In the spring of 1997, the grounds of Washington resident Albert Porter were humming with honey bees. They hovered over the stalks of green plants that flourished around his shabby home in the hills, spreading the good news of the season on their legs like Hermes did for the gods. I always wondered what they tasted like. Adrian would go on and on about how he learned that in the wilderness, bugs were excellent sources of protein. I had forgotten how honey was made, but the thought of eating a bee minus the stinger appealed to me. I thought it would be tasty like a piece of Christmas candy, sugar-coated and bad for the teeth. Those thoughts and other childlike wonders would be milled in my head as I sat on the dry wood step of Albert Porter's back porch. Watching and hungry for bugs.
A clever pair of children, our minds were our escapes from the dysregulation that plagued our lives.
Albert Porter.
A shiver climbed up my back and settled at the base of my neck. Perched their like a crow. Pecking at my memories.
Understanding behavior science in regards to children summons constant reflection. It causes you to look back at your own youthful years, especially when those years were tumultuous. The reflection is absolutely inescapable. Like a shadow it follows my every thought: Did that horrible thing happen to me? Did I react like this kid did? Were my parents too strict with me or too loose? I suppose it feels better making the burden into a responsibility rather than an unavoidable torture.
Constant reflection. When I am working with clients, I see myself. I see my brother. I see Adrian as a boy sitting on my sofa, a sturdy, dark eyed child whose mouth is a firm line and with shoulders as tightly wound as a spring. His hair is dirty and sticks out in some places on his scalp. Hands scraped. Knees, too. Scars. That was his DHS intake photograph. In a white undershirt that showed off his wiry arms, a pair of ratty basketball shorts, and calloused, bare feet was Adrian.
He didn't look five. Not one bit like a child, but instead like some aged specter. It was the eyes, those vacant things. They had decades in them.
But then I see myself. I see my photograph, the one that was taken the same day as Adrian's on the day that we were picked up by social services from our trailer up the sound. I was wearing a Johnny Cash t-shirt with holes in it. The shirt was my mother's and it fell to my ankles with a pair of princess underwear underneath. Dirt clung to my cheeks and my eyes were wide open. While Adrian scowled at the camera, I was a deer in headlights.
One thing I always noted though, one thing that stood out to me when I see the picture of five year-old me is my hair. Smooth. Shining. Well kept. Dark locks that were long enough to reach my thighs. Filthy and hungry, I was a mess. But my hair? It was pristine. It was the most cared for part of my whole being because of Adrian. Because of my sweet brother. He combed it when I woke up and after dinner. Quiet and concerned, Adrian would sit me down on our mattress with our mother's comb, and run the teeth through sections of my hair. I remember watching how focused those dark eyes of his were, how he carefully moved the strands through his small fingers with precision and mindfulness. We didn't speak during these times. I simply sat swinging my legs over the edge of the bed while Adrian combed my hair.
All the memories, the bees and the comb, all of it made me scoff. Adrian, who was sitting at my kitchen counter with a coffee mug clasped between his palms, looked up in amusement.
"Was it something I said?" he asked lightly.
Instead of looking at my brother, my eyes fell to the dismantled object that rested in the space between us on the countertop.
"How did you do it?" I asked. "Who taught you?"
His eyes followed tiredly mine as if predicting a lecture.
"From a guy who learned from another guy," he said. "One of the people in group therapy said that a former bunkmate of his taught him about ankle trackers. Did so when he was held in Baltimore. He told me that his bunkmate messed with them when the orderlies weren't watching."
"Did it do him much good?"
"Who? His bunkmate?"
"Yeah."
"Didn't matter," said Adrian. "Guy got out of the mental hospital some months later. Became an orderly himself, if you can believe it."
I sighed.
"Will Graham's supposed to be stopping by sometime today so you better figure out how to put it back on before he gets here."
"Why's he coming over?"
"We scheduled it a week ago. He wants to talk to you."
"About what-"
"I don't know."
My words came out much harsher than I wanted them to. A short silence entered the air before Adrian sucked in another breath.
"You haven't asked me," he said. Another silence. He tried again. "About last night. About the blood-"
"And what, Adrian, could you possibly infer from my lack of asking, hm? That maybe I don't want to know how you found me, that maybe I don't want to know why you were covered in blood, or why you talked to Hannibal Lecter, or even why you called him a "friend"? I have plenty of reasons as to why I don't want to know the shit you did. Plenty. I don't want to know about what the fuck happened last night in the woods, and the blood part, while up there, is definitely not where my questions will stop, Adrian, so please, just shut up about it. Just shut up. Shut up and don't talk to me about it. Leave it. Please."
I left the room immediately after I finished. I didn't want to see his face. I couldn't look at him, not for a while. I don't know what I would have done if I did.
Thankfully, Adrian heard me. Loud and clear. He let me be until Will Graham arrived in the afternoon. Bro's loud barking from downstairs told me that he finally came. I was descending the stairs when I saw Adrian letting Mr. Graham inside.
Settling in the living room, the three of us lounged with coffee mugs and the feeling of thoughts unsaid. At least, that's how I felt. I had so much to say. A river of words. I minded myself, though. I kept that latch on tight.
"The investigation," began Mr. Graham, "is ongoing. We're no closer to locating Hannibal Lecter than we were when I last spoke to you, Miss Ada."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said.
"Maybe he's moved on," offered Adrian.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
"If he knows that the FBI is searching the area, then moving on sounds like the best option for him," continued my brother.
"He's still here," Mr. Graham told my Adrian dryly. "Dr. Lecter isn't one to move on once he's settled in."
"Even with an FBI presence?" asked Adrian.
Something somber touched Mr. Graham's blue eyes.
"No, if anything an FBI presence will guarantee that Dr. Lecter will stay in Seattle. He's confident. Arrogant, even. Lecter enjoys an audience, and the more people he has to puppeteer, the happier he will be."
"You seem to know him well."
To that, Will Graham had no response. He took another sip from his mug, a cue that told me to change the topic.
"So what questions do you have for us, Will? You said on the phone that they were somewhat important to the investigation."
The man nodded as he placed the mug on the coffee table in front of him.
"I have a few," he said. "Um, the first is in regards to a Mr. Albert Porter."
My lips parted, but Adrian beat me to it.
"Why are you asking about him?" he spat out in disgust. "What does some sick pedophile have to do with Hannibal Lecter?"
His voice rang with such a sudden volume, such an intense rage, that I saw Will Graham stiffen instantly.
Carefully and with a very calm, neutral tone, Mr. Graham stated to Adrian, "Albert Porter is significant in guaranteeing that you, Adrian, are ruled out as a suspect in the University homicide. The FBI is still investigating and-"
"Adrian was in Vashon," I said. "There's no way he could have committed it."
"I'm not saying that he did," said Graham. "Nor is the FBI. What I am saying is that since you both withheld evidence, the FBI now has a reason to consider Adrian and you, Miss Ada, as questionable in this investigation. These questions are simply a formality."
"Oh, okay. A formality. So the FBI wants to know more about my childhood? Why I'm in Vashon?" Adrian asked bitterly. "Want to dig around in my past, see what comes up? You all already know."
"Adrian-"
"I'm certain that my backstory is researched to Hell and back, but let's just get it out in the open: I was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment disorder at age six and Oppositional Defiant disorder by nine. I barely dodged a Conduct Disorder diagnosis, but I guess that counts for shit. According to all my teachers, therapists, and foster care workers, I was a walking recipe for criminal activity. My sixth grade teacher said to my face in her classroom that it would be a miracle if I made it to high school before juvee. Want her name? Mary Gate. I'll never forget it! Go interview her and get some more information for your "formality". Want to stick a tool under my fingernails and take a sample? I can piss in a jar, too, if you all are so thirsty-"
"Stop it."
My voice cut in just before Adrian took in another breath and he quit talking immediately. The color of his face had changed to a dark pink and his knuckles were white from clenching his fist so tightly. With quick lips, Adrian excused himself from the room and left through the backdoor of the house. It rattled in its frame. I saw him chucking rocks by the edge of the cliff face of my yard. The stones travelled far.
"I'm sorry," murmured Will Graham after a few moments of silence ticked by. "I thought that being blunt and honest with him would be the best approach."
"There's no need to apologize," I said. "You were right in how you went about it. His reaction was inevitable, but I think he'll later appreciate how honest you were."
"Jack Crawford was supposed to be the one conducting the interview. I suggested myself instead."
"Good call."
A sigh.
"I thought so. Miss Ada?"
"Just Ada."
"Ada, who was Albert Porter to you and your brother? And why is Adrian so hostile when it comes to talking about him?"
"You know the answer."
"I know what's been documented," he told me. "About the photographs found on his property after his death, but who was he to you?"
Honey bees. Stalks of green and hills that rolled towards the horizon. There's a man standing amongst them, his bald head reflecting the sunlight like a mirror. He waves to me.
"He was our foster parent before we were taken in by the Ives family," I told Will. "A nice man. Great with kids."
That last sentence made me wince. Will Graham didn't react in any way to my words, only nodding slightly and gazing out the window at my brother. From where I watched, Adrian had visibly calmed down. His shoulders were less rigid, and he was sitting on the ground with his back to us facing the city. Rising from where I sat, I gestured for Will to follow me outside. The rocks crunched beneath our shoes as we crossed the backyard.
"He'll talk now," I whispered. "Got some of the anger out."
"I can hear you."
My brother's voice was low, yet nonthreatening. It was more flat than anything.
"I know," I said back with a smile. "Not like I was trying to hide it."
My body fell beside his. I saw that in his lap were bits of ripped up grass and leaves. His eyes didn't rise from where his fingers were busy adding to the pile. He kept distracting himself, calming himself. Using those coping skills that were tattooed on his brain after years upon years of intensive therapy.
Mr. Graham cleared his throat.
"Adrian," he began gently. "Are you ready to talk to me about Albert Porter?"
A shoulder shrug. Limp and careless.
"What do you want to know?" said my brother.
"What were you opinions of Mr. Porter when you stayed with him?"
"Old. Nice, but in a creepy way, like, you know, how you know people are saying what they might've repeated in their head a few times but tried to make it come off as natural. Like how adults practice before talking to kids sometimes. That's how it was to me. He was nice, but it didn't feel right."
"Ada?"
"Um, nice," I echoed. "Really helpful and checked on us a lot. Adrian and I went away from the home and played outside a lot. We were very independent children. He worried, I think."
Adrian snorted a dark laugh. I didn't look at him.
"And around the time of his death?" inquired Graham.
When I finally chanced a glance at Adrian, I saw that he had hesitated in his answer. His jaw had stiffened, the muscled flexing under his skin.
"I'm the one who found him," he said to Graham. "In the shed in the back of his house. It had his gardening stuff in it."
"What did you see?"
"What do you mean? He was dead. You've seen dead bodies, Mr. Graham. I don't need to explain it to you."
More hostility in his tone. I picked at grass, too.
"But Albert Porter wasn't found like any dead body was he, Adrian? Mr. Porter wasn't found dead by natural causes."
My brother's lips parted, but no sound came out. His attention fell again on the twisted vegetation caught in his fingertips.
"His skin was gray, sort of ashy," I said to Will. "His eyes were open and looking down, and his body was laying out on the floor of the shed. On its side. Blood was dried all over him. Down his shirt and puddled under his body. Horrifying. The origin, where all the blood was from, was at the top of his head in a puncture hole that entered into his skull just above his right eye brow. He wore a sweat-stained t-shirt-"
"And blue jeans covered in patches," said Adrian. "And his boots were old and scuffed-"
"He worked a lot outside-"
"Smelled like cigarettes, but I don't remember seeing him ever smoke."
A breeze blew through us, ruffling our hair and raising bumps on my skin. Will Graham looked out towards the city, his eyes staring off into the abyss of his mind as he absorbed the words that my brother and I surrendered. I wondered then what information we could give him to leave the subject alone, to leave Adrian alone. Thankfully, he found it.
"Adrian, you called him a pedophile," said Graham to my brother.
"That I did."
"Why?"
Adrian frowned and looked up at the man.
"Because he was one," he told Will. "Obviously."
"Obviously?"
"You heard me."
"Why "obviously"? There have been no reports of Albert Porter abusing anyone," said Will. "No victims have come forward."
"They found photos."
"Did you see the photos-"
"No."
"Then what indicated to you as a child that he was unsafe?"
"I never said that I thought he was unsafe. He was just creepy."
"Yes, but why did you think that? What did Albert Porter do that made you uncomfortable?"
"I just knew. He was, he was just not good," stammered Adrian.
My brother, my bold and confident brother, avoided eye contact and stared at his feet. The hostility was definitely still there, but the non-compliance was wearing thin. I saw him swallow.
"Just not good," he repeated shallowly. "He would watch us sleep. He would, the bastard. I know 'cause I caught him a few times. He would just, just stand in the doorway and stare. I couldn't sleep until he moved on. Um, he, he would give us baths. A lot of baths. Try to bathe us separately, too, but I wouldn't let him. I'd tell him that I'd cut off his testicles if he tried."
As my brother spoke with a rasp that I hardly ever heard, I hung on every word that left his mouth.
"He liked me a lot," he said in a gravelly voice. "He liked me a lot."
And that was all Adrian said to Mr. Graham on the subject of Albert Porter. As quickly as he had walked out on the first attempt, Adrian practically bolted from the conversation we were having outside. Wordlessly, he shoved past Will Graham and headed for the trees, not without kicking the side of my house on his way through. I watched him go, my compassion for him mixing in with the anger I felt towards the subject we were discussing.
"He does this thing where he becomes a teenager again," I said to Will Graham. "He reverts into this angsty, impulsive person who's pissed off at the drop of a hat."
"Or pissed off at the drop of your former foster parent," said Will. "Did you know about Mr. Porter's habits?"
I shook my head.
"I wasn't as perceptive as Adrian was. I don't remember much from that time."
"Ada," started Will, his tone warm and soft. I stared at his face, at his eyes and how his brow furrowed, studied it intensely and concluded that whatever empathy the man was trying to project towards me was sincere. I just knew. "I don't mean to be insensitive, but do you think that Adrian was sexually abused by Albert Porter during your stay with him?"
"No," I said.
"Even after what he just told me?"
"No," I repeated. "He wasn't. Don't ask me how I know, I just do. Adrian would have told me. Definitely."
Turning from him and to the skyline, I could feel his eyes studying me. His deductions felt like ants on my cheek.
"Do you have any more questions?" I prompted with a new energy in my voice.
"Yes," he replied. "How do you think Mr. Porter died?"
A shrug.
"A man tried stealing his tools and Mr. Porter was in the way of that. That's what the official report concluded."
My feet began carrying me towards the cliff's edge. Under my soles, stones cracked against each other, a soothing sound. I saw how the earth changed its mood the closer I came to the end of the property, how the lush grass turned into hardened earth and rock. Behind me, I heard Mr. Graham follow.
"That is what was written in the report," he echoed. "Some tools were missing, and the murder weapon was found a few yards past his tree line. A hammer."
"The police never caught him. The guy who did it."
"They didn't. And I suspect that they never will."
"Do you think that you will ever catch Hannibal Lecter?" I questioned, my face turning from the horizon to stare into his ocean eyes.
I saw that I finally unnerved the man. His eyes widened in the slightest with shock before easing back into that veiled neutrality. Will Graham thought on my question, pondered it for a long time before his lips parted and he delivered a simple answer, something not too certain, but certain enough to satisfy.
"I think it will depend on whether or not Hannibal Lecter will let me."
The good news was that Will Graham wasn't concerned about Adrian running off so long as Adrian was wearing the anklet. The light to the anklet had come back on when Adrian repaired it, so I wasn't too worried either. He needed his space. He needed his trees, and I was willing to leave him be. Mr. Graham thanked me for our time and wished us well. He said that he'll call if anything comes off, and hoped that we would do the same. I nodded, smiled, and closed the door.
The evening came faster than I expected it to. The trees swayed in the night air, the piney smell of the outdoors filling my house through my open windows.
Despite the peace, the wind, and the night chatter of outdoor life, I was restless. The last conversations from the afternoon and the night before at Hannibal Lecter's cabin played and replayed in my mind. I felt powerless. I felt empty. I wanted to drink, to turn into the lesser version of myself, the woman who skulked around the clubs of Seattle and wasted herself away on hard liquor and whatever else I could get my hands on. The morning in which I found myself covered in blood, the way it streaked my face in lines, I didn't even care that I could possibly turn into that person again. I didn't even care that I didn't know whose blood it was or whose blood covered my brother the night before. I just wanted to escape this situation. I wanted us to be away, for Adrian to be out of a mental health facility, my sister to let the restraining order go, and for the FBI to leave the state. All these things were greatly desired yet unobtainable. I wanted to forget who I was, where I was, the things I've done, and the life I lived. I wanted a clean slate. To start over.
Just as I was about to leave my bedroom to rifle through my liquor cabinet, my cell phone began to vibrate by my side. The number was listed as unknown.
"Hello?" I answered.
"Miss Ada."
My body sat up from my bedsheets.
"Good evening. Are you there, Ada?" purred an accented voice that was soft as silk. "Are you still on the line?"
"Yes. Yes, I am."
"Are you busy this evening? Are you with Adrian?"
"Adrian's not here," I replied shakily.
"Ah. I see. I am to presume that "here" is your house on the hills, yes?"
"Mhm."
"If you don't mind, I would like to pay you a visit this evening. I'll bring wine. Some o'dourves."
The answer should have come out sooner, but I found myself stuck between feelings of flight or fight, between protecting myself or taking my chances with Dr. Lecter. No. I should have said to him, "No".
Hannibal chimed in after a few seconds of silence passed between us.
"Miss Ada? Are you still with me?"
"O-Okay," I blurted. "That's fine. Come."
I hung up.
He arrived twenty three minutes later. I know because I was watching the clock on my oven the whole time I was waiting, those green chiseled numbers lighting the darkness of the space. Adrian still hadn't come home yet. I wished he had.
A light knock. Bro perked up from the doormat, his sleepiness gone and body rigid with curiosity. He didn't growl, but I didn't need to read him to know who it was on the other side of the door.
He walked in like we were old friends, as if he had made countless visits over the past several years to my home. In one hand was a bottle of wine, and in the other a platter wrapped in foil. I greeted him politely and led Hannibal to the kitchen. His face was smooth, his features pleasant. I was wrecked with dread.
"Are you alright?" he asked me. "You seem on edge."
"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
There was mystery in my tone, no efforts to be cordial either. His brown eyes shifted downwards to the countertop before taking me in again.
"I must apologize to you. I owe you a sincere apology, Miss Ada."
"I suppose you do."
"I'm sorry for being gravely rude to you last evening," said Hannibal. "I was out of line in a multitude of ways, and I am very ashamed that I behaved as I did."
"Okay."
"Truly, I am. So, I must ask, is there anything that I can say or do that would repair what I had done so impulsively to our relationship?"
"You can start by being honest," I told him.
He hesitated.
"How so?" he pressed.
"You have a habit of speaking half-truths, Hannibal. I would like you to give me full portions from now on."
I waited while the man took in what I said, observed how his long lashes fluttered while his mind churned on. He then reached for the platter he had brought and began peeling off the foil.
"I see," he said quietly. "That isn't too much to ask for, and I'll do my best to satisfy you, Ada."
"Good. I'll grab glasses. What year?"
Hannibal had brought for us dark chocolate pieces and pomegranate. An unexpected treat, but thoughtful none the less considering the time between our phone conversation and the drive to my property. The wine was pink, crisp, and delicious. I sipped it between bites and light talk while Hannibal and I sat in my bedroom. An odd place to be, yes, but if Adrian came into the house I didn't want him to immediately spot Hannibal Lecter in our living room. With how stressful the day had already been for my brother, I wanted to put off as much anxiety as I possibly could control.
In a shortened bit, I explained the day's events to my guest. He appeared attentive at hearing of Will Graham's visit from his place in my cushioned chair.
"So the FBI is still looking for me," he commented.
"As they should," I said from my bed.
Something of amusement touched the corner of his lips.
"As they should," he resounded. "They are doing their jobs, which makes me wonder why you are not doing your own."
"Who says I'm not?"
"I believe I just did."
I scowled as Lecter beamed.
"I have many jobs," I told him.
"And aiding the FBI isn't one of them?"
"Not exactly. Adrian's wellbeing sort of trumps that."
"And how is Adrian doing?"
The image of my brother stalking off towards the woods flitted in my head.
"Fine. I suppose. As fine as Adrian can be."
"Is that saying much?"
"I don't know. He's complicated."
"As are you."
I smiled.
"As am I."
The mood of the room was tranquil and provided an eerie sense of safety despite who I was talking to. I truly felt like I was spending quality time with a friend, and not with one of the most wanted killers of the decade. Hannibal had remained the ever pleasing gentleman and actually lightened my burdened mind. Bizarre situation, really.
Mentally, I was better. Emotionally, not so much. If my emotions were a mess before, they were certainly a tangle while relaxing with Hannibal in my room.
"Ada," he prompted.
"Hannibal."
"I do hate to do this, to ruin the moment, but I must ask a question, one that is the reason for my visit tonight."
I could feel my blood rush in my veins. My pulse quickened at hearing his warning. I nodded because that's all I could offer him.
"Whose blood stained Adrian last night?"
"I-I don't know."
"Have you talked to him about it?" he asked.
"No."
"Do you fear the answer that he might give you?"
"Yes," I whispered.
Hannibal gave a small nod and fell silent. I hated it when he did that.
"Where is he now?" he then asked me. "Does the FBI know that he has ran away from home?"
"I don't know exactly where he is, or where he was going. Um, I'm guessing he's just visiting the route he took campers on when he was a guide. He takes the same one all the time, the one by the southern face of the sound. And yes, Will Graham said that it was alright that he left."
"Do you fear what he will do? Your brother."
"What do you mean?"
"When he's alone-"
"Of course not."
Without meaning to, I had snapped at Hannibal, my tone growling out a more brash answer than expected. The man seemed unfazed by my response. He simply blinked and continued talking to me with the same polite voice that I've known since I met him. So chivalrous.
"When we first met," he began. "You told me that you see children as fish in the ocean."
"Yes."
"Would you ever consider yourself a fisherman in your analogy?"
I frowned at his question, at how I didn't know where he was going with it. Intuition told me to tread lightly. With Hannibal Lecter, the subject could go anywhere.
"Maybe," I replied before taking a long sip of wine. "But then it begs the question of what kind of fisherman I am, right? Catch and release, or do I take my catch for supper?"
"I wasn't going to go that deep into my observation," mused Hannibal. "But I appreciate your enthusiasm."
"Fine then. What do you want?" I said flatly.
"Perhaps a fisherman was the wrong figure to suggest. You talk about your job as if you are giving back humanity to your clients. The humanity that they are willing to toss out."
"I wouldn't say that-"
"Wouldn't you?"
Hannibal's face was smoothed again into an indecipherable stare. Very slowly, he set down his glass and rose from his place at my chair. He proceeded to join me on my bed, his body sitting on the edge near me and his eyes never breaking contact with my own.
"What I admire in you, Miss Ada, is your persistence to see the good in those society has deemed as heartless and incapable of empathy. You believe in "who" people are, not the "what" that their diagnosis labels them as. Such a beautiful thing to find today, especially in a woman as beautiful as yourself."
My cheeks were stinging from the vibrant heat that rose in them. I didn't know what to say to that, or what to make of the change in mood of the room. One moment we were teasing one another, the next he was talking about my clients and how much he admired me. If he had smiled or smirked, maybe I wouldn't be frozen like I was. No, Hannibal was unreadable. He simply waited for a response that wouldn't come.
Then, in a fluid motion, his hand lifted from his lap. I stared at it like it was some foreign object, like I had never seen one before as it moved nearer to my face. His palm was hot as it cupped my cheek, as he ever so delicately held my attention.
My mind immediately remembered the last time we were this intimate in my room. The night he aimed to kill me. He touched me like this.
As if reading my mind, Hannibal's thumb started to slowly trace my lower lip. My pulse raced under the sensation of his touch, at how sensual he became. The same motion as before. Slow. Firm. Dominant. And just like I had done the first time, my lips parted under his thumb, my breath inhaling sharply when it lingered in the center of my bottom lip.
I watched as his amber eyes glanced between what he was doing and my own eyes, as if he was solving some complex puzzle and I alone held the answer. They were studying me, picking me apart, his eyes. I did not dare say a word. I did not dare interrupt him.
"Curious."
Low and soft, the hum of the single word hung in the air. The man started to lean. I could feel my chest clench as his face moved towards my own, his own breath tickling me, and the heat of his body made inescapable.
I felt him. I felt him before I knew what he was doing. His lips, soft yet ambitious, were upon my own. Urgent. Rough. Hungry. I felt the hold on my face turn into a grip as he kissed me, as he took me. He tasted of wine and chocolate. I felt his tongue as he dominated me, held me still. And I don't when or why, but something in me, something feral, permitted my eyes to shut and let him.
With trembling hands, I ran my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to me and deepening what he started. A low groan left his throat.
But, that was all.
As sudden as his kiss had came, Hannibal ended it. He ended it and let me go. I found myself struggling to catch my breath while the man stared at me from the end of my bed, his own breathing hitched and off-balance.
Automatic, a thought rushed throughout my mind.
"I need to find my brother," I blurted.
Ugh, I'm so glad that I finally finished this chapter. Believe it or not, between this post and the last time I posted for this story, Ch. 10 was written in the last two days. Productivity works like that sometimes, I suppose. I had the concept, but not the energy or time to sit down and type it up. I recently started a new job, you see, one in which I actually work with emotionally disturbed children. As you can imagine, engaging with them, while rewarding, is very mentally and emotionally draining.
I'm currently pursuing a Master's degree in Clinical Mental Health, which is probably why shows such as Hannibal are able to hold my attention so fervently. It was such a complex show, one that dove into the human mind in a beautiful way that kept me thinking the entire time, a rarity in television these days, in my opinion. I try out my own version here. Both my fiction works for Hannibal center on the themes of attachment and childhood, and seeing how much attachment can distort one's life when handled poorly is astounding to experience in real life. If anything, I hope you as a reader understand that I keep Ada's beliefs close to my heart: It's "who", not "what".