Chapter 1: I. The Trials
Notes:
‘’But we both know that I die slow, running through the halls of your haunted home, and the toughest part is that we both know what happened to you, why you’re out on your own, Merry Christmas, please don’t call, Merry Christmas, I’m not yours at all.’’
- Bleachers; Merry Christmas, Please Don't Call
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
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.
-
Notes:
So... Thank you for reading this first chapter! Hope you all liked it, I'd be happy to hear what you think :D I enjoyed writing this a lot, I hope reading was just as enjoyable!
I'm not very sure when the next update is going to be, but it will happen somewhere next month!! See you then and a happy New Year to you all!!
Chapter 2: II. The Dollhouse
Summary:
''A man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river, but then he's still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away, but then he's still left with his hands.''
- Richard Siken, Boot Theory
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
-
Spring 16’
I met Molly in a park when I was out walking with my dogs. It couldn’t get more cliche than that.
She only had one dog at the time. An angry labrador named Spike that came running after Zoe, one of the four dogs I took with me. Molly came after him, quickly putting Spike back on his leash as fast as she got a hold of him. Instead of yanking him along and walking away, she apologised excessively to both Zoe and me. She got distracted when she spotted not one, but four very well trained dogs darting behind me.
‘’Quite a pack you’ve got there.’’ Was one of the very first things she said to me. Her smile was bright and open. Her presence made me feel like I could finally release a breath I’d been holding for a very long time.
We stood there for half an hour chatting solely about dogs. It was enjoyable and it was distracting. She was a mess and I liked that about her. I came home feeling more normal than I had in months.
We met each other in the same park a few times from that day on, recognising each other like animals of an entirely different species realising they accidentally made a friend. Except that it was only me who realised that she and I were very different. She was like a shepherd who thought she was meeting another dog whose kind she didn’t exactly recognise, unaware of the fact that I bore wolf’s teeth.
At some point she set up a date. Nothing big yet. We went out for coffee downtown. She gave me her number. Pretty quickly a second meeting was scheduled.
It was all so different. It happened so easily. She was just easy, her whole existence was a revelation. She gave me exactly what I needed; normalcy to grab onto whenever I threatened to lose myself in the past. She was a flashlight in the dark tunnel I built around myself. She was good for me.
On our second date I found out she was a widow and that she had a son. Her husband, Walter’s father, died in the hospital. It was all I figured out and all that I wanted to know. He was a baseball player. Everything I knew about him, I knew because she told me,not because I asked. I never demanded any information, that way I didn’t owe her anything, either.
I mentioned to her that I lost my last lover too. I didn’t even think it through, unaware that it would raise a lot of lies and questions a year into our marriage, but that came later.
During those first weeks of knowing each other, she felt like an angel I was sent but didn’t deserve. She made me laugh. Whenever I was with her, I was able to forget myself for a while. I could be someone else, someone I could have been had my life taken a different turn.
She made me believe starting anew was possible.
It ended up taking more than a year to fall even a little in love with her. She was pretty and she was a fantastic person, but truly adoring her didn’t come half as easy as acting like I did.
She deserved to be loved, deeply and unconditionally, but my honest love was not what she wanted. It would scare her straight away from me. It was not something I could give to her, so I loved her superficially. Especially that first year. I loved her through the lens of the boyfriend I was to her. I loved her the way she, maybe, loved me too. With the exhausted desperation of someone who already sold their heart to someone else and now had to live without it forever. She had her deceased husband, I had mine. That was the one thing we did understand about each other, that we carried the same amount of grief. Except that she still had her son, while I had nothing other than the knowledge that you were definitely not dead.
I never told her who my grief belonged to, but she figured it out at some point. She never told me that she knew, but it wasn’t that hard to guess. There were at least five hundred articles with my name in it, and I had a damn Wikipedia page for God’s sake. There were no ex girlfriends I ever told her about. No failed affairs or marriages. I lost way more than a partner.
These, however, were all things she found out much later. Molly wasn’t one to obsessively stalk her dates on the internet. When I took her out to a restaurant on our third date she knew nothing crucial about me other than my name, the names of my dogs, and the fact that I quit my job as a professor due to a burnout.
In the restaurant I ordered the only meat-free main course they served. Molly asked me if I was a vegetarian. I laughed and it came out way more bitter than I wanted it to. I told her I only ate meat if I made it myself. Or if it came from a shitty fast food restaurant, but I didn’t tell her that. She asked why. I tried to decide whether to just tell her the truth or to keep her blissfully oblivious just a little longer. I would tell her about my work for the FBI soon, but that night I chose easy and tried to correct myself by joking:
‘’You never know where they get it.’’ I winked at her. She chuckled a little, but I confused her. She didn’t get the joke, not the way I intended it, and I didn’t blame her.
We made out in the car. She gave me a blowjob, then I drove her home. I was about to go inside with her, but she forced me to stay in the car.
‘’Wally’s home.’’ She smiled and gave me a little peck on the cheek. ‘’Another time, Professor.’’
I drove home in complete silence and found a letter in my mailbox. My heart dropped a few inches. I stared at the faded date written on the back of the box and then looked back at the letter, my name in cursive stood out on the white paper like blood on snow.
Less than a year. It took you less than a year to write back.
‘’Bastard.’’ I whispered to myself as I grabbed the envelope and slammed the mailbox shut. I fumbled with my keys in front of the door and stood there for a few minutes with trembling hands, unable to go inside my own damn house.
My dogs pooled around my feet when I came in, but I didn’t pay them any mind. I threw the letter on the desk, sat behind my piano and attempted to play a tune. I had to stop immediately, because everything I could think of playing reminded me of you.
Molly told me she only ever played a recorder flute when she was ten. She also said she was an average cook at best, even though Wally claimed she made the world's best pies. She was a baseball mom, preferred beer over wine and didn’t mind it if her clothes were full of dog hair, even at work.
All of a sudden I realised I was so tired that I just bent over and pressed my forehead against the piano. My fingers darted over the keys, though I didn’t press a single one of them.
I was starting something with Molly. I was very aware of that. I knew that, in a way, I was leading her on because the relationship we were building was doomed to fall apart sooner or later. Literally or metaphorically, it didn’t matter all the same. In the depths of my heart I already knew she and I would not last forever.
Was it worth it? Was it worth building a house on a foundation of lies? Would connection be of any use if being a husband was just another suit to slip into for me? If the groom knows that he will not make his vows true?
I doubted and doubted until doubt drowned me. Only then did I slip off the piano to open your letter.
‘’Dear Will,
I suppose I should leave you to it. I have listened to the request in your last letter, I didn’t write to you for a long time. You have to know that I respect you, Will. Enough to listen to your whims. It is a failing of mine that here I am, reaching out, unable to let you be. It is a failure of mine, but the burden is on both of us. Would you catch me or cast me away if I fall back into conversation with you? You were my friend, Will. You and I talked of things I thought I would never share with anyone. You understood. You understand me now, still, which I believe is what makes it so hard for you to reply to these letters, isn’t it?
I’m not writing to torment you, though that might be what you believe. I merely miss our conversations.
It has been a while. Boredom is endless and the fire in my heart never ceases. In my daydreams I burn houses and set on fire all the people who get to talk to you without restrictions. In my sleep you are burning bright on the veranda of your house, until reduced to a pile of ashes from which no phoenix arises.
Once upon a time something did arise. I set your brain aflame and you came back wonderfully brutal. So dark and certain. I would have let you do anything. I believed you, I almost thought a shared future was in sight. It was the only wishful thinking I had ever allowed myself. I was soon reminded to never do so again.
Prison did wonders for you, Will. What does it do for me? I suppose it only makes me have a looser tongue and a sharper memory than I already did before.
When I search through the ash now, I don’t find much. I find afterimages. Imago's, expectations, disappointment. I look back on it all with adoration. I hope you, despite everything, can sometimes do yourself the favour of looking back the same.
This is not a taunt. It’s a plea. I am bored, I am lonely. I think of you every day. I hope you are doing well, and I hope you are not as alone as I.
Yours,
Hannibal’’
The wine I had in the restaurant went straight to my chest and settled into a heavy ache. My stomach flipped itself upside down and the physical weight of what I was feeling was so heavy that it pushed me right back onto the piano bench. It dragged me down until I was draped over the piano once again, one hand over my face, the other clutching my chest.
I allowed myself to close my eyes and to remember. Just once. Memories bore the smell of florals, blood, cooking herbs and red wine. They came bearing the smell of hospital rooms and sweat and expensive cologne to mask it. They came bearing a song, too. A song I knew how to play. It was enough to pull myself upright and make music. My piano was slightly out of tune, but I played. I played until my fingers hurt so much I knew they’d bruise purple the next day. I played until the music was just music, and it didn’t hold any other associations. I played the same piece over and over again until it was no more than a lifeless drag of sound.
-
Spring 16’
Around two months after we met, Molly and I started to live in one another’s houses. Because she had to be home often because of Walter, I spent most of my time at hers. The few times she did come by my house she had a habit of helping with my chores. The fact that she offered to brush the dogs was very sweet, and I was very grateful when she started dusting off my books. The problem was that at some point, she started emptying my mailbox.
I didn’t think much of it the first three times. She just checked my mail and put everything on the kitchen counter. Sometimes she looked through it, but I barely ever received anything interesting.
When she came in with a white envelope in her hands one day I jumped off the couch out of fear. She was looking at it for way too long, too. I had to repress the urge to run over and snatch the thing out of her hands. Those were not two worlds I wanted to collide. If she ever found out you were sending me letters, I would dig a hole for myself in the garden and lie in it until I died of starvation.
I asked her to give me the envelope. She handed it over and it turned out that it wasn’t a letter from you at all. It was mail from one of the companies that was about to sell us the new house we wanted to buy together.
Wally had a sleepover at a friend's house that night, so Molly slept with me. I fucked her with the lights out (we never did it with the lights on, I didn’t want to explain my scars in the middle of undressing) and only when I was completely sure she was asleep I snuck out bed to write to you.
‘’Dr. Lecter,
I met someone. I write this to prevent her from finding any of your letters in the mailbox. She has a habit of doing my chores, including frequent mail checkups. She’s moving in with me soon. We bought a house. I don’t want to hear from you again.
I am fine, safe and I’m not alone.
They will not tell you anything about her. Don’t try to find out.
Your letters are too intimate, Hannibal, you’re exposing yourself to anyone who will go over them. Anyone could
I can’t force you to forget me, doctor, but it would spare you a whole lot of trouble.
Regards,
Will Graham’’
-
Fall 16’
Your eighth letter came on one of the better days. I gifted Walter fishing gear for his birthday and the weather was finally soft enough to try it out. I took him to my favourite lake and we went fishing together. At some point Molly came over with hot chocolate and snapped a couple of pictures. Wally caught quite a decent Bass for his first time fishing. After I explained what kind of fish it was and how you could recognise it, I taught him how to unhook it and throw it back into the water. Gutting his first catch didn’t seem like the best type of amusement for a nine year old boy. It reminded me too much of a different family dynamic. A father teaching his daughter how to gut a stag. Now that was not an image I wanted to conjure up.
It was a good day. A very good day. We moved into our new house and I was finally starting to feel like I belonged somewhere again. I was building a family, slowly. Even if they weren’t perfect for me, they were the most perfect pair anyone like me could possibly have.
Walter had been very quiet when he first met me. It was only fair, he just lost his father. It’s hard to immediately make space for a new one so fast. It was hard for him to talk to me when Molly and I first started dating. I always had a feeling that he saw more of my well concealed truths than Molly did. He had a kind of dark suspicion in his eyes that made it hard for me to be around him, too.
But things were improving. Wally and I were doing much better. On the way back to the house he told me about his week. About a fight between his best friend and another boy at school and his ideas for his Halloween costume this year.
‘’What do I dress up as?’’ He asked. ‘’You know a lot about spooky stuff.’’
Molly told him some things. She had too, I understood that as well. She told Walter that I worked for the FBI and used to catch bad guys for a living. It was all she told him. It was almost everything she knew herself. When Walter asked me why I quit, I told him that one of those bad guys hurt me real bad and that I had to withdraw because of it. He asked no further questions. Not because he wasn’t curious, but because he knew I wouldn’t answer them. Not honestly, at least.
‘’I know nothing about spooky stuff, Wally.’’ I ruffled his hair. ‘’Maybe a zombie. Or a scary clown, have you thought about that?’’
‘’Mom and I thought a vampire would be cool this year.’’
‘’A vampire. Yeah, very scary. You need those fake fangs, then.’’
That evening the three of us made some home-made pizza. Molly smeared flour on my nose and fed both Walter and me pieces of mozzarella. We ate in front of the TV. It was one of those rare moments in which I actually felt carefree. Maybe this could all work out. Maybe this, this house, this family, these evenings, weren’t all for nothing. If I hadn’t known better I would have said that I was happy.
I offered to do the dishes alone. Molly went to bed early because she had to be up before sunrise the next day. Walter had already been banished to his bedroom for the night.
I was wrist deep into the soap when Molly came in to kiss my cheek and tell me goodbye. She switched off all the lights in the living room when she went upstairs. I was left in the kitchen on my own, the warm comfort of a good day sliding off me like silk when I looked at the calendar and saw the date.
I had known since yesterday night. I had known this morning. I was aware of it all day, I just buried it so deep that even I couldn’t really feel it anymore. I put my misery away for Molly and Walter. Now that they were asleep I had no one to perform for. And that date was still there, very real and very pressing all of a sudden.
I went outside to check the mailbox. And I was heartbroken, but not surprised when I found a letter on top of the pile.
I locked the door and took it back with me to the kitchen, where I flicked off all the lights but kept the curtains open so that I could read the words under the primal protection of the moon.
All of a sudden I didn’t feel like I was home anymore. I forgot all about my girlfriend and her son, forgot all about my makeshift family. I ripped the envelope open with a steak knife I found in the sink. A feral hunger overcame me. A devastating fear, too.
‘’Will,
I have thought about what I wanted to write for a long time. I guess there’s only a few things left for me to say.
You are right, they won’t tell me anything about her, no. But, as you know, you are not the only one with an active imagination. A knack for guessing solid truths by observing nothing but memory and thin air. I can guess what type of woman she must be. I suppose she is very lovely. She is nurturing, soft, maybe delicate. Perhaps she is all that I am not. Is she younger or older than you? Will she be able to give you a family?
I have been guessing, Will. I don’t think she can.
Do you know why? Because I don’t believe she sees you.
Does she? Does she know what lies beneath when you make love to her in the dark? When you bite your lip to keep yourself from making a sound? Is she good to you in bed, Will? Are you rough or careful with her? Can you allow yourself to have her like you could never bear to have me?
I suppose you’ve never drawn blood. I suppose you are careful. You wouldn’t want to stain her that way, would you? It’s no good bringing old ghosts of the past into something so clean. So fresh. Is she one of those girls? Clean skin, empty past?
Or perhaps she has a little thing for monsters, though she can’t even get close to placing what kind of monster you truly are. Does she think she is making love to a rescued stray dog, Will? While in reality she has let you, everything you are and everything you’ve become, into her safe bed?
May there ever be a time you consider having a child with her, remember what became of the first child you were given.
You know why I’m writing, you know the date. I am sure we both feel equally as awful tonight, Will. I have my regrets and I am very aware of the mistakes I made. I tried to turn back time for you. But I have to admit that, despite the tragedy that belongs to this day, there is something very beautiful about the memory of that night. It’s not the grand whole, but rather the small details that nourish me so well. The fabric of your shirt tore so easily. You were wet all over, but you were almost feverishly warm in my arms. I remember the curve of your chin sloped over my shoulder, and the way your hands grasped my back for a few seconds. We must have seen some truth in each other’s eyes in my lightless kitchen. There must have been something we both reached for. It’s a shame we moved right past each other. A shame, that we never quite got to where we should have been.
Life hadn’t been easy on Abigail, but I would like to assure you that in the last moments of her life, she felt more loved than she ever had before.
Does that new woman know about her? About Abigail? Does she know about me, Will? Is your past family life one of your dirty little secrets?
I hope you are honest with her, Will. I hope you don’t give her false hope when it comes to trying for a child. Can’t pass on those traits of yours. Some darkness should be kept to one’s self.
Do you hate me, Will? If you didn’t before, do you now? Have I finally driven you to the brink? Is this girl capable enough to glue you together a bit or will you just keep throwing yourself against the kitchen tiles to splinter further, knowing I like you best broken?
Yours, madly, eternally,
Hannibal’’
If I didn’t already feel paranoid about you watching me all the time, I definitely did now.
‘’Vampire.’’ I whispered to myself in the moonlit kitchen. ‘’Vampire, you can’t come into the house uninvited, so why do you linger?’’
Your voice echoed and crept over the walls of my memory palace. It was picked up by the quiet rushing of the stream.
You invite me here, Will. All the time. Your mind is always open to welcome me home.
A thick knot formed inside my throat. It was so big that I felt like I was about to choke. I ruined the letter when I balled a fist and sunk against the cabinets on the cold kitchen floor. I sat there in the dark, stuck a hand underneath my shirt, rubbed my scar and cried. I cried for the first time in years. I let the tears fall quietly at first, but tears turned into sobs and before I knew it I was weeping. I buried my head in my hands and cried over your letters and gasped for air, but the pain didn’t leave. I pulled some bourbon out of one of the cabinets and drank it straight from the bottle, the pain still didn’t leave. I didn’t think I wanted it to. Just for one night, just one, I allowed myself to drown in it. To cry and howl and drink until I was nothing but a scarred bag of bones on the kitchen tiles. It felt relieving to be so pathetic for a night. I didn’t think of what would happen in the morning if Walter found me asleep like this as soon as he came to get his bowl of cereal.
-
Molly and Walter had to put up with that broken man for a week.
I drank every night, I didn’t sleep in the bedroom. I went for the couch or the armchair or even fell asleep on my desk, but I never crawled into bed with Molly.
And every day she asked me what was wrong. Every day I got quiet and annoyed and went outside into the woods only to come back once everyone was already asleep.
I drank and then I drank some more. In a single week I finished four bottles of whiskey on my own. On the fifth day I sat down at two am with paper and the crappiest pen I could find and spit every last bit of it out in a letter. My hands were shaking and my sight was hazy, but I didn’t have to look at the white sheet in front of me to know what I was writing.
‘’Hannibal,
I’ve had too much. Molly is sleeping and I am here writing this. I’ll send it just before I pass out and I hope that tomorrow when I wake up I won’t remember a thing about it. I hope Jack throws it in the incinerator, I hope Dr. Bloom rips it to shreds. I just hope I won’t have to think about it anymore, but the things I want to say sit in my throat like vomit and if I don’t write them down I will choke. So here I am.
Molly and I are going to marry. There’s a few things I’ve got to get out of the way before I throw up blood and my so-called dirty secrets all over the altar.
To answer your pleas: I do think about you. We tortured each other, but I miss you. I don’t miss what you did, I don’t miss your actions and your deceit and all the ways you wronged me, but I do miss you. You were my only friend.
I hope this doesn’t make you feel victorious as much as it makes you feel sick with guilt. I hope you spill your guts in your fucking toilet. I hope you can’t sleep, ever. I hope you wake up at night clutching your stomach like the knife you stuck in me is also gutting you. It’s the only way you’ll understand the way I feel about you.
No one has ever hurt me quite as badly as you have. No one has ever cared for me that way.
You make me crazy. You make my head spin and my heart hurt and then you expect me to write back. Would you like me to go easy? Would you rather I’d be gentle? I would like to be. You were so gentle with me sometimes. I never really understood how you did it. I looked at you and all I thought of was the way you would look on your knees. Well guess what? The way you went down in the snow that night was not how I intended it.
No, I don’t hate you. I never truly have, damnit. It kills me that I can’t seem to start. Hating you.
If I continue to go on with this letter any longer, I fear I might not wake up tomorrow. I fear you might kill me. If you are so kind as to do so, I would prefer you did it by taking me in your arms, not lying dead around this new house until my to-be stepson finds me in the morning.
Don’t expect me to write back again.
Goodbye’’
That same night I stepped into my car, drunk out of my mind, without thinking. I could have hit a tree and I barely would have noticed. I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I managed to make it to the nearest post office. Probably because it was less than a ten minute drive. I made it back without a scratch, too. I came home, lit the fireplace and thought I saw your face in the hushed gleam it casted over the room. I stared at the antlers on the mantlepiece until a black shape manifested between them. I passed out with a glass in my right hand, my gun in my left, and closed my eyes to the sensation of a hand caressing my forehead.
I woke up to a very upset woman and a boy with a face white as snow waiting for me at the dinner table. The gun was nowhere to be seen and the glass was on the coffee table, though my shirt reeked of liquor.
Molly brought Walter to school and forced me to sit down with her after. She wanted to get very angry at me, but she couldn’t because she was overcome by pity. Day after day she tried to get me to tell her what was going on. It bothered her deeply that she didn’t know anything. By the end of the week I was busy locking the doors of the liquor cabinet when she embraced me from behind, put her head on my back and whispered:
‘’I wish you’d tell me what’s hurting you so badly.’’
I sighed and realised that I had no other choice. I never told her about your letter, but I felt obliged to tell her something. Anything. Only three weeks prior she and I decided that we were going to marry. Neither of us proposed, we just discussed it over the dinner table and bought engagement rings the next day. It was all taken very lightly.
But as her fiance I owed her some explanations.
‘’It’s the date, Molly, it has nothing to do with you.’’
She planted her warm hand on my chest and pressed her nose between my shoulderblades.
‘’I know it has nothing to do with me, honey, but I want you to tell me what this is all about. What happened to you?’’
It was the first time I told her about you explicitly. I had to, otherwise I couldn’t tell her why this date was so important. I told her about Abigail and I explained that you killed her that night. The same night you stabbed me and left me to die I skipped over the parts where I was supposed to tell her it was you who caused the real heartbreak, and instead went on about Abigail. She already knew that I saved a young girl from her murderous father, but she never knew what became of her.
She believed my half-truths and took them for granted. I made her promise not to google anything. I told her she’d find details about the whole ordeal that would stain our relationship forever.
After that day I went sober until the wedding and everything went on like it had before.
-
Winter 16’
Molly and I debated going on a honeymoon. She scanned through all kinds of destinations, but never found anything I seemed to like. She stood by the door of my shed with her laptop while I tried to fix Walter’s bicycle.
‘’Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere warm? Just half a week, maybe Italy? Have you ever been there?’’
I drove a screw into my finger and cursed out loud.
‘’Fuck… Italy? Mm- Don’t like the heat very much…’’
I thought I could hear the chapel choir sing over my head. Your name echoed through the catacombs of my mind.
Molly put her laptop on my work desk, took my hand and sucked on my bleeding thumb with a playful grin.
‘’Hard to find anything you like, ain’t that true, handsome?’’ She let go of me when I pulled a tin of bandages from a shelf. ‘’Hey, look, we don’t have to go anywhere. We could just stay here.’’
‘’But wouldn’t you think of it as a shame if we don’t?’’
She wrapped a bandage around my thumb, stroked my hair back and kissed my ear.
‘’No way, all I care about is that I get to spend time with you. I’ll drop Wally off at his grandparents for the weekend.’’ Another kiss. First on the bandage, then on the ring. ‘’I’ll get you some coffee.’’ She said, then she snatched her laptop along and slipped out of the shed.
Our wedding had been very small. No more than twenty guests, which was mainly because I had no friends or family to invite. And Molly felt so bad for me that she narrowed her own guest list down to those closest to her. Her parents, her sister with her husband and children (said sister did not like me very much), a few of her friends, two of Molly’s colleagues, and Walter’s other grandparents (who liked me even less, but came anyway because even though their son died, they still loved Molly and Walter a lot). We didn’t have to arrange a seating plan. No one came for me. I didn’t invite anyone in the first place. I preferred to keep my lives separated.
At first I was too nervous to think about you. During my vows I just made sure not to think too much about anything other than how adorable Molly’s choice of dress was. At the party I made sure to get drunk enough to be able to not think about anything without trying. I was almost happy with how easily everything went, though I had to suppress a very peculiar kind of lovesickness all day long.
Weeks passed, things went very well. I cooked for Molly sometimes. I stopped flinching away whenever she touched my scars. Whenever I slept with her and her fingers graced one of them, they turned into just another dip in my skin. A piece of unevenness that everyone had in one way or another. When she touched them they became meaningless, nameless and unimportant, mainly because Molly acted like she didn’t care much about them either. Whenever we had sex she tried to avoid them and hold the whole, cleaner parts of me.
You used to find beauty in the cracks, she preferred to embrace the pieces of me that weren’t yet broken.
Long story short, marriage was not as immense and intimidating of a thing as I thought it would be. If anything, it offered me a shield of comfortable normalcy. I was not the suspicious boyfriend anymore, I became the husband. There was so much stability in the title. It made it much easier to live according to the script and to act like it, too.
After a few minutes Molly came in with coffee. She said that she had to run some errands and left. I finished Walter’s bike, downed my cup even though the drink was still too hot and checked the mailbox when I went back inside. Two weeks after the wedding I stopped fearing you’d send a letter about it. That day I learned pretty fast that I was not to get my hopes up that high again.
The letter was short. That only made me more afraid.
I could feel the icyness of its contents spread through my fingers when I sat down at the dinner table and opened the envelope. Deep down I knew what was in there. I knew there would be a deep rooted betrayal, perhaps jealousy, poisoning the paper.
The message was even colder than I expected.
‘’Dear Will,
Congratulations on your marriage. Naturally they told me about it three weeks after it already happened.
I got your last letter. Thank you for that.
I wish you luck. I hope the wedding was as plain and lifeless as you hoped it would be. I hope you did not vomit over the woman’s dress or shake too much when reading the vows.
Kind regards,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.’’
‘’What are you reading?’’
I almost jumped out of my chair when Walter’s voice echoed through the kitchen.
‘’A letter.’’
‘’A letter?’’
He grabbed a mug from one of the cabinets and looked inside the fridge.
‘’What is it, kid?’’ I sighed. He turned to me and put the mug on the counter, his big empty eyes moving back and forth between me and your words.
‘’I was looking for mom because I wanted to ask her if she could make hot chocolate. Do you know where she is?’’
‘’Your mom went to the store. She’ll be back shortly. I can make you hot chocolate if you want.’’
‘’No need. I’ll do it.’’
Be careful with hot milk. I wanted to say when he poured his milk into a pan, but after Walter put it on the gas his attention went back to me and the letter. I quickly folded the thing and attempted to shove it back into the envelope.
‘’What’s it about?’’
‘’What do you mean what’s it about?’’
‘’Your letter. You looked very angry.’’
‘’I’m not angry.’’
‘’Then what did the letter-’’
Damn curse curious kids, I thought as I gritted my teeth.
‘’Just someone congratulating me and your mom on our marriage, that’s all.’’
Walter turned away from the cacao powder he was pouring into the boiling milk. His eyes narrowed.
‘’Who?’’
I really didn’t want to continue this conversation and tried to avoid further questions.
‘’Family.’’
What I didn’t realise was that I raised all questions with that answer. Neither did I know what possessed me to answer that.
‘’Family? I thought you didn’t have any? There was no one at the wedding-’’
‘’This is someone who couldn’t be at the wedding.’’
‘’Do you have an uncle in Alaska or-’’
I stood up, pointed at the window and changed the subject.
‘’I fixed your bicycle.’’
‘’Really?’’
‘’Yeah. It’s outside.’’
Then Molly came into the kitchen with two full bags of groceries that needed help unloading. I balled the letter up and showed it into the pocket of my jeans as discreetly as possible.
‘’Thanks Will!’’ I heard Walter call from inside the living room.
-
Fall 17’
The snow came earlier than usual. You’d been radio silent for almost a year.
I was torn between places. Between anticipating a letter and eagerly waiting for it to come, and also hoping that I wouldn’t receive anything at all. I didn’t want a mess like time. I thought that, maybe if I didn’t get a letter, things would be easier this year.
They weren’t. It got so bad that on our anniversary night, as I now called it, I got into the car and drove to Baltimore. I put on the only gear I had and told Molly that I was going hunting for a night. She looked worried and asked me why. I told her I used to hunt all the time before I met her and that I wanted to pick it up again. I couldn’t tell if she was creeped out or relieved. Either way, I told her she was not to call me until after ten the next morning.
The drive was long. It happened at least ten times that I asked myself what the hell I was doing and debated turning around, but there was a pull that kept me on the road. I decided to do this. I was already on it, I couldn’t chicken out. If that’s what it took for me to be a good husband all year, then I could permit it. It wasn’t cheating, I wasn’t going to see you. I only wanted to know what became of your house.
It was completely dark when I parked the car further down your neighbourhood. The building was still there, just as you left it. It wasn’t sold or demolished. Not yet, perhaps the horrors of what happened there were too fresh. I tried my best to go unnoticed when I snuck up to what used to be your office’s entrance. It surprised me how easily I managed to pick the lock. I just hoped no one saw me. I closed the door very carefully, unsure if the FBI planted cameras in your home after your arrest. I checked the hall but found nothing.
Everything inside the foyer (also the rest of the house, I’d find out later) was still in place. Covered in thick dust, but there nonetheless. There was no police tape or other traces of a crime scene anymore. The only remaining evidence that there ever had been a crime scene, was the fact that they sealed your basement. There was a thick lock on the door so that no intruders could get in. What surprised me was that nothing was stolen, no graffiti on the walls, nothing. Everything was just as you left it. The fact that it remained untouched was thanks to your heavily guarded neighbourhood, I assumed.
I wouldn’t be surprised if I heard sirens come my way because one of your high class neighbours saw suspicious activity, but nothing ever came. I walked very slowly from your foyer to your living room, but everything remained ghostly silent.
I avoided your office on purpose. That wasn’t the part of you I was looking for today. I didn’t come here for therapy, and I was sure that if I sat down on one of the chairs, you’d appear right in front of me.
No, I came to stare at the phantoms of your existence that you left behind in the more personal parts of your home. I came to look at afterimages, ghosts, disturbances in the musty air.
I went to your kitchen and saw a past version of myself sitting against the cabinets. Fresh out of the hospital and the only place I knew I wanted to go was your house. Though they cleaned the stains off the floor, I could still smell that night. The rain, your hair, Abigail’s blood, it was all still there, floating around in the abandoned dark of your kitchen.
I wondered why you didn’t send a letter. Was marrying truly all it ever took to stop you? Was that your final boundary crossed?
Is that what I really wanted?
After tracing my fingers over your counters and wiping off some dust, I realised that if I stayed in the kitchen any longer, I’d end up the same as that night. On the floor, slumped against the cabinets, waiting for more than what I was given. Hoping for more than I and my betrayal deserved.
I went to the dining room, leaned against the table and watched the snow fall in your garden for minutes without moving. I wondered what I was truly looking for and couldn’t figure it out. Something drew me to this place and kept me here. There was a reason for all of it and I blamed it on trauma. I just hoped that I would never figure out the truth.
I went upstairs and stood in front of the door of your bedroom. A thought crossed my mind.
Of going in and laying down in your bed, getting naked and giving myself that shame to bear just for one night. Just one. Me and the ghost of a man who was still very much alive.
I wanted to grieve you as if you died just once. I wanted to feel like a widow for a few hours, just to see if I’d be able to let you go afterwards.
But I knew how that scenario would end. I knew I would never forgive myself once the morning came around. I knew it would end in sighing your name and staining your pillow with spit and tears and I just didn’t want to bear that shame the following day. It felt too dirty. Too desperate. It should have never gotten that far between us. I refused to let you mess me up from such a distance. You already did enough to tear apart my dignity.
I knew that if I went in there, I’d never get out. So I let go of the doorknob and slipped downstairs again. To the living room, where I intended to spend the night.
The idea was sitting in one of the armchairs and waiting for the sun to come up, but it was cold in your house. I wanted to put on the fireplace, but realised that a smoking chimney would attract attention. So instead I just laid down on the couch and covered myself with a dusty, but nonetheless very soft duvet. My scars ached. I slept barefoot but with my jacket still on.
Buried between the obscene animal printed pillows of your couch, I slipped into sleep much faster than I anticipated.
-
A heavy week later Molly and I were on the couch together. Walter was already asleep and Molly was just happy that I put away the alcohol and told her things were better again, that the ache wore off. We watched a movie together because she suggested it. She put her head on my chest while I caressed her hair.
‘’Will?’’ She suddenly asked. I could hear it in her voice that she was hesitant, and that this wasn’t going to be some casual conversation.
‘’Mmm.’’
‘’You got a letter, by the way.’’
I sat up like a man possessed. She pulled her head away.
‘’What?’’
Gone was a comfortable moment. In a blink.
‘’A week ago, when you said you went out to hunt.’’
‘’What?’’
‘’One of those same things as last year, you rememb-”
I shook my head, bright yellow panic pooled in my stomach and made me feel like I’d vomit electricity the moment I opened my mouth.
‘’Did you open it?’’
‘’I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Will, I just thought-’’
I didn’t mean to grab her wrist, but my fingers locked around her beating pulse. I scared her, she scared me. Both of our hearts were racing.
‘’Molly, did you open it?’’
‘’No! I never open your mail. In case it’s some secret FBI stuff or something.’’
I let go of her arm and felt some of the stress slip away too. She wasn’t lying. I could see it when she did.
‘’Why didn’t you give it to me?’’
‘’Because of last year.’’
‘’Last year?’’
Fear turned into anger. Molly always got fierce when she was worried about me.
‘’Yeah, last year you got another one of those, with the fancy handwriting on it. And it made you so depressed, Will, I’ve never seen you as hurt as when you opened that letter, so I thought maybe if I don’t give it to you, you wouldn’t feel as bad! I was wrong, I know that, but-’’
‘’You scared me, Molly.” I shook my head and sighed. “Where is it?”
‘’You sure you wanna read it?’’
‘’You said you didn’t look inside-’’
‘’I didn’t. I just don’t want it to be the same as last year, that’s all.’’
‘’It won’t be the same. Please give it to me.’’ I took her hand hoping to make up for the possible bruises I left on her wrist. She paused the movie and stood up. ‘’Molly, can you promise me that if you ever find another one of those, either throw it in the trash and don’t tell me about it or leave it in the mailbox, but never hide it from me again. And never open them.’’
‘’That’s alright, I didn’t know you cared that much.” She walked to the desk and started rummaging through the bottom drawer. “But why, Will? Who is it from?’’
‘’Who…?’’ I blinked a few times. ‘’Uhm, it’s from Jack.’’
‘’Crawford?’’
‘’Yeah.’’
She snatched the letter from the drawer. Seeing your handwriting spelling out my name in her hands felt like being set on fire. You weren’t supposed to get so close to her, neither was she supposed to be able to hold you that way.
‘’What’s even in here?’’ She asked.
‘’He… uh… he sends me a letter every year, on the same date, because of what happened three years ago. Because he feels bad for me, you know.’’ I lied to her face.
‘’Feels bad for you?’’
‘’Yeah. What happened with the Hobbs girl and all. He always asks how I’m doing, but I never write back. It’s just… He reminds me of what happened every year and that’s what hurts me. Guess that’s trauma for me, y’know.’’ Now that wasn’t all lies. It didn’t make me feel any better about myself.
‘’Oh Will, then don’t open it. If it hurts you so much.’’
She was still holding that letter. I really wanted her to give it to me. I wanted it out of her hands. I had a crippling fear that she was just a second away from opening it, and with that a second and a realization away from the end of our marriage.
‘’I need to, Molly. I remember stuff anyway. This is always a rough week. That’s just how it is. Those letters are only part of that.’’
‘’Well, write him back and tell him to stop, then.’’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘’Why doesn’t he just call?’’
‘’Dunno. That’s Jack, I suppose.’’ I shrugged, trying not to sound bothered. ‘’Maybe he knows I won’t pick up.’’
She came over to the couch, handed me the letter and kissed my forehead.
‘’Oh, sweet man. Please tell me if there’s anything I can do, will you?’’
I nodded, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do. I took the letter from her and held it so tightly that the envelope wrinkled. I just hoped she didn’t notice.
‘’Yeah. I’d like to read this alone, if you don’t mind.’’Another kiss, then she let go of my head and walked away.
‘’I’ll be in bed if you need me.’’
‘’Yes, thank you.’’
‘’Love you, honey, don’t let that stupid man hurt you too much.’’ She reassured me with a warm smile. Both of us were acting as if nothing was wrong. We both knew everything was, and we could see the discomfort in each other's eyes. I saw how worried she was and she, well, the thing with her was that she had no idea what she saw other than a deep rooted sadness that she would never be able to reach. Let alone understand.
‘’Goodnight, Molly.’’ I muttered. She nodded and slipped away from the door, out of sight.
I looked at the snowflakes that were still coming down outside the window. It took me an hour in which I fueled the fireplace, got something to drink, stared outside some more and paced around the room to gather the guts to open the letter.
‘’Dear Will,
I hope you are doing better today than last year. I remember a very drunken letter, stained with tears. I suppose I won’t receive another one of those.
Our sweet Abigail has been on my mind for a week now. I talk to her at times, in my head, when no one comes to see me for days. She is quite a confident girl in death. A nice conversation partner, though she isn’t you.
It’s not that I don’t talk to you inside my head, but it is significantly harder to construct a fitting image of someone who is still very much alive.
I would have sent you a bottle of liquor with a condolences card, but Alana did not want to accompany that request. I thought of mailing you a colostomy bag, to cheer you up, but figured you would not find it quite as funny as I.
The night is young, but I’m dwelling on old feelings, old memories, that seem to have become ancient over time. You killed for me, once upon a time. When our relationship was fresh as a new-born’s blood. So close to perfection, yet still so far away. How glorious of a life we could have lived in Italy, how beautiful of a family we could have been.
Have you told the wife about Abigail now? About me? Have you told her how you could have been a father? How you were already assigned the role?
Your fatherhood belongs to me, Will. Every child you will ever be around, will ever even have the slightest opportunity to care for, will bitterly remind you of me and how you lost Abigail.
I’d advise you not to drown yourself in sorrow this year. Guilt is entirely futile and anger can be expressed in different ways.
Do you still think about me as much as I think about you?
Sincerely yours, always, still,
Hannibal Lecter’’
The early snow was always colder, I remembered it from all the years I spent in Wolf Trap. There were times when I ran so hot with nightmares at night that I went out there barefoot and sat on the porch until I couldn’t feel my fingers and toes. Until I felt like all the last bits of fever froze and fell off my body.
There was such a pull to it. To disappear in the great dark and never come back.
I didn’t put on a coat when I stormed to the door. Only when I stood up to my shins in a sea of white did I pause to breathe. I tilted my head to the sky, felt the snowflakes melt on my lips and eyelids and let the cold ride up to my head until I was unable to carry any real thought. The phantom of a fur pelt’s touch made my hand tingle. Not a dog, something bigger, darker, more familiar. When I looked down there was nothing there. I almost wished there was. I never felt more alone.
I sunk to my knees and wrapped my hands around my skull, as if to shield it from ever thinking about you again.
-
‘’To: William Graham, Virginia
From: Hannibal Lecter, M.D. Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane
Returned to Sender
Dear Sir/Madam, we unfortunately have to inform you that your letter has been returned by the initial receiver.
Note: Letter was opened before return.
Please
Don’t.’’
When I sent your letter right back to where it came from, my own failed one-word message written on the back of the envelope, I hoped it would be the last thing you’d ever hear from me.
-
Notes:
Salut everybody!
I had time so I finished this chapter waayyyy faster than anticipated. Anyhow, here it is, I hope you all like it! :)
Will being a shitty alcoholic husband who still yearns for his psychotic ex even though he tries realllyyy hard to be good is my absolute favourite. That man is a wreck and I love him for it. Hannibal also being very hurt and mean when he finds out Will got married is also canon sooo.
Alr, that's it for today! Might add stuff later but... thank you all for reading, tell me what you think and see you at the last chapter! <3
X
Chapter 3: III. The Dragon
Summary:
''If the sea could dream, and if the sea were dreaming right now, the dream would be the usual one: Of the flesh. The letter written in the dream would go something like: Forgive me - Love, Blue.''
- Cortège, Carl Phillips
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
-
Winter 18’
Jack Crawford came knocking, and a crack appeared right in the middle of the ceiling. I looked away and closed my eyes before the whole house collapsed around me. With the phantoms of dust still stinging in my eyes, nose and mouth, I met him outside.
The message was clear. The desperation too. I knew it from the moment I saw Jack’s massive black beast of an engine roar onto the property. It was over, three years well spent (debatable) came to their rightful end. It was time to step back into real life.
There was an unopened letter in my sock drawer and the Devil was standing on my doorstep.
‘’Dear Will,
We have all found a new life, but our old lives hover in the shadows like incipient madness. Soon enough I fear Jack Crawford will come knocking. I would encourage you, as an old friend, not to step back through the door he holds open. It’s dark on the other side, and madness is waiting.
Sincerely,
Hannibal Lecter’’
You, of all people, knew damn well that the monster holding my door was not Jack. You knew better than anyone that it was you with a hand on the doorknob keeping me from slamming it close. You knew I would come, no matter how badly I wanted to stay away.
I told myself it was good to leave the choice with Molly, so I asked her whether or not to go. And some saints know they have no choice but to sacrifice their loved ones for the greater good. They all have hope nonetheless, even if that hope is always worthless in the end.
She knew she was letting me go when she let me walk through that door. She just didn’t know who was waiting for me outside.
She held on to the idea of being able to glue me back together once the job was done, no matter in how many shards I returned. I wasn’t brave enough to tell her that the moment I saw you, I’d fall so hard I’d never come back.
-
Winter 18’
The tone of your letters changed the moment I sat down in Jack’s office again. A smug air of triumph. I knew it for sure when I read the letter when Jack handed it to me. He pre-read the letter and sighed when he let me read it. You knew I was back on the case and you were immensely amused by it.
‘’Dear Will,
Is it true you are consulting on the case? I have picked up rumors. I suppose it is true. You could never resist the pull. Or the photo evidence.
If it is true, you have surrendered yourself to this world again at last! How wonderful of you, Will. How sad it is. Do you want to save the families? Is the desire to help those in need still your preferred excuse? I wonder how they won you over. Are you that willing to sacrifice your picture perfect life for this? Or was this perhaps an escape from a life you never did like that much?
Have you told your wife that you won’t come back to her the same?
This is a serious case, Will. And it will leave a lasting impact on all those who will work on it. I warn you in advance. This boy has way sharper teeth than good old Jack and our other FBI friends give him credit for.
I wonder if they will allow me to send you this letter. If they do, know that I look forward to hearing about your field work. Perhaps you can extend this horizon to where it meets mine, until we cross paths again. Maybe this, after three years, will bring us together once more. May we be reunited through blood, bodies and, perhaps, some friendly conversation. Let us reunite as we have started. It would be an honour to once again be your paddle.
Good luck, Will. I count the stars through my roof window and hope for what suddenly seems much closer than it did a month ago.
Yours with anticipation,
Hannibal’’
I threw the letter on the desk, and Jack and I both slumped back into our chairs, defeated. We both knew we tumbled right back into games we played before. Games we lost. He was more suspicious than ever, and your letter reminded me why I was supposed to resent you. In fact, it made it much easier to pretend that a bitter old anger was all that was left of my feelings for you. I wasn’t sure if Jack bought it, but what I did find out was that he didn’t know anything about the letters you and I exchanged over the years. He thought this was the first. Alana hadn’t told him anything. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I intended to keep things that way.
Jack asked me if I was going to write a reply.
‘’You know what will happen when you let him in, Will.’’
‘’So I shouldn’t write?’’
‘’No, you’ll write, but you’ll write that you want to keep your distance from him. I want you to promise us that, too. He’s not a necessity to this, Will. Hannibal and the Tooth Fairy have nothing to do with each other.’’
‘’I’ll do it now.’’
‘’You sure?’’
‘’Yes, but I do want to do it alone.’’
‘’I’ll get us coffee, then.’’
Jack tried to smile. I tried to smile too. He lost all his energy and I lost all my potential for happiness. The acts of niceties, the familiar tone, it was all theatre. Conversations between old acquaintances who hadn’t come near the concept of friends for a very long time. The unspoken agreement of keeping up the illusion of friendship weighed heavy on both our shoulders, but there was no trace of kinship between us.
To Jack, I had no face. Not anymore. To him, Will Graham died in Hannibal Lecter’s kitchen, along with Abigail Hobbs, all the light at the end of the tunnel, his career, his hopes for the future and maybe himself, too. He didn’t recognise me, and I only saw a shell of him. Jack and I were no one to each other.
When he stood up to get coffee, I saw him rotting away with every step he took.
And maybe that was the way you still had all of us under your control. You infected us with lies and made bitter strangers of friends. Maybe all the agency you still had in the world was the pain you caused and the aftershocks of it passed on through all those who had ever known you.
I wrote my letter to you with that idea in mind.
‘’Dr. Lecter,
I am back in the field, yes. I am, however, managing strict personal boundaries. Sacrifices are not in the picture this time. There will be no death to my family other than my own martyrdom, as you once called it. I am only looking for a killer, not for an escape route.
You are not a damn paddle, Hannibal, and never will I let you try to be one again. You are the wind which trashes the waves against the boat. I think I’d rather sink the whole ship than ever trust you again.
May it happen that we meet again, I will meet you only to ask for council. If you try to be personal with me, I will leave immediately. I have no intentions of
I am not doing this because I want to. If you try to be funny, it’s over. You are not that important to this case.
W.G.’’
Once I finished I folded the letter, closed the envelope and left it on Jack’s desk. When he came back he didn’t even have the coffee. He was wearing his hat and coat instead.
‘’Done?’’
I nodded.
‘’Great.’’ He said. ‘’How about a trip to Birmingham?’’
-
Spring 18’
The next letter was delivered to me even in a ratty motel. Even when I thought of escaping to a place they wouldn’t find me, somewhere so anonymous no one would even bother to check the guest list, but it came anyway. I could still smell the blood of the Jacobis under my nails, I could see their corpses immortalized behind my eyelids and watch the scene like a film. Every time I thought about the families, I was hit by a rush of adrenaline that came paired with intense nausea.
I chose the smallest room. Only one of the two bedside lamps worked. The carpet had stains in it and the red fabric of the chair in the corner was discoloured, it turned light brown in the centre over time. The room reeked of must, cheap cleaning products and smoke. It cost me less than forty dollars, which was a fair price for the dirty sink and very tiny shower in what could barely be called a bathroom.
I opened the window and hoped it would cleanse the room. I felt stained after looking at the Jacobis. Whatever I did, I knew sleep wasn’t something I could count on tonight. Your letter stared at me from the nightstand, bright and dangerous as a fire. I almost jumped when my phone started ringing. Molly’s name appeared on the small blue screen. I wasn’t sure whether it was comforting or concerning.
My thumb hovered over the button until the very last ring, only then did I pick up the phone. I didn’t want to talk, but I would make Molly worried otherwise
“Hey hotshot!” Her cheerful voice rang through the sad dark room.
“Hi Molly.”
“How are you?”
I looked at your letter, then caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window. This was about to be the second day where I wouldn’t sleep. I was ghostly pale, the underside of my eyes bruised and grey, one would think I was sick at first glance.
I was sick, in a way. I just couldn’t diagnose myself. Not yet. Sometimes it’s easier to leave an illness unnamed.
“Will?’’ Molly said again, less cheerful. I could hear the unstable concern in her voice. "Are you alright?”
I sighed and closed the curtains.
“Just tired."
A pause before she answered again. She knew. Though Molly might not have known what all of this was about, she knew about it anyway. I told her about the Tooth Fairy and the families two days ago. She told me how Walter was doing, and that his grandparents gifted him a pony. It made me laugh, at the time.
“Sure?” She saw through me, but had no idea what exactly she was seeing.
“Molly, I have to go.” I rambled, suddenly wanting absolutely nothing more than to go to sleep.
“Will?”
I laid down and rubbed my eyes. Then I flicked off the lights and turned on my side.
“Sorry, bye.”
“Alright, love you, bye.’’ I could hear that she was a little hurt. Maybe disappointed, but what was a little hurt while I felt like I’d been dying for a week? ‘’Be good to yourself.” She added.
It was sweet. She was holding up. Strong girl, much stronger than you.
“Will be.’’ I answered. Then I immediately ended the call, giving her no space to ask me anything about work. Or about home, for that matter.
Without taking off my clothes I tried to fall asleep. I listened to the noise of the traffic outside and wished I could quietly slip away, but my body wouldn’t permit it. No matter how exhausted I was. Hours passed. I watched the minutes go by on the tiny clock next to the bed, I just couldn’t sleep with that damn letter in the room with me.
I lost the war in the end when I reached over, grabbed the envelope and flicked the lights back on.
‘’My dearest, Will
It’s fascinating how they all call our boy the Dragon now, isn’t it? He has made a notable impressin, scattering his sharp doses of fear like poppy seeds. Although he is not very deliberate with it, nor very bright, I do enjoy his passion. His energy is frighteningly alluring, is it not?
I have enough resources to be aware that this new killer is causing the FBI quite a stir. He is probably giving you a headache, Will. I advise you not to let him stress you too much. A case like this can be hard on the mind if it has gotten too used to mundane comforts throughout everyday life.
This Dragon is not really a family man, I’ve gathered. He is a bit like us in a way, don’t you think? Wanting to be seen, I don’t think that he’s aware of the unpleasant consequences that come with that privilege. You and I have experienced it ourselves.
They plan to drag me into the mess they are creating around your shy creature. They know I know more than they do, unfortunately for them. You may not know as much, but sooner or later they will come to demand your cooperation too, Will. They will ask more of you than your observations and speculations. You know how good old Jack can be. He won’t let this one slip out of his hands. He won’t make that mistake again, and neither should you.
Though, you’ve worked hard to separate yourself from this world, Will. Would you let all of your hard work go to waste just like that? Like the effort we both put into the concept of us? You build loads of houses, but are too afraid to live in any of them. What use is building a house if you’re not planning to stay in it?
But, if your conscience does get the better of you and you do want to catch him, it will be inevitable that you and I meet again soon. Perhaps in ways we have not met before. I hope you will be kind enough to go back to a first name basis, Will. Your involvement will be as crucial as mine and we will come to stand shoulder to shoulder instead of face to face. Cooperation is much more intimate than confrontations between rivals, I suppose.
I am proud to say we never needed touch to transfer thoughts. I remember how your eyes always told me everything I needed to know. I remember treasuring that fact. That was something extraordinary, Will. I have not been able to experience that with many.
Alana has been so kind as to allow me newspapers throughout the years. I had a foolish hope that maybe one day a picture of you would appear in one, so that I had the opportunity to see those eyes again. Even a glimpse of them, printed on paper would have satisfied me, but this never happened. You were clever enough to stay out of the press. A bit of privacy and withdrawal can do wonders to a man’s soul, they say. As long as he is not constantly plagued by what he’s left behind, of course.
Then you came, and you stood in front of me and your eyes were dull. There was glass, dust and a layer of pretense that kept them from me.
I think of you so often, Will. You must know how much it tortures me that my affection for you is undying.
Have you ever read any of the works of Oscar Wilde? I have begun to understand him more than ever. Staring at the ceiling of my cell, I feel what he must have felt. Wilde wasn’t used to a life in prison at all. He wrote of his misery in a shockingly long letter to Douglas close to the end of his two year sentence in 1897. This letter was called ‘’De Profundis’’, as you most likely know.
‘‘Tomorrow all will be over. If prison and dishonour be my destiny, think that my love for you and this idea, still more divine belief, that you love me in return will sustain me in my unhappiness and will make me capable, I hope, of bearing my grief most patiently. Since the hope, nay rather the certainty, of meeting you again in some world is the goal and the encouragement of my present life. I must continue to live in this world because of that.’’
I’ve been thinking about this passage. I’d like you to know that, like him, I’ll wait for you, Will. I cite this passage with a heart of lead. Know that I will return to you if you allow me to.
Let us always be infinitely dear to each other, as indeed we have been always.
Yours, still,
Hannibal’’
The world was spinning when I looked up from the paper. It was all moving and moving until I blinked, everything went black and then got back into place.
It felt like my heart laid heavy on the back of my tongue and with every breath I took I felt like I was about to swallow it dry. Then it would sit in my throat forever and I would never be able to lie again. There was a fire burning in my gut and it was screwing up my insides. I prayed that Jack or anyone else hadn’t read this. If they had, I would never have gotten it, that wasn’t possible. I reassured myself that it wasn’t. Jack would never let you send me something so...
I got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to splash some water in my face, purposefully avoiding looking in the mirror.
Before I knew it I stood over the sink, nails digging into the porcelain, and threw up my dinner and three glasses of whiskey all in one terrific go. Most of it wasn’t even real vomit. I slumped against the cold wall, wiped the vomit off my mouth with my sleeve and wept. I buried my head in my hands and cried, nails digging into the tiles. My heart was pumping out tears like a lifemachine and I couldn’t do anything to keep them from coming.
I realised it then. I never said it out loud to myself, I never acknowledged it, but I knew it.
The actual realisation hit at last, after all those years, that you loved me. Truly loved me.
He loves you. He loves you, you broken thing. He really does, how heavy it is… It’s frightening, isn’t it?
It’s the scariest thing in the world, I thought as I pressed my cheek against the cold wall hoping to find relief.
Never in my life had I thought I was about to die as much as I did that night, reduced to a pile of vomit and tears on the floor of the world’s most awful motel room.
-
When I went to Jack’s office the next day, I was perfectly composed. I stood straight, had my voice under perfect control and knew I was calm enough to say it without revealing my true intentions.
‘’It’s a mindset I need to recover.’’
Jack’s eyes darkened, and yet, with two families dead and one with an upcoming expiration date I knew he wouldn’t say no.
‘’I have to see Hannibal.’’
What Jack didn’t know was that when I stepped inside my car that same day and drove home, I had to park next to the road because of a panic attack. The first one I had in years. My hands were shaking like hell, my heartbeat went so fast I was scared my heart would fly right out of my chest, and I tasted the vomit from yesterday in the back of my mouth.
Somewhere very, very deep down, buried far beneath everything else, there was some sick thing twisting and turning inside my stomach. It was growling like a neglected animal and if I didn’t listen to it, it would eat me from the inside out if I did. It cried out one sentence, over and over.
You love him.
I made my decision that night, on the side of the road, and knew it was the only choice I ever had to make.
It is now or never.
That night I dreamt of meeting you in the Norman chapel. I saw you standing in the middle of the altar and dreaded the fast incoming day of meeting you in prison. My heart also fluttered at the thought of it.
When I woke up I pulled out my phone and called Bedelia Du Maurier. Therapy seemed like a very good idea.
-
Spring 18’
I hated the fact that they put you behind glass instead of bars. I hated the reflection, I hated the distance and I hated the closeness just as much. When I walked in I swallowed, closed my eyes and became someone other than myself. Will Graham, familyman, cold, unacquainted with Hannibal Lecter in any possible way. Only once I put on my armour was I brave enough to enter.
My efforts didn’t go unnoticed. That much was clear when the next letter was delivered to my motel desk.
‘’Dear Will,
Am I the reason you have become this cruel? I must admire your incredible efforts to put up a wall between us. If plexiglass was not enough, then will anything ever do?
Not saying my name and keeping your distance will not erase us, Will. It will not make us any less intimate, it will not make the past any less significant, and it certainly will not undo us of who we are. I heard your breath hitch, Will, I saw the shimmer in your eyes, I saw you swallow when I mentioned family and smelled your longing as much as your discomfort. You can build armour all you want, Will, but I will know that beneath it you wear the kind of scars only a man who was willing to receive and carry them can bear.
While you might not be of the same opinion, it was marvelous seeing you again. Though it was not exactly what I pictured. You looked very good. I was very honoured to see the way you wore your hair back. I wonder if your wife has ever made the mistake of asking about that scar. I wonder what you told her. I suppose she has, seeing you wear it on display. Or was that just for me?
May we meet again soon, Will.
Yours,
Hannibal’’
Once the glass fogged over and the rush of the water was all I could hear, I couldn’t help but masturbate in the shower. I feverishly pressed my scars over and over and wondered what the hell I was doing. I got lost in the fog and broken fragments of your voice, fighting to keep myself sane as I pretended my own hands were yours.
The second I pressed my face into the wall and moaned against the tiles I startled myself so bad that I shot awake, whisked away the images and fantasies my mind was making up and stopped touching myself. Then got out of the shower. It was incredibly painful, but the shame was so immense that the lack of touch felt justified. It was punishment in a way. Someone had to do it.
Families were dying and I was thinking of the best ways to keep a barrier between the two of us. It turned out that whatever I did, you would see right through me anyway. There was no keeping you out of my mind, I might as well do the best I could do for the victims about to come.
I preferred to keep the next batch from becoming the unlucky instruments to yet another unstable man’s metamorphosis. I myself was perfectly aware how much damage such a thing can do. Who was I to spend all my power trying to keep personal boundaries while people were dying?
If you don’t want to advocate your own truth, advocate ours.
Jack's voice echoed through my head a few times, then words started to twist, meanings deformed, someone else repeated the sentence just a little differently.
If you already know you’ll never come out of this war unscathed, then at least spare your innocents. If you can’t trust your own motivations, trust the bureau’s.
I remembered with a start that the next meeting between you and me was already scheduled.
-
Spring 18’
Sitting by my wife’s hospital bed, holding her hand weakly and trying to find any reassurance that didn’t feel like the ending of things, I had never hated myself more.
I hated you, too. For sending the beast after two innocent people who had, or should have had, nothing to do with this at all. The worst thing was that I couldn’t even blame you for it, knowing I might have done the same, but I hated you for tearing down the wall I put up between my two lives anyway. You killed the illusion that I could keep Molly and Walter and my life with them out of all of this.
You took my safe space from me. My stability, my retreat, you took the only place that had nothing to do with you and stained it by running your blood soaked fingertips all over the clean empty pages of my book. You burst my bubble and knew I’d never be strong enough to create a new one.
‘’I hate this, Molly…’’ I dug my fingers into my arm and couldn’t stand to look her in the eye. ‘’I’m sorry.’’
You didn’t break my wife. She was in a hospital bed hanging together by stitches and bandages, but you didn’t break her. You didn’t shatter my stepson, who was watching baseball in the waiting room with the inescapable knowledge that he was no longer a child now. You didn’t break them, but you broke the relationship I had with them, that took me years to build. The very few strings that were still attached. You didn’t break them, but you broke me. You broke the husband, the man of the house, any possible hope for staying the man I worked so hard to become.
‘’We’ll be back home, won’t we?’’ She asked.
I looked away because I couldn’t bear lying to her face. I couldn’t do that to her. You dragged your filthy hands over all of this until there was only you. And somehow I had always known it would come to end like this.
I said goodbye to Molly in the hospital room. She didn’t know it yet, but I did. Walter did, too. I stepped into my car, slammed the door, and drove straight to Baltimore.
I planned to confront you directly, but Alana Bloom intercepted my visit and stopped me in the foyer. Her body language suggested that she wanted to hug me. To bring me comfort, to be my glue. But she didn’t. She wasn’t who she used to be and neither was I. Leaning on her cane, she only asked me:
‘’Why are you here, Will?’’
‘’I need to speak to him.’’
‘’I’m so sorry about your wife, Will, but shouldn’t you be at the hospital?’’
‘’So am I. And I was just at the hospital. If he wants me angry, he gets me angry. I’m not going to let this slide again and I hope that after this he knows that damn well.’’ I growled. Her mouth became a thin red line, she regarded me with pity. What she didn’t understand was that I didn’t need her pity, and all she had needed to prevent every event that would follow was mistrust.
She was right. I should be next to Molly’s hospital bed, but at that moment I felt like the opposite side of your cell was the only place I needed to be.
Then she pulled an envelope out of her scarlet jacket. I almost wanted to slap it out of her hands, but took it anyway.
‘’He wrote this to you just this morning. Read it, maybe you’ll want to reconsider.’’
I snatched the envelope away from her and walked outside. Only there on the steps of the entrance with the strong wind cutting into my face I felt safe enough to open it.
‘’Goddamn son of a bitch.’’ I mumbled after reading half of it.
‘’Will,
What a tragedy could have befallen us all, had the wife not survived the dragon. I am, I must admit, quite impressed by her determination and skills that pushed her to survive. Although I, naturally, am not very pleased by her survival. I suppose you will be very angry the next time we meet, but you should know, Will, you would have done the same.
Besides, he was already looking for you. I merely helped him a little.
You quote Romeo and Juliet to me and think me a fool. You stand close enough to the glass for your breath to fog it over, for me to feel your warmth, but expect no reaction. Playing with fire gets you bad burns, Will. You do nothing without reason, you better expect not to get anything back without reason.
You yourself got sharper in prison. Why shouldn’t I? Did you think I would waste away so easily? Did you think that confinement would turn me slow, turn me soft, or even numb?
The only thing that has ever managed to drive me to lengths I would not ever have considered before is you. Know that everything you do, you do while I watch. Everyone you involve yourself with, involves themselves with me. You and I are way deeper inside each other than you give us credit for. The man I am today would not exist without you. The man you are, is there because of me. You and I, Will, we cannot exist without bearing the damnation of eternally mirroring each other.
Your wife and stepson have paid their price for that. Next time you come around, we might pay ours.
An end is nearing. I can feel it searing through my veins. Can you feel it too, Will? Can you close your eyes and imagine what it looks like?
Sincerely yours,
Hannibal Lecter’’
Alana was still waiting for me inside. I pushed the crumpled wad of paper back into her hands and walked briskly on.
‘’Burn it. Throw it in your incinerator, I don’t give a fuck. I never want to look at it again.’’
‘’But you’re going to him anyway?’’ She called after me. I came to halt as I was already halfway through the door.
‘’I don’t see anything else left for me to do.’’
-
Spring 18’
There’s something about extinguishing a candle before it can burn up. It leaves things unfinished, questions unanswered, goodbyes uncertain and a little bitter.
I couldn’t bear to go back home. Ding dong the Dragon’s dead, but I had never been so uncertain of anything in my life. Nothing felt final. I left you with a shake of my head and a stain on your glass wall. When I walked out I hadn’t yet fully realised that it was our last meeting. It dawned on me just outside the hospital, but it felt like too much of a disgrace to go back in. I didn’t know why I would. I had no idea what to say. I was left speechless by the Dragon first, then by you second, I wasn’t about to render myself speechless for a third time.
I couldn’t go back in, but I couldn’t leave, either. It was all too abrupt. Too sudden. The Dragon was dead and you and I were over until another killer went loose, or maybe forever. I didn’t try to think about that. I once thought I would never see you again and it got me a hospitalized wife, a lot of pain and a secret box full of letters.
Instead of going home I checked into that same stupid motel again. It saw so much of me already, it could see some more.
What did surprise me was a letter, waiting at the reception.
‘’Dear,
The Dragon is dead. I suppose we have all gotten what we wanted. A killer has surrendered, families can lie to rest without fear, you and I have seen each other again. Have we gotten what we wanted from that? Have you?
It almost disappoints me that Francis Dolarhyde has brought an end to his own life, funnily enough. Our goodbye wasn’t entirely satisfactory. I had hoped you would have gotten a chance to kill him. At least then you could have put the darkness swarming within you to sleep for another few years. You would have had a perfect excuse to get away with it. Now everything has ended just a tad too fast, in the very moment before release. As if closure was never entirely achieved. I suppose you feel like me. Like a plate has been snatched right from your starving hands. I realise I am left unsatisfied with the way we parted. I can’t help but think you must feel the same.
Have you gone home? Have you tried to fall back into normalcy? Will you continue to try and forget me like you have over the past three years?
I won’t, Will. You and I met in the memory palace. It is the only place we still share now. It is the only place I can still feel entirely at ease.
I would forever extinguish candles with you in the quiet, bruised back of your mind. Let me linger in the darker parts of your soul. It is the only way you can still bear to have me.
I hope, once again, this is not the end, Will. Congratulations on stopping the Dragon. We have both lost the game this time around.
If you ever feel like remembering, Will, know that we were beautiful together. We could continue to be, should you choose what you deep down know is what you were made for. Should you stop denying yourself, not of what you need, but of what you want.
Yours, through madness and loss, forevermore,
Hannibal’’
Instead of going home I laid down on the bed and entered my own mind palace. A sky high chapel bathed in streaks of golden light and the shine of multiple red candles. I dreamt of a place where you couldn’t put the candle out. Where there was more to this. To all of this. More up there above, more in between us, more to uncover, more time to say goodbye. Or maybe the opportunity to never have to say goodbye ever again.
I hummed myself to sleep with it. With the sound of your voice, repeating, over and over again.
Forevermore.
-
That next night a dragon was waiting for me inside my room. He caught me with his fire and left me on the floor in pieces, reduced to a pile of ash. Something crawled out of the ashes and it assumed the shape of a possibility. There was certainty in that rebirth like I’d never known it before, and there was a plan, too. It crawled into a laboratorium full of false evidence, into a psychiatrist’s chair, a dark office and a prison cell.
In the back of my mind I could see a candle flicker. A church choir and a moonlit cliff appeared. I could smell you there. Blood, gunpowder, old wine, rosemary, and the ocean. The warmth of your hands on my waist tingled like I already knew exactly where we would end up.
Perhaps this is what you have been waiting for all along.
The teacup was broken, but the candle was still burning. It was time to bring us back to a zero-sum game. No decisive victory, I preferred the idea of losing together.
Forevermore, Forevermore.
-
Notes:
Salut!
First of all, thank you very much for reading this :D Love you all very much <3
I think there is something incredibly painful about Will really, like, really, realising Hannibal loves him. Imagine how that must have felt for him. And then the realisation that it's mutual... Oh boy.
Also, this fic ends with the moment Will comes up with the ''faking Hannibal's escape'' plan after getting attacked by Dolarhyde in his motel room. I decided to end it at that point because, well, we all know the story from there. I might write a fic about the time they spent in the cliff house in TWOTL in the future, but this is it for now.
Once more, thank you all, especially those who commented <3 And hopefully I'll see you around in Vita Nuova :)
X