Everything I knew about my family were only the things I have been told. Everything I have been told about my family was said with none of the niceties and sympathy for an abandoned child. Nevertheless, they were all facts that I had no choice but to acknowledge.

The reproductive technology of the 21st century gave birth to me. I was born to two fathers and I am both theirs biologically. In other words, I was a designer baby. I have been purchased mainly through the wealth and connections of my illustrious father who used to be part of Baltimore's social elite before he was imprisoned. Both of my fathers were murderers I never had the misfortune of meeting.

I had a sister too. She was not related to my parents by blood. As a matter of fact, my fathers cared for her after they had caused her to be orphaned. Her name was Abigail, which means 'father's joy' in Hebrew, but I heard her biological father brought her little joy. Her own father tried to kill her, but our fathers had saved her, only to be killed by one of our fathers six years before I was born. She was a murderer too.

My fathers have named me Abiel after my deceased sister. After I was born, one of my fathers had tried to care for me for a short while. He was not a particularly stable man himself, and with my other father detained in a mental institution, nurturing a newborn proved a very difficult task. Seeking stability, he returned to his wife and stepson, leaving me under the care of a family friend. I was only 3 months old when I was taken to my father's childhood home—a castle in Lithuania.

My earliest memories were of hollow halls and dark corridors in which dead silence prevailed. This silence would be shattered by gunshots fired by my guardian who was frequently shooting birds and fowl around the castle grounds. Those gunshots would be my signal to go to the kitchen and watch her cook the day's hunt. I used to watch with awe as she let the blood drip from those animals, making sure they were drained to the last drop. What I really enjoyed most was when she would pluck the feathers from the fowls. It is magnificent to behold how a bird's majesty lies solely on its plumes, how its once splendid wings are noting but bizarre protrusions from a dull and ugly body, and no matter how lustrous and colourful the feathers that used to adorn its body, a bird is still prey to whatever overpowers it.

It was no surprise to Chiyoh that such things fascinated me as a child. Aside from being murderers, my parents and my sister have been confined in mental asylums after all. She had expected for me to turn out the same. Though aloof most of the time, Chiyoh has always been protective of me. She made it a point to never speak of my fathers' names. She had me use a different surname when I went to school. To her, I was always Abiel, just Abiel. It made me pay no heed to the name written all over the castle where we lived. Chiyoh would not have me walking around with a name that echoes throughout the world with fear and loathing. If not for my godmother who emailed me all the way from the United States, I would not come to know that I am Abiel Graham-Lecter.

Bedelia Du Maurier was my father's psychiatrist and colleague. She contacted me via email months after I finished high school. I remember the contents of that message verbatim because, though brief, it astonished me to no end.

"Abiel Graham-Lecter," it read.

"For years, I have been looking for you. It never crossed my mind that you might not be using your parents' names. You may not know me at all, but I have a proposition for you. Please reply once you have read this.

"Your godmother,

"Bedelia Du Maurier"

I was about to tell her that she had the wrong person, but there was a certainty to the tone of her message that I cannot ignore. I typed her name in search boxes in the internet and I was met with a string of crimes involving one Dr. Hannibal Lecter with frequent mentions of a Will Graham. I read the articles about them and the more I read, the more I was filled with questions. I knew better than to ask the enigmatic 'godmother' with whom I had just been acquainted.

Dinner was quiet that night with nothing but the sound of clinking silverware to be heard. Though Chiyoh and I were not particularly chatty, this silence was different. Unspoken words screamed in the silence that hung over us that evening and I knew Chiyoh can hear them.

"You did not hunt with me, Abiel." Chiyoh said without looking at me. It was both a question and a reprimand.

"I was busy... reading." I replied, piercing the meat with my fork for the hundredth time.

She looked at the food on my plate that though pierced many times was not reduced a bit, and then she looked at me with blank eyes.

I held her gaze and said, "Who am I?"

Chiyoh sighed, set her fork and knife on the table and stood. She cleared the table of her plate, my plate and all the food she served. When she was done, she left the dining room and returned with a key moments later. "Come with me."

I followed her down to a vault below the castle which was not unknown to me. I have extensively explored the dilapidated estate as a child, but I never had a look beyond the locked doors of this vault.

Chiyoh unlocked the door with the key she brought. Entering, we were assaulted by the stench of rot and decay. Chiyoh handed me a handkerchief to cover my nose and mouth with before we proceeded.

It was dark inside and very cold. Chiyoh pulled a lighter from her pocket and felt through the darkness for what turned out to be candles.

The vault was littered with candle stands that may have stood there for many years. When all the candles were lit, the light revealed something hanging from the ceiling. It was the skeleton of a man attached on which was a pair of what looked like insect wings made of pieces of shattered glass. The bones from the pelvis down have fallen to the floor, but I can picture how it should have looked like. It was a Firefly Man whose corpse was fed to the numerous snails that swarmed the vault and that now lived on his musty bones. It looked like the work of the Chesapeake Ripper which I had just read about, but not quite. The Firefly Man was a message from one individual to another, by whom and for whom I could only guess.

"Who was this?" I asked.

"Your father says this man murdered his sister, your Aunt Mischa, and fed her to him." Chiyoh replied.

"But this is not my father's."

Chiyoh chuckled. "This is your father's. This is Will Graham's work."

"But not his kill." I replied. I wondered how I knew and why I was so certain.

"Indeed." She said. "Will made me kill this man."

"Was it satisfying?" I asked, imagining Will Graham securing the ropes that hung the Firefly Man.

"It was liberating." She turned to face me and said as if she had made up her mind, "It is time you know all about them."

"You will not have much to tell." Though my nose and mouth were covered, Chiyoh knew I smiled.

Author's Note:

Hi there! Thanks for reading. I have not written any form of fanfiction for more than five years now and this feels like starting from scratch all over again. I hope you understand.

I know I should have added Chiyoh to the characters of this fic, but she's not in the choices. Is she really not in the list or am I the only one experiencing this problem?

Please tell me what you think of this fic. Your thoughts matter a lot to me since, as I've said, this is my first in years.

Review and Review!