I've watched my world unfolding uncomfortably, being examined under the small slide of a microscope, a light shining through me and illuminating me to the entire world, as if I am meant to be seen so easily. It was this way for everyone who knew him how I did. Who knew the both of them how I did. Will Graham and Dr. Hannibal Lecter. There was a pressing fear in knowing them, that I am aware of now, but the thought still lingers that they are all the family I have left now. They are my fathers. One is very similar to my own biological father and the other is the one who killed that man.
My name is Abigail Hobbs and I spent my life helping my father hunt down girls, luring them in and bringing them to him, to be fed right back to me. For him, it was all about the hunt. We used every piece of them. Their hair stuffed our pillows. They were killed, so that I could go on and then with one phonecall, Will Graham and his aim was what stood between me and death. The scar remains where my father slit my throat, missing my cartoid artery. There are times where I wish that it had. Slid right through my jugular and ended me then and there. The scar has marred me.
The skin is a canvas, and whatever is used to make the scar is the medium. Blood drawn, glowing its brilliant red and going black and blue underneath the skin. But that all fades. The puss vanishes and the infection clears up and then all that is left is slightly raised, discoloured skin. An art form in scars because it takes physical pain to create it. It is the purest form of art work because it is so natural. It is a beauty hidden behind horror.
I wear a scarf now to cover it. It's odd, the fabric rubbing against it. Freddie Lounds wants to do write about me. I know she'll morph the story. She morphs Will. She always has because she seeks to destroy what she cannot possibly fathom. I believe only I can understand Will, just as he can only understand me.
Killing feels right. That ability to hold life in death in on'es hands, as if it was nothing more than a piece of thread waiting to be severed by the Fates. To hold that power, to be able to wield it, is the most spectacular feeling. The most arousing form of adrenaline and Will Graham knows that. He had the similar feeling when he killed my father. When he killed Garret Jacob Hobbs.
Hannibal seems to know us, but he doesn't mention it. It is not out of fear of what we will do. It is out of the pure interest to observe us as the monsters that we are becoming. He was the man on the phone. I ask him now why he phoned. He was just playing a game.
He's known all along how this was going to play out.
He knew what would happen to Will.
He knew what would happen to me.
He knew we would never be a family.
I ask him if he is going to kill me.
Hannibal sighs. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life."
FIN
