FLIGHTLESS BIRD

I’M NOT NORMAL  —  NOT ANYMORE.

    You don’t trust me. It stings because it’s true, and because he wishes it wasn’t–it’s not personal, he wants to say, I don’t trust anyone, but even in his own voice, in his own head, it sounds cagey and paranoid. Like something that the man Freddie Lounds has likely painted him to be would say. 

     “I don’t trust her,” he says finally. Dr. Lecter wanted to be involved–wanted them both to be involved, but Will’s not sure he can sit through another meal with Freddie Lounds grinning smugly across the table at him from underneath one of those ridiculous hats. “And not just because of what she’s said about me, that’s–” simultaneously uncomfortably close to the truth and insultingly far from it. “That’s, uh, inconsequential. I just want to make sure that it’s your truth and not hers she puts out there.”

     He feels paternalistic even saying it, like he’s being overprotective and knows he has no right to say or even think these things. He feels Hobbs’ milky eyes boring into the back of his skull. Not all the way out. 

     “Look, I–I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to about things. But if you ever need anything–”

SHE CAN’T HELP the scoff of a breath that exhales through her nose, short and curt, TRUST, her chest jolts just the smallest bit with the thought of it; how recklessly it didn’t matter when it came down to it, past her offense. it all figures; and she can’t entirely blame him for being suspicious, but she can feel herself bordering on it. she wants to blame everyone, for everything  — even herself, she can’t stop his rightful concern from feeling like a brick wall in front of her face, stopping her from going forward. “SOMETIMES you have to take uncertain routes to get where you wanna go,” she can’t tell if she really believes that, but it comes out blazing and white hot, and it sounded convincing enough then. her posture sits self-proud and with a certain stubbornness. she wont be swayed, but she finds herself listening to him regardless. 

“ Lithuanian Hounds are massive dogs.  I’m certain Julian could have put his paws on your shoulders.  Each of them weighed somewhere between 60 and 70 pounds … “  He adds, thoughtful:  it’s an understandable misconception that he himself isn’t FOND of animals.  He likes them, they just aren’t conducive to his lifestyle. 

It wasn’t something he did presently.   Hunting, at least WILD GAME, died out with his family – it wasn’t a personal interest so much as something to BOND over.  Though he was good at it.  It was everything after that he took a profound interest in – preparing the meat.   Cooking with his mother.   Hannibal gives a thoughtful cluck of his tongue at the question. 

“ – reverent, I think.  In awe.  A QUIET SENSE OF POWER.  Life itself is so PRECIOUS.  And it deserves to be properly revered and appreciated.  Especially when you’re taking it away. “  And then, a bit IMPULSIVELY, he continues:  “ My sister was too young to learn.   But she didn’t have a taste for it … she hated that I went with our Father to hunt, and I doubt she ever would have willingly picked up a gun. “  

He is … surprised to have mentioned it – perhaps compelled to assure her that her particular feelings in regard to it are not UNEXPECTED.  Still, the unexpected confession surprises him.  He covers it easily, with a polite and contained smile.  

ABIGAIL CAN nearly feel the paws as he speaks, the weight of them. one day, she’d like to own a dog or two  — she can’t help but smile subtly at the thought; it feels nice, “i could imagine the food portions for those guys,” she implies, something playful in her tone. “..i had a neighbor with one of those huge husky dogs. i think they ended up sending him to another home because they couldn’t take care of him, but sometimes he’d run off and me and my dad would see him out in the woods, rolling in the leaves.” in fleeting moments, she could mention her father as if nothing dreadful was attached to him like dead, hanging vines. the realization settles in slow and painful after the fact, every time. it mostly shows in her face, a particular devastated slack. she clears her throat in an attempt to move on from it, puffs up her chest along with the slight uplift and fixing of her posture. 

she visibly swallows in suit of his words, a quiet sense of power. if it were power, she didn’t want it; didn’t want to want it. she does nod, though, a silent understanding and a hint of the sort of respect you’d put on for your parent’s friends or a teacher when they’re telling you a story. brows raise at the hint of something personal, and immediately she turns her attention to it. it dawned on her then that dr. lecter hadn’t exactly tried to place himself in abigail’s shoes with a sense of any commonality or experience as the other doctors and professionals had. a thing that in each instance, she assumed was a tactic to bring her and them onto a level playing field, in the midst of a search for information. 

                𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘  𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂   were  their  hunger  .     their  sly  and  famine  hungry  eyes  turned  green  in  rage,   their  teeth  were   tainted  with  feathers  and  frozen  maggots  they’d  found  outside,   sometimes  the  wolves   reeked  of  samogon  .   the  blank  paper  in  his  six  fingers  turn  in  the  shade  of   same  snow  he’s  buried  his  heart,  his  eyes  trick  him   -    this  void   takes  him  in,   lekteris’  expression  becomes  as  empty  as  a  kaunas’  art  museums,   the  paintings  are  just  hanging  and  he’s  walking  through  damp  floor  :  nothing   unjustifiable   seems   like   something   someone   who   did   something   unjustifiable   would   say    ━━━   he  hears,    eyes  turn  away  from  the  mausoleum  of  broken  hearts  .

                her  voice  is  like  quick  medicine,   now  he  wants  to  shatter  another  cup .  the  pen  falls  and  makes  a  dry  sound,   he  looks  at  ms.  hobbs  blue  eyes,   the  same  color  his  sister  had,  the  doctor  wondered  if  her  eyes  would  turn  purple  seeing  aubergines .   a  small  smile,   he’s  disdained   “   it   was   a   long   time   ago,  i   was   a   boy   and   i   don’t   want   to   talk   about   it   .   “    

SHE STUDIES HIS FACE AND WONDERS if he will think that’s enough for her, if she’s not curious or brave enough to push any further. she looks at him with an unreadable stare, almost a mirror of his own; like she’s untangling something internally. after a small while, she speaks, looks away with it, “..i didn’t wanna talk about it too, at first.” an intake of breath, slow and careful yet it still shakes like a fallen leaf, “sometimes i still don’t.” her head tilts gently, and she squints; there’s another thought on the brink now, she’s hoping her honesty will lift some weight off of his dismissal of the subject. 

“does freddie lounds count as news?” 

@bysurviving / sc. 

“ My father too, was a hunter.  I learned how to shoot when I was much younger than you – we had hunting dogs.   JULIAN && VIRGIL … but my father preferred to hunt ducks, and wild geese.  Woodcocks … but the forests around our estate were plentiful with ELK. “ 

HUNTING felt like a bridge between abigail and her father, even now; though it wasn’t something she necessarily took an interest in on her own. seeing how much it meant to her father was enough to  leave her with an urge to indulge, an urge to be close to him. it was a bloodsport, a feral chase between life and death  —  playing god. it left her with a sort of sickly feeling every time, something unjust and stressed. 

picturing dr. lecter with a taste of that leaves her calmed by a strange, rare commonality, “hunting dogs,” she lets the words sit on her tongue for a beat or two, “.. i wish we had some of those,” it’s half wishful and half glum, a small smile in place, “dogs might’ve made things feel a little less brutal.” a brief chuckle finds its way into the words, weaved. abigail shifts where she’s sat, hands politely in her lap, playing with one another unconsciously.