Abigail Hobbs isn't a child. She is far from innocent - so much so she thinks she never really was. Her child body is light in the arms of her father and he lays her down to sleep. He strokes her hair and tells her everything is alright. It is their bedtime story. The bed is soft and warm and angels watch over her, but she does not dream. She stands over his grave with bitterness. No flowers, she has vines around her spine and thorns in her neck, and no tears - her eyes are glass and echo his. Hannibal is her father now, her guide. When a smile cuts his face she expects it to slide off and reveal the monster underneath. She wants to see every part of him.
They eat together. She never asks what they are eating. They sleep together. She comes to him with red eyes and tells him she has had a bad dream. But she does not dream. Their skin touches and he pulls her to him. She sleeps like she is still inside her mother. Her arms and legs are wrapped around his.
She has her fear. She keeps it for Will. It crawls up her throat and out her mouth. He has her over for dinner once. He is a horrible cook and his house smells. Eyes are on her, the eyes of dogs. They are good, loyal. He knows dogs, knows how to take care of them, love them. She isn't a dog. Abigail knows Will sees her, but he doesn't say anything.
The blood never comes off. Abigail rubs until her skin is red. Hannibal rubs calamine lotion into her palms. Secrets are under her skin, hers and his. They share each other's soul and it drives her mad. It makes her euphoric. When she asks to live with him he says no. There is fire in her eyes. He's never denied her anything, but she understands. She knows they must keep appearances up. He kisses the top of her head. She rests her head on his chest and exhales. Goodbye.