"I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you in this life," said Hannibal, slowly caressing her face. Abigail stared into his eyes, black and endless.

She breathed in deeply, and closed her eyes. His hand was still stroking her cheek, lovingly, sadly. A single tear threatened to fall from her eyelashes, and she shook it away, angry that her body was betraying her this way. She was not going to cry. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. She took a step back and looked at Hannibal again - he was a wall of darkness against the light of the window. His eyes glittered, and his lips puckered, considering her. She didn't bother looking around the kitchen for something to defend herself with, or wondering how far she could make it before he caught her. It was over. She was at his mercy; her fate had been signed over the second she stepped into this kitchen - probably well before.

"If you're going to do it, do it." Abigail was surprised at how steady her voice was. There was something in her which still told her to trust this man, despite what she knew (what she had always known, deep down) about Hannibal. Despite what she knew was about to happen to her.

"I think..." Hannibal trailed off, still staring heavily at her. "My dear girl," he said, a note of resignation in his voice. He sighed, and stepped close to her again, backing her up against the countertop. His thigh pressed into her hip, and she took a long, shuddering breath. She couldn't move even if she wanted to - his leg was like iron against hers. His hands were on her face, and he pulled her close, almost as if he was going to kiss her (or break her neck). The tears fell freely now, and Abigail bit her lip to suppress the sob that was welling up inside of her.

When it came, it took her almost by surprise. He flipped her around, hugging her to his chest, and wrapped his long arm around her throat, squeezing harder than she thought possible, impossibly hard. She choked and sputtered and felt the edges of her vision dim, and her hands involuntarily clutched at his arm. His chin rested atop her head, his other hand gently stroking her hair. He shushed her, as if he was putting a child to sleep. She could feel her throat spasm, as her lungs tried to draw in air where there was none - she felt herself start to go limp. Her mind was blissfully blank as she fell into unconsciousness.

The first thing she became aware of was a dull throbbing pain in her left ear. It ached in a way that was completely new; sharp but not sharp. She swallowed uncomfortably. It felt like she was lying on something soft - a mattress. When she opened her eyes, she saw that she was in a four-poster bed, and the sheer forest green curtains were drawn. Someone (she knew who) had lovingly put her to bed, the way one might an invalid.

She pulled her hand up to the left side of her face, and felt - nothing. A gaping nothing where there should have been something. A scream fought its way up her throat and died before it could make itself known. She groped at her head, feeling at the raw hole which stung when she touched it. When she sat up, her hair fell forward, no longer tucked neatly behind her ear. She shoved her fist in her mouth and began to cry, sobbing in a way that she hadn't done since she realized her parents were dead. Drool and snot pooled around her fist, but she didn't care. She snuffled and sobbed and tried so, so hard to keep quiet; she didn't want to antagonize him any further.

She cried until she couldn't cry anymore. Feeling wrung out, she dried her face on the pristine sheets, and parted the curtains of her bed, looking around. Her room was small, but well furnished - there was a small desk and chair in the corner, a bookshelf full of books, a comfy looking armchair in the corner, a solid oak dresser. There was an attached bathroom, she noted approvingly, complete with a full bath. There was a security camera nestled in the corner of the ceiling, aimed directly at her bed. A card rested on the small bedside table - she opened it with trembling fingers.

Abigail -

I shall expect you for dinner, whenever you wake up. Please change into something appropriate - your clothes are quite soiled, sadly.

Come, darling. I've made us a wonderful meal.

- H.L.

A shudder worked its way up her spine, as she wondered what (who?) he expected her to eat tonight. This was a test, she knew. If she went along with it, played the adoring daughter, she'd have a better chance of surviving whatever game Hannibal was playing with her.

She stood up and gingerly walked over to the dresser, which she soon realized was empty of all clothes. She looked around the room, puzzled - what did he expect her to wear? - and saw the dress hanging from the upper rail of her bed. It was an old-fashioned affair, deep blue in color, with red accents. She changed, and tried to fix her hair, combing it through with her fingers. She did her best to pick the dried flecks of blood out of her hair. She put on the pair of Mary Janes that he had left her by the door, and slipped out of the room, tip-toeing through the dark hallway and down the winding staircase.

Hannibal was at the stove, his back turned to her, sautéeing something that smelled delicious. She hovered by the doorway, not sure whether to announce her presence or wait for him to notice her; fortunately, Hannibal solved that problem for her.

"Abigail," said Hannibal, turning around and smiling. He tossed whatever was in the saucepan pan. There was warmth in his voice. "So good of you to come down."

Abigail looked down at her feet, staring at the absurdly childish shoes he had picked out for her. She said nothing; she didn't trust herself to speak. Hannibal put the saucepan back on the flame, and slowly approached her, as if he was coming up on a wild animal. He was wearing a contour-fitting white shirt and a blue waistcoat - his muscles were plainly visible through his clothing. Abigail couldn't help but think of how powerful he looked - how much stronger than her he was. His hands came to rest at her shoulders, and he looked down on her kindly.

"You look beautiful, my dear," he said, smiling at her gently.

"Th... thanks," Abigail stammered.

He hooked a finger underneath her chin and forced her to look up at him. She did, reluctantly. She could see the crow's feet gather on his eyes as they crinkled with a smile. "Come." He slipped a hand down to her lower back, and gestured to the kitchen table. "Foie de veau grand-mère. Calves liver, sauteed in balsamic vinegar, parsley, and garlic." She took a deep breath and sat herself at the table. Hannibal served her with a flourish, and even in the midst of her terror, she could appreciate the beauty of the presentation before her; a small tower of sliced meat decorated with a sprig of fresh parsley, with a sweet vinegar reduction drizzled on top. "Bon appetit, Abigail," said Hannibal, taking the seat next to her. She murmured a thank you and tried to smile at him.

Abigail remembered her last meal at Hannibal's house - she had chattered away, telling him about some inside joke that she and Alana had made up, and about the latest ridiculous thing Will's puppy did. Hannibal had laughed in all the right places and had peppered her with questions about life at the hospital, about her plans for college, about what she wanted for the future. It had been companionable, and she had felt loved, cared for.

Tonight, they ate in silence.

"Who is it that we are eating?" The question was out before Abigail knew it. She stared at Hannibal in horror, shocked that she would give away what she was thinking so easily. How would he make her suffer for her impudence? He regarded her with a long look, giving away nothing of what he thought.

He cocked his head slightly to the side. "A salesman from Toledo, Ohio," he said, calmly. "Here on a business trip. He was terribly rude to his waitress."

"Oh," she said, fighting to keep her voice calm.

He swirled his wine and took a deliberate sip. She took another bite, and looked down at her plate. Salesman or no, tonight's dinner was exceptionally tasty. She wondered if she should ask for seconds, if Hannibal would like that or not. If this was to be her last meal, she might as well enjoy herself, she thought, viciously.

Slowly, her fear fell by the wayside - she felt an absurd sense of power thrum through her. She was willingly eating someone who had been a living, breathing person just a few days ago. Abigail felt untethered from reality, she felt free in a way she had never felt before.

"Hannibal?" she asked, proud of how steady her voice was.

"Yes, dear?" he asked, in between bites of salesman.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Oh Abigail," he said, sighing contentedly. "Whatever I wish. Do you understand?" he asked, reaching out to pet her hair.

God help me, thought Abigail. "I do."