. I can’t give you what you need.
Believe whatever your mind remembers to be true. You’re way too intelligent to let all of this’’
The mistake came with a sharp gasp and an angry scratch of my pen. I considered rewriting the whole letter, but it was two at night and I simply didn’t have the energy for it. I told myself it wasn’t that bad. I could permit a very tiny slip. You were writing me hardly concealed love letters, I could make a small mistake.
‘’-things get to your head. Your mind will never deceive you.
Dwell on memories as much as you like, but know that I have no intentions of doing so.
I’ll be at the trail. Don’t talk to me. It’s no use trying to look at me, I won’t be looking back. It’s naive and, above all, killing to believe in miracles.
W.’’
The man that had the misfortune of narrating my letter was a fake stoic, were one to see through his composed facade. At least he was not nearly as much of a coward as myself.
The man who wrote this letter still dressed himself in button downs every day, he had no idea of what you looked like with tears in your eyes or with blood in your hair. He never once accepted a dinner invitation. That man was somewhere else, in a different life. A life in which Hannibal Lecter was still a free man, loveless and superior. And where Will Graham was hardly anyone at all.
-
Spring 15’
Your fifth letter arrived at the height of your trials, just before the first time I was about to show up.
I barely slept for a week and did anything to avoid going to bed, to be perfectly honest. Every time I thought of lying down I got sick thinking of meeting you in my dreams. We shared some rooms in our own palaces. The weather outside was getting better, the trees were blooming and every time I closed my eyes I knew that I would end up in the chapel. Funny, the only two people I really didn’t want to interact with were God and you.
It was bright in there, way brighter than the real thing ever was. Way brighter than the shy strands of a May sun sneaking through my curtains, much brighter than any of my other dreams.
I took the letter from the mailbox and felt stained. Like your ink leaked out of the envelope and painted my whole hands black. I could grow claws of that same colour, lie down and ruin myself until I knew that I did such damage it just had to ruin you the same. I considered you my mirror reflection, my flipside, everything I suffered, you suffered in your own way. It felt like you were cancer in my left lung, the blood in my aorta, the inflamed side of a sick brain, a missing arm or leg. You left your marks, not just on the outside. You had always known where exactly to poke to reach the softer spots. I could only hope you felt the same way.
Hell, if that’s what true love meant, I finally understood why it sent people to the grave.
The funniest thing was, it wasn’t even a memory that did it that night. It was only a book. It was nothing more than a damn passage that made me crawl out of bed, over to the forbidden drawer. Pulling it open felt like unleashing all evil in the world, but I took the letter anyway.
‘’Dear William,
You write me this letter and expect for me to not respond. You’re smarter than that. You know me better than anyone, just as I know you. Had you wanted me to stay silent, you wouldn’t have taken such time to construct this perfectly distant response. I admit that I have rarely felt more relief than when I received your letter, Will, despite its contents. I thank you for responding.
You try hard to appear to me as a changed man, Will. You try hard to keep your distance. The truth is, the snakes have long slithered by and you are still here. You and I are where we are, not because you wanted us to be, simply because I decided for things to be this way. What’s keeping the mongoose if it can fulfil its purpose underneath other houses, Will? Why doesn’t it leave?
Allow yourself to feel bad about what’s lost. It’s only human to long for something one can’t have. Burn my letters, if that satisfies you. Rip them to shreds or swallow them dry, I will not stop writing. Even if just for my own sanity. I appreciate knowing you’re alive enough to stay so energetically silent.
Build your new life after the trial. Enjoy it as much as you can, but know I’ll be right here. Know that you can’t escape what’s inside of you. You’ve tried to let me go before and failed. I might be fading as we speak, but the past is unchangeable and will follow you wherever you plant your feet, Will. The past will go wherever you go, and so will I.
I will stay by you, come hell or high water. Come hate or desire. You will think of me looking in whatever direction you may be heading.
I’ll see you in court in two days. Reunited in evidence, I will sing your name when asked why I surrendered.
Yours,
Hannibal Lecter’’
I wanted to fold the thing up and go to sleep like I never read it at all. I really wanted to, but I felt like my whole body was made of lead and blinked to make sure the antlered head in the corner of my room wasn’t there. I blinked a few times, but the wendigo didn’t leave. He stared me down with milk white eyes and I knew that he could look right through me. Into the back of my skull and beyond it. It could see the invisible blood that lingered under the rims of my fingernails and smell the heat pooling in my stomach.
The buzzing of the ceiling fan was the only sound in the black bedroom. Two days and you would go from a memory back to flesh and blood. I only had two days to grieve you as if you were dead before the fantasy broke for another while.
Hate and Desire, some things are better kept away from the public. Some things you should sit with in the quiet dark, grabbing a full fist of sheets, pressing letters to your own damp chest. Some prayers are better whispered when you know no one is listening. I prayed for my own sanity and wished to be forgiven when I slumped down against the mattress and felt the heat crawl up my inner thighs, seeping into my crotch with frightening ease.
I hoped you would say my name in court. I hoped you would say it a thousand times. Just as long as I didn’t have to look at you.
My heavy breathing tuned in with the hum of the fan. I slipped my hand into my boxers and sighed, draping my other arm over my eyes hoping it would shield me from any possible blame. You served us ortolans and we were stubborn enough not to put napkins over our heads, yet here I was, covering my face and hiding from God. Or maybe I was just hiding from you. The difference wasn’t that big.
I moved my hand down and briefly closed it around my own throat. The sound that I made when I applied even just a tiny bit of pressure was enough to snap out of it. Hell, I couldn’t drift too far. If I did that it was over for me. The moment I closed my eyes and imagined my own hands to be yours, I knew I was done for it.
In the end I went to sleep in the filth. I felt quite at home in the discomfort of sweat, spit, semen and whatever else covered sheets. The letter I put on my nightstand. Folded and stained. I’d put it back into the drawer tomorrow.
For now, the only thing I imagined putting away was my heart. Into a small iron box. When I went to sleep I put the box by my feet at the end of the bed, knowing that the next morning it would feel a little heavier and it would be a little tougher to put it back in my chest. The damn thing would keep beating anyway, and I was much more comfortable not having to bear the guilt of having to bear it. Even if it was just for a while.
-
The morning of the trail Jack forced me into an office and locked the door. He told me it was so that no one could get in. In reality it felt like he did it so that I couldn’t get out. He sat me down in front of the desk to look me straight in the eyes and didn’t even try to be polite. It was clear that he wanted me to take him very seriously.
I knew he didn’t trust me then. He didn’t trust what I was going to say or do, but both of us were tired. Of you, of the process, all of it. We understood each other enough to wish each other the best. The mutual awareness that I ignored him for months hung heavy in the air, but not as heavy as Jack’s faith in me. He prayed that I would not let my feelings get in the way, and I prayed along with him.
‘’Since his incarceration Hannibal has been very open about his so-called obsessive compassion for you. There will be questions, Will. They are going to ask if you were romantically involved with him. It’s very important that I know for sure what you will answer.’’
I nodded and looked right past him, at the tasteless art piece behind his head. It was rather depressing. A collection of dark grey brushstrokes.
‘’I know.’’
Jack sighed very deeply. He was going to ask about it. He didn’t want to, but he would. It took him half a minute and desperately avoiding any eye contact to do it.
‘’Were you?’’
I shook my head and balled my hand to a fist in my lap. The curtains were half shut and the chair was deeply uncomfortable.
‘’I never slept with him, Jack.’’
‘’No?’’
Now that did surprise me. Jack too, it seemed.
‘’Did you doubt that?’’
‘’There were moments where it crossed my mind, though I knew it was unlikely.’’
I rubbed my hand across my mouth and stared down at the desk instead of at Jack.
‘’Hannibal and I never acted on anything.’’
He nodded, suspicious, but a little reassured, too.
‘’You know that physical involvement is not the only thing they are asking for.’’
Jack was dressed entirely in black. So was I. We never agreed upon it, but if someone saw us together it would be easy enough to assume we were going to a funeral. In a way, we were. We were burying a man who had once been a colleague and friend to both of us. What he meant to each of us separately was left unspoken.
‘’But it’s the only answer they are going to get. They’re not going to ask me if I felt the same about him, Jack, they won’t do that in court. That would make me something much darker and much more inconvenient than a witness.’'
‘’It would… It would.’’
I fished my glasses out of my pocket. Only once there was a frame creating distance between me and Jack I could actually look at him.
‘’You want to ask me, don’t you?’’
He stood up and walked over to the window, pushed the curtain aside, then let it fall right back into place.
‘’I want to, but I’m not going to.’’
‘’Why?’’
‘’I’m afraid…’’ His breath stocked. ‘’-of what you might answer. I’m afraid you’ll lie, I’m also afraid of the truth.’’ He turned around with another sigh, the low rumble of thunder roaring in his eyes, and looked straight at me at last. ‘’Lie in court for all I care, Will, just be clear to them. If you don’t want to advocate your own truth, advocate ours.’’
After that he let me out of the office. I went to get some water and ended up lingering by the tap until the trial began. I watched everyone stream in and take their seats. One minute before they were about to close the doors I slipped inside and sat in the back row, in the darkest corner of the huge room. It was also pretty far removed from the doors. Far enough for you not to see me the moment you were wheeled into the room.
When you were brought in I pressed myself up against the wall and lowered my eyes to the marble tile floor, hoping to blend right in with the walls. You didn’t speak except for when you were directly asked for something, and then only yes or no. You weren’t allowed to utter anything else. Your lawyer did all the work, but I could hear your smug amusement even in those small three letter words.
When I was called to the stand I did not look at you. You, seated almost right in front of me. I didn’t look at Jack Crawford, who was looking at me almost as intensely from the second row. I didn’t look at anyone, except for Bedelia Du Maurier, who was called to the stand before me and now sat somewhere closeby. She looked awfully pleased as well.
“Mr Graham, you were involved with the accused.”
The prosecutor was a short man with one of those annoying voices that went straight to my head. His ego manifested a way taller shadow than the man’s actual silhouette.
“Yes.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Well enough.”
“Can you specify, Mr Graham?”
I bit my tongue.
“No.”
“Because you don’t want to?” The prosecutor asked, hands flat on my stand. He was trying to come up with some form of intimidation. It didn’t work very well.
“Because I can’t.”
I thought I could see you smiling from the corner of my eye. Maybe you had been since my name was called out.
“Were you platonically involved with the accused?”
“At the start. When I didn’t yet know what he was.”
“Not anymore?”
“No.”
“Were you romantically involved with the accused?”
A wave of quiet discomfort washed over the courtroom. It settled deep into my bones and made all of my scars burn. There were gasps, frowns, faces of disgust, faces of anticipation alike. I knew what to say, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow my feelings.
“We never acted on any of the implications you may suggest, no.” I answered after taking a long breath.
‘’Many have stated Hannibal Lecter felt such a twisted brand of devotion to you that it bordered a psychotic obsession. Seeing he is also a psychopath, some would even go as far as to conclude what he feels is more complex than that. Our defendant has never classified his feelings and refuses to do so. Some say you are the only one to ever have understood him. Can you perhaps classify him for us, Mr. Graham?’’
‘’I can’t speak for him.’’
‘’Because?’’
‘’I… I don’t know.’’ Damnit. I saw Jack’s face turn sour. ‘’What he feels.’’ I added very fast. That slip could have been lethal.
‘’How do you feel about it, Mr Graham?’’
‘’He put a knife in my stomach, a bullet in my shoulder and a saw in my skull. He framed me for murders he committed. He lied to me, manipulated me, betrayed me and killed people close to me. I think it’s clear where I stand.’’ I took a deep breath. ‘’I also believe that question is not what should be asked of me today.’’
‘’Do you consider yourself one of Lecter’s lucky victims?’’
‘’No.’’
I bit my cheek until I tasted blood. As long as they don’t start talking about my murders. Or the ones I was accused of and what that led to, I thought.
‘’Because you are not a victim or because you oppose to the word lucky?’’
‘’I don’t believe my being here has anything to do with luck.’’
Or victimhood, for that matter, I caught myself thinking.
‘’Mr. Graham, in the period of time presupposing the night of Abigail Hobbs’ death, you worked as a double agent. You went undercover for the FBI to do, what, exactly?’’
There you go. You might as well set the whole room on fire now.
‘’I was an instrument necessary for the unsuccessful plan that was supposed to make Dr. Lecter’s criminal identity a known fact.’’
‘’The plan you speak of failed miserably, so to say. One dead, three others rushed to the ICU with life threatening injuries, including yourself. All because of one call. A call you made, telling Lecter that authorities were coming for him.’'
The silence turned into a sea that might as well have drowned us all.
‘’Can you comment on that?’’
‘’I did what I had to do.’’
‘’You have a criminal history.’’
‘’I don’t have a criminal history. I was wrongly incarcerated.’’
The prosecutor nodded. He obviously knew that I did have a criminal history, under the guise of FBI erasure, but luckily for me and for Jack he couldn’t say that in a public courtroom.
‘’Why did they need you, Mr. Graham? If you were unreliable, why did the FBI need you, specifically? And why was it a necessity?’’
‘’Jack Crawford needed someone who could pass on information and plan an ambush. They needed someone who could figure Dr. Lecter out. Someone who could play the part. They needed someone he trusted.’'
The prosecutor paused, narrowed his eyes, smiled an ugly grin with his fake-white teeth. He looked better when he kept a serious face.
‘’And you were that person?’’
‘’Yes.’’
‘’You were, perhaps, the only one.’’
‘’Probably.’’
‘’Ladies and Gentlemen, after the tragic night of what was supposed to be this ‘’ambush’’ Mr. Graham is speaking of, Hannibal Lecter fled to Europe. Italy, to be more exact, while Mr. Graham and the other victims of the massacre were sent to slow recoveries. Will Graham spent weeks in a hospital. The moment he got out, the first thing he did was sail to Italy. On his own. Without telling the FBI about it.’’
Oops, now the whole world is on fire anyway. And you barely even had to try.
‘’I was on a no-flight list.’’
I thought of all those nights I spent in that little boat cabin. About how I listened to nothing but the wind and the waves for days and days until I could hear nothing else. It had barely had to do with the no-flight list. At night I counted the stars and wondered if you were doing the same. At nights where there were no stars I looked up at the black until the whole sky became colourless and wondered if I had truly survived that night in your kitchen. If that was not just my journey to the afterlife. Eternally damned to be waiting for someone who might never come.
‘’Why did you go to Italy?’’
‘’To find him.’’
‘’You had plenty of opportunities to arrest him, once you got to Italy, but you didn’t do it. Why?’’
‘’I am not permitted to arrest anyone. I don’t hold a badge, I’m not an official FBI agent.’’ I hissed. Those were facts I could sell, but the prosecutor would not buy it. The son of a bitch.
‘’Then why did you go?’’
‘’I wanted to talk to him.’’
‘’About?’’
‘’I can’t answer this question.’’
In the audience Jack Crawford buried his face in his hands. Bedelia Du Maurier was looking out of the window, her perfectly manicured nails digging into her own flesh. Alana Bloom sat next to Margot Verger. Both carried stern faces, but Alana looked betrayed. Betrayed, not surprised. Her hand twitched, as if she wanted to bring it to her mouth, but she managed to keep herself in control. Margot told her something and she nodded. The judge looked at me with confusion, the prosecutor looked at me with wicked victory.
You were the only person in the room that held something akin to a genuine smile.
‘’You ought to.’’
‘’I am a witness, not your defendant, this is not my interrogation.’’
And with that I stood up, stormed off the witness stand, let my angry footsteps echo through the whole courtroom, and headed for the exit. I didn’t think about any of the consequences when I slammed the doors and didn’t look back.
-
Spring 15’
That evening I had thirteen missed calls from Jack Crawford. Five more of some phone numbers I didn’t have saved. I answered none of them. I already knew what they were about.
The latter half of my testimony was labelled not credible to serve any function in the case. Only the hard facts I named at the start of it were considered legitimate evidence. The whole deal became a media spectacle. Most headlines that mentioned your trial also included my name.
I unsubscribed from any newspaper I ever read, made sure to block my address on the internet as far as I could, and blocked the entirety of TattleCrime, too. Freddie Lounds had a field day because of me and I couldn’t even blame her. I had never hated any of the people in my life more than I did then.
And of course your letter arrived just a week later.
‘’Will,
Did you stay in the back row so that I couldn’t see you properly, or did you merely stay in the shadows because you were too afraid of what you would bring into the light?
Even from that distance I could see you were so pale. So lean. Your face looked very hollow, Will. Did I drain that much life from you? Or did you simply take it from yourself after you rejected me?
They have moved me from my temporary holding cell to something much more decent. Alana has given me a grand room with a glass wall instead of iron bars. I have books now, and a drawing table and a roof window. Isn’t that nice? I can see the moon at night, I can even see the stars when the sky is clear enough. We share a night sky, Will. Though yours is likely clearer and far less polluted than mine over here in Baltimore, though you may watch it directly instead of from behind a window, we are looking at the very same thing. I can count as many stars as you do. I can point at the phase of the moon and know you and I are mutually affected by it.
Oh, how I had to hold a laugh in that courtroom. It was all just theatre. Theatrics, all of it. Everyone who ever knew me well enough was aware. Everyone who knew us must have bitten their tongue until they bled. We were all dancing in there, Will, and everyone knew the steps but no one was actually good at it. Least of all you. You’re a skilled liar, but your eyes, Will! Your eyes!
Anyhow, I got my insanity defence, you got your victory and perhaps your dignity back. Although, if you were to answer this letter, you would probably stay as far from the word ‘’victory’’ as you could. Not with the fiasco you turned your testimony into.
At least I kept my promise. I did not speak to you, but I have missed it, Will. The way you would sometimes look at me when you thought of killing me. When you wished I were dead.
Halfway through the trial I got so bored I imagined a massacre in the courtroom. I looked at the terrific marble floor and imagined it stained red and slippery. I imagined the bodies, piling. The gunshots, the screams, the angels would sing from the high ceiling until the very last of men dropped and you and I remained. It was an interesting thought.
Nevertheless, I write to let you know that if you do not reply to this letter, I will not write again. I know what you asked of me in your last and only letter. I might do you the favour of listening to your boundaries this time, Will.
I am happy that I have been able to see you at the trail. My mood has improved since I was given my new cell and also because the option of the death penalty is out of the way. I’ll stop bothering you, at least for now, Will, but know that I will always be here. Ready for conversation. Right where you left me.
Sweet regards,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.’’
When I closed my eyes I met you elsewhere. I was dressed the same as during the trials, entirely covered in black. You, on the other hand, wore an off white suit. It reflected every colour that came beaming from the stained glass of the chapel. I took you in my arms, knowing you couldn’t harm me here, and hoped it would be the last time I ever had to say goodbye to you.
Back in reality I ripped your letter to shreds and flushed it down the toilet. I thought of how at least one of us ended up with satisfactory results. I wrote the date down on the back of my mailbox with a sharpy and placed a useless bet on how long it would take for you to break your promises.
-