His dreams used to terrify him. He used to wake up, his lips bloody and swollen, a million screams caught in his throat, thrashing to the noises of his sister dying, to the laughter of her murderers. He would sit up, the cold sweat dripping down his lean back, the blood from his mouth falling on to the sheets, turning them crimson, where there was once a peaceful white.
His muscles would twitch and jerk as he drew in one ragged breath after another, trying to calm himself, but her screams echoed in his ears, taunting him, scolding him for not saving her. He would shut his icy eyes, and listen, not to her rants, but only to hear her small voice.
Hannibal!
Hannibal!
He would get up and unsteadily stride to the bathroom, counting each step he took, as if each one was another step toward his possible sanity. Horrible gagging could be heard as he wreched, attempting to relieve his already completely empty stomach. The noise would block out her crying for just a moment, but then it'd be back, and he would return to the bed, not daring to return to the sleep that tortured him.
That was then. Now, her murderers were gone, burnt, eaten, which ever he saw fit, and her screams came no more. There was no haunting laughter, no images, no blood, no sweat. Now, there was nothing. Just a silence.
That terrified him more than her voice.