Hannibal
I should not even be thinking of you, nevermind be writing this letter, but I sort of miss missing you. You were my anchor when not even Jack could be.
I don't admire the murders you pulled off, but I can't help admiring the beauty which you brought forth to the table, figuratively speaking. Your work was art, but not for the heavens. In that way, I guess we are alike. I have nothing to offer the heavens. My soul is too dark, just like yours.
I don't admire you either. You were my friend. In a way, you remind me of Tobias. You knew just how to play me. You took me in your hands. You made and unmade me without a second thought or hesitation. You made me a father with Abigail. You unmade me a father while I paid for your crimes. You made me trust you with your intelligent words and good food. You made me distrust you when you let me realise what i was eating.
You were my friend until you weren't. You made me laugh and you turned around to have me shed rivers. You had me thinking I was as sane as anyone else until you stomped on my sanity.
After all this, after all i had to go through, you made me just a little bit darker than I started out as and that frightens me because, now, I'm seen as something close to you. And the worst past is, I cannot, for the life of me, seem to care.
I almost feel like I'm not alive anymore. No one understands me like you did. They act like they do. They think that they do. They don't.
Sometimes, I almost wish that time would turn back.
I'd like it to turn back to the first time we met and I'd like to not interrupt you psycho-analysing me. I wonder what you would have told me back then. It would probably differ greatly now.
All you did was push me down to hell, but, somehow, I can't help to think that I really did not bother trying to get back up either anyway. So, it isn't completely your fault, now is it?
I guess i just don't understand - or know you - either way. Even my dogs liked you.
Will