Disclaimer: All rights to NBC for their brilliant production of Hannibal, Thomas Harris for his creation of the character, and J.K. Rowling for our little Harry Potter.
I wrote this whilst listening to:
Everything that Breathes - Greg Haines
Lord Please Save Me (Instrumental) - The Brilliance
No wonder it is sad. I'm sorry... But not. This was always going to happen. Let's raise a glass to tearful finales.
My hand singed, but I did not see the red flaky skin. I saw a pair of liquid gloves wrapping around them, formed out of viscous, warm blood. On the floor across the room lay Abigail. Each white shard piercing her glistened against the crimson stains seeping from their incision.
A jagged interpretation of the wound man. A suitable, naive tribute.
Will ran over as soon as the shards were moving, but when he reached her he simply arrived at a body. She was absent from her frame, a carriage empty of its passenger. Will crumpled down to his daughter's side and crouched tightly over her, unable to hold her from all the white daggers.
"My girl... My Abigail," he stuttered. Falling apart over the one who was broken. There was a deep gurgling sound, like he was drowning within himself.
Sometimes things seem to crack. When reality no longer seems real and you're clutching at the surface of something bare and naked and nothing. Will was tormented by the barriers between fiction and reality. Sometimes nothing felt real and sometimes everything did. He felt too much. He felt everything too much. So when grief hit him he crumbled again. He'd lost a daughter to his son, and his husband to the temptations the man could not resist. Will was gone... Lost in time. Not like before though; This was different, because this time he felt every single second pass him by but he was frozen. When Harry ran from the room he didn't watch him go. When Hannibal took Abigail's body he didn't stir, but remained staring at the place where she had last been.
There was something broken in the darting glimpses Hannibal and Will gave one another across an over-stewed teapot that was never poured. Normally they would've understood each other: seen the workings of the mind opposite and known how they felt. It was the beauty of their marriage - an infallible connection. Yet now they sat at the doorstep of the mind of the other and did not enter. Will was blank, drained, and had the look of a man who was feeling so much he'd gone numb. Hannibal, on the other hand, seemed to be staring into the fire, and a dark light burned in his eyes. He was hurt - it was clearly expressed - but for him the barriers between pain and pleasure were permeable, leaving him hungry. That was no surprise.
When he rose to go downstairs, a clear task in mind, Will rose with him.
"Don't go." he pleaded quietly, eyes fixed on the table. Hannibal watched the way Will slowly looked up at him, and how he flinched when they truly looked into one another again.
"You can't," he whispered. Hannibal walked round to Will, intent on distracting him so he could leave. Upon standing beside him though Will reached for the man and tenderly placed a hand on his cheek.
"Please," he whispered, "Don't do that to our daughter." Hannibal flinched, his cheeks rising to Will's hands. Will rubbed him thumb below Hannibal's cheekbone.
"I can't be that for you," Hannibal told him. He reached to remove Will's hand but instead found Will gripping his arm in that attempt and holding it between them as they stood against each other.
"You can't or you won't?" he asked calmly, voice breaking slightly on the last word. The sound of movement in the living room prevented a response.
"Hello?" called a croaky voice. With his equally red eyes and hands, Will was in no fit state to speak with her.
"Tidy yourself up. Check on Harry. Come down, if you can." Hannibal instructed. Will nodded and rushed upstairs whilst Hannibal hurried to meet Alana, concerned she may venture into the rest of the house.
Will did not look steady. His hands were cold as he pulled me from the wardrobe and over to the bed.
"There's something wrong with me." I told him. I showed him my hands and asked: "Can you feel the buzz? It's like electricity running through me."
"Adrenaline," Will informed, touching the palm gently before quickly removing his hand. I spotted a lone tear on his cheek.
"Is she dead?" Will blinked heavily. I didn't need him to tell me.
"I... I feel like I'm not feeling right. I felt bad, scared, but now I don't. I just, don't, feel, don't-"
"It's alright," interrupted Will. My hand rose, held by his, and he kissed it gently. "It can be hard, for you. It's hard for Hannibal sometimes too, but you'll learn and grow to understand what emotions you might have."
"I want to feel them now," I answered with light confusion.
"That's not how it works... But once Alana is gone, we can talk and help you know what to do." His words were wobbling.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
"I will be," he replied, wrapping an arm round me and resting his chin on my head. I could feel his heartbeat in my ear, rapid and heavy, and his little jolts of movement. I could hear his sniffs, and how he barely seemed to be breathing. "We will be."
"I love you Dad," I whispered. He nodded with a tearful exhale.
"I'll try," he replied.
Bones, sinking like stones, all that we've fought for.
Homes, places we've grown, all of us are done for.
We live in a beautiful world.
Yeah we do, yeah we do.
We live in a beautiful world.
Don't Panic - Coldplay
Much love to anyone who read the whole story. It fills me with fuzzy warmth to know you may've read this and enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it.
If you want to, leave a comment or check out my other stories. If not, enjoy the rest of your day/night, and your further fictional adventures!
- TeaWithMeAtThree
