It was a fragile thing, a delicate thing. To walk the line of being and nonbeing was to balance upon the thinnest of strings. One would imagine a surface so narrow would be impossible to walk upon, and yet poor souls only fell if they looked down. Or, of course, if they were pushed.
Abigail Hobbs was almost one such soul. The thick slice of her father's knife at her neck sent her careening through the darkness on her way to nonbeing. Will Graham fumbled with her body, grasping an arm or a hand or a leg or anything to keep her balancing on that line, but he couldn't get a grip (surprise, surprise). It was only the firm, strong grasp of Hannibal Lecter's hand at her throat that saved her from the limitless darkness and helped her back onto the string of life.
He had saved her life that day by clamping his strong fingers around the gash in her neck. And yet once she was saved, he did not let go. And Abigail Hobbs continued her life with a gaping neck, sealed only by precise, calm hands. And she went about her day with his hand around her throat and slept with his grip tight around the wound. And without either of them having to say it, she knew of his power over her.
You see, Hannibal Lecter had staunched the hot blood pumping from Abigail's neck that cold Autumn morning, and he'd been holding on ever since, waiting to decide whether he'd let go or not. And now it was time to let go.
She never thought she'd die like this. Well, that wasn't strictly-speaking true; she knew she would die by her father's hands, she just thought it would be Garrett Jacob Hobbs. She thought he'd kill her once the other girls weren't enough, and the thrill of other girls would only last for so long. It was inevitable, a fixed point in Abigail's mind, that she would be murdered by her father. When that didn't happen, she almost felt as if it had. The disbelief was beyond anything she'd ever felt before. When she came out of her coma, shocked and terrified and panicked, the fear of her father was still heavy on her heart. It was a mistake, all a mistake that she was still alive. Time would fix this mistake, she knew, and it would not wait for long.
After some months, however, Abigail herself forgot this truth. She buried it away somewhere deep, somewhere frightening and terrible and even deeper than she'd buried Nicholas Boyle. In the haze of affection from Will and Hannibal, she allowed herself to forget who she was and be happy. For such a brief and bright time, Abigail was happy. No, happy was all wrong. Safe. Yes, safe. For the first time since her childhood, being with Will and Hannibal gave Abigail the sensation of security. No monsters would touch her or scream at her or kill her when she was wrapped up in Hannibal's warm embrace, and no demons would lap at her throat with Will's hands wrapped around hers. They were her protectors, her friends, her fathers. She let herself forget what a father meant for her.
And she felt his apology as he whispered it in her ear; close, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. She felt the words escape his lips, so close to her flesh they were almost touching it. His longing to taste her, to devour her, was spreading through her whole body, and she shut her eyes tight. She chanted no, no, not again over and over in her mind, but that was wrong. It was not again. The first killing had never ended, not truly. It was only prolonged, prolonged until this point.
She hardly felt it when he tore her neck in the same place as before. It didn't seem real, like a scene from a movie she'd half-forgotten. In that moment, the suspension of reality was shattered and the gravity of the past months became clear. And Abigail closed her eyes as the life flowed out of her, hot and fragrant, and allowed the truth to spring forth in her mind.
Abigail was already dead.
She'd been dead since her first father killed her. She'd been dead and her new father had only been playing with her corpse, manipulating her carcass through the motions of life by the throat. And it took her so long to see it, but she was glad that she figured it out before she was truly gone.
Her foot began to slide from the string, dangling above the darkness. She felt herself begin to tip, falling, falling, falling away from the strong hand that held her in place. The coarse grip of a surgeon's hand slipped from her neck, and Abigail's blood flowed free, free at last from the prison of her body.
Far away, she felt Will reach for her. And oh, how she so wished she could reach back. She wished she could take it all back, wished she could go back to the cabin and hold Will tight until he ceased to shake. If only she could have taken care of him like he'd taken care of her, she would have been able to lie for just another day. If only she had trusted him, trusted the only positive male presence in her whole miserable life, to protect her and cherish her the way he did. If only, if only. It was all nothing, now.
She turned away from Will's grasp and closed her eyes. She felt the rush of wind kiss her cheeks as she fell face-first into the darkness. It swallowed her whole.