Last night, he dreamed. He dreamed like any other man, stable or unstable. He abandoned concepts of good and evil for behaviorism and can't fathom the difference anymore. Was there one in the first place? Maybe there was a difference a long time ago, five years ago to be precise.
He dreamed that he was at a beach on the edge of a river.
The river was isolated, but the people that lived there left their marks. In some spots, they left a beach towel. The sand covered their bags in a thick layer of sand that buried their possessions and memory. In others, there were pools of blood in various patterns that pointed to their violent deaths. Often, the trail of rust was longer around objects whose owners endured more brutal tragedies than others. All of it was dry.
All of it was dry for a very long time.
As he investigated his surroundings, he noticed that the sand induced a slight pain beneath his feet with every step. Any contact on his foot burned a little more than it previously did. He looked down at the source of his pain and realized that the beads of sand thickened. The particles merged together and heated under the skin of his foot. He left behind a path of glass.
He continued to move forward.
The caress of the ocean curling between his toes relieved any discomfort from the glass. It was almost as if a dozen pairs of hands were curling around his feet, luring him in with this brief pleasure.
He followed the touch and the comforting motion of fingertips along his damaged skin. He did not examine his surroundings or the rising levels of water. Instead, he blindly followed where these hands were leading him. The gentle touch was vaguely familiar and, oddly enough, soothing to him.
His feet were cold.
He opened his eyes. He was in the middle of a familiar river that had the same greenery. Clearly, nothing changed from his last visit. The forest was still as thick and prominent as before. Furthermore, the bushes around the edge of the water didn't loose their bright coloring, which was a clear indication of their health. On the edge of the river, the clear water brushed against the large rocks that eroded to perfection.
In the water, he saw objects that held different values. Some were shiny trinkets, like an award for some sort of good deed. Others were dull and ranged from common arcade prizes to pieces of candy. He remembered many of these things but forgot about many others. Each of the objects in the river played a part in some of his old memories. Almost all of them lost their value.
One particular object, though, did not loose its value. A set of fishing lures gently floated next to old fishing rode discarded a long time ago. The rod was not damaged from its last use. If anything, it appeared renewed. The only difference was the crimson tint that was permanently embedded on the sharp end of the hook.
He reached out and grabbed the rod.
All at once, the objects began to transform. Each one slowly assembled to form a different corpse of a serial killer that had a significant impact on him during his investigations. Beneath his feet, he noticed that he was standing on top of Garret Jacob Hobbs's body.
No, they were not corpses.
Suddenly, a collection of bubbles flooded the surface as each man rose from the water. They were all speaking and breathing, alive. Many of them talked about different things, but some spoke in unison. Underneath the chorus of their voices, he heard their mocking chant. Their words became their base that drove the underlying tempo of the song.
"Save Will Graham."
In the middle, he saw one particular killer that was directing the band of speakers and illustrating the entire performance. The beast's knife was its baton. He tried to move forward and confront the creature only to discover that a large group of bodies blocked his path. The dead men and women that cluttered the surface of the water all had similar features to the photos of victims that he recalled examining for many sleepless nights to search for traces.
The thing that he pursued was a black creature that produced an unholy stench. It's antlers stretched towards the heavens, corrupting even the purest of angels. Most of the bodies in the river belonged to this monster, and there were enough of them to cover the water's surface as far as the horizon.
He held firmly in place by the clutter and trapped in his own design. He was just another body. He was another victim in the creature's gruesome picture and forced to listen to its horrid song. He listened to the chorus of rough voices that began to overwhelm his senses. Soon, the voices of the victims joined in their murderers' twisted song. He anticipated the monster's next action and tightened his grip around the fishing rod until his knuckles turned white from the pressure.
As the creature made its way towards him, the bodies beneath it parted with each step. The monster stepped towards the corpses, which instantly transformed them into mutations. Each one matched their crime scene photos. After these bodies floated into the proximity of the beast, each corpse acquired a different look. Each body blossomed into a piece of mangled artwork as original as the previous one. The creature didn't come into contact with the corpses. It didn't need to. It engraved his baton into their feeble flesh long ago.
Within seconds, the beast was centimeters away from him. He examined the creature's charred skin that darkened into a malevolent void. They breathed the same air and reflected the same face in their eyes. When he looked into them, he saw that Wendigo in their reflection.
He saw himself.
He snapped awake and glanced at his surroundings that were blurring a little from the lingering haze of his dream. He realized that he fell asleep on his small boat that drifted aimlessly in the middle of the ocean.
He didn't remember the finer details of his last conversation with Dr. Lecter. The former psychiatrist's final attempt to contact him, a single letter, was lost in the remnants of the decades. Years ago that thin parchment was eroded away in this same spot by the gentle foam of rolling waves that brushed against the sailboat. Years ago, those crumpled words rapidly dissolved into the remnants of these past several years. Nevertheless, Hannibal's touch lingered on this particular family man in Sugarloaf Key, Florida. Dr. Lecter didn't need the printed word to extend his influence.
He looked around only to see an irregular amount of trash bags, an unusual addition for any boat to have at this time of night. Each bag was large enough to hold an entire adult male. If he examined them more closely, all of the bags had a decaying stench more unique than the previous one.
Maybe Hannibal could still smell it on him.
He smiled.
"It's 3:01 A.M. I'm in Sugarloaf Key, Florida. My name is Will Graham."
Author's Note: I'm sure you would like an introduction, an idea of what's to come and what this story entails. I am not going to give you any of that. Instead, for every chapter, I am going to give you a paradox along with a small list of announcements, which will be listed under this section. This story will update every Friday unless something comes up. I'm usually very punctual, though, so there shouldn't be anything to worry about. Furthermore, if you have any questions about the story or helpful criticism, feel free to leave it in the review. Keep in mind, though, that this is my story. I reserve the right to disagree with any advice that you give me, but I will acknowledge your comments.
Disclaimer: Hannibal is a book, a movie, and a television series with many names and faces that contribute to it. I am not any of those names or faces.
Today's Paradox: You have never actually seen your own face, only a reflection of it.