Aubergine is the Colour of {Her} Memory
Requested by the--maestro: Hannibal begins experiencing hallucinations of Mischa (during his daily life, murder attempts, your choice)
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The sharp, precise tapping brought Hannibal to his senses as he drew the blade down against the chopping board, nipping the side of his index finger due to the involuntary action. With a hiss, sucking breath between his teeth, the male immediately placed the nip against his lips and tasted the coppery substance as he diverted his eyes towards the French doors - where there he saw a distressed bird, tapping his beak against the glass in his stupor, flapping his wings frantically and seeing no alternative to the situation. Setting aside the knife, Hannibal muttered under his breath before making his way towards the doors, where he returned the tap against the glass, causing the creature to suddenly divert his attention and change his course — and where Hannibal had frightened the bird, he left a smudge of blood from his cut finger, which seemed much bolder against the background of snow. There was something oddly refreshing about the snow, for most people, but for Hannibal it remained bitter; there was nothing pure about the coldness, and the blood on the glass was scarce in comparison to how much there was on the snow. It tainted the whiteness, churning up clumps of blood clots and dragged footprints, retreating to the back of the field that was behind his home.
No doubt that the evening was drawing on, with the blood disappearing under a fine blanket of hushed snow, as there was nothing staring back at him save for the pure whiteness. Swiping the blood stain from the glass, Hannibal thinned his lips in frustration, before acknowledging the sound of gentle footfall behind him. Reflected in the glass, Dr. Alana Bloom offered him a warm smile before announcing,”The snow must be really interesting for you to stop cooking.” A quiet chuckle escaped her, before she made her way over to the preparation area and began assisting in his half-jobs.”It’s really snowing heavily this year.” She commented idly, to which Hannibal gave a small noise of agreement, alerting the woman with a frown creasing across her forehead. “Is something wrong, Hannibal?” Ceasing her actions, Alana lifted her head to stare straight at the psychiatrist; she always did have a strong, motherly expression that only disappeared once she had all the answers.
With a quick quirk of his top lip, Hannibal made his way over to where Alana was standing, where he retrieved his knife and began finishing the job he had already started. “I never did favour winter, that’s all.” Without further explanation, he dismissed her concerned, yet confused, gaze for the task of preparing dinner for his guests tonight. It was nearing Christmas, and as usual, Hannibal held the most luxurious and warming feast for the holiday; it was the one time of year that he found himself indulging in pride, for he always went that step further to ensure his guests were fully fed and fully satisfied. Not once would he allow his talents to go to waste. It was a gift he was blessed with during his younger years, having the time to prepare meals with the up-most nobleness between his anatomical studies, and strengthening the skill the more he practised with what little he had at the time. To those who did not know Hannibal, they would believe his talents came from a culinary school, but it was never that reason; the encouragement of his younger sister, Mischa, brought forth his love of cherishing food and presenting it in a way that would astound those who tasted it.
It was the sound of her laughter, of her golden hair, of her hands upon his cheeks as she grinned innocently at him, that drew him to honour her memory through presentation. Aubergine was the colour of her memory, and it featured heavily in most of his feasts. As Hannibal sliced the aubergine beneath his hand, he struggled to recognise why she was focus of his thoughts; it had been over four decades since she last loved the colour purple, and the memories he had of her were hardly approached during those decades. He had not forgotten about her, of course not, but she was never around as much as she was within the first few months of her death. She was now a haze in his old age, settling within other memories of his past, yet remained the kindle for the fire that burned steadily inside of him; that much he was certain, and he allowed for it to happen because it was the most he could do to keep the memory of Mischa alive. He could not let the vulgar men win.
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A toast! For a wonderful Christmas, and good health.
As glasses chinked together, filled with the taste of Christmas that is Brunellos, the guests situated at his table complimented Hannibal for the aesthetically pleasing feast set before them. With a humble smile, the psychiatrist lifted his glass higher before thanking them and initiating the start of the meal, to which everybody happily obliged. On the table were various meat dishes, mostly red meat to accommodate the wine, alongside traditional Christmas recipes and a large pudding that would later be set alight once everyone was settled with their food. It was different feasts every year, never any repeats, which impressed his guests and kept them guessing as to how many recipes, exactly, did he specialise in. He enjoyed teaching others his recipes, but it was his most prized feasts that were secret, and so his guests could hardly guess his extensive knowledge on recipes.
Outside, the snow flourished, picking up speed and creating torrents of cold flakes that soon accumulated upon the ground, disguising all evidence of summer under its cover. Soon, the light sky dissipated into darkness, indicating the end of the feast and time for joyous guests to take their leave with a chorus of appreciative compliments and good-byes. Alana was the last to leave, helping Hannibal in clearing away the table and making sure all the washing was done, before bidding him a good Christmas and leaving. Before long, the psychiatrist was plunged into the quietness of his home with the distant sound of the snow hushing against the windows, and the growl of the wind picking up every so often as it rattled the front door with unsettled ferocity; nevertheless, the noises were unheard by Hannibal as he grasped his scarf and coat by the door, placing them around him and glancing over at the clock in his living room — 8:36pm. There was plenty of time to find the man he was after.
"…Today, the parents of murdered daughter, Sophia, were distraught to find out that killer, Mark Warrence, had been released early on probation…"
On the 4th April, 2005, Sophia Robertson, 8, was announced missing whilst on a school trip in Massachusetts. At around 3pm, her teacher noticed the young girl was not with the group, and instantly alerted the police. However, they were unable to locate her whereabouts.
CCTV images from the centre shown a man leading away a young girl, believed to be Sophia, an hour after her disappearance. No witnesses came forward.
On the 2nd September, 2006, Sophia’s body was found in Mark Warrence’s back garden after a tip-off was received about a man burying a bin liner in the ground. Mr. Warrence was arrested and sentenced to life imprisonment, with Sophia’s parents attending the court case.
"…in the wake of Mark Warrence’s release, there has been a public out-cry about the seriousness of the justice system. More information later on…"
His laughter was that of a man who was free, and Hannibal felt the depth of it poison his mind; it was toxic, disgusting, and meaningless to have come from somebody so tainted. Vulgarity such as that sat on the couch, watching a television show, hardly deserved to be living a life of luxury when others suffered the heart-ache he caused. As his laughter increased in sound, Hannibal was reminded of the laughter he heard as he cradled Mischa in his arms, protecting her from the bitterness of winter and quietly whispering calming words against her temple — the laughter could not reach her ears, to contaminate her innocence, if he covered them with his kisses.
The sound of giggling pierced through his concentration, covering up the laughter of the scum he saw, and it was painful. So clear that he wished the wind was the blame, yet he found himself with no excuses as to where the sound originated from. Her laughter was feather-light and golden, peppering kisses across his cheek as he used to do to hers, but the memory was sharp and painful as their captors grip on his neck. He could not feel her warm breathe, not any more, but he could pretend — just as he pretended the comforting smell of her, subtle yet a reminiscence of their mother. Under his breathe, he uttered words that felt like acid on his tongue: “Mischa…go find mother. I’m busy.” The giggling stopped, and the air was no longer biting at his face, taking with it the comfort that was no longer protecting him. He was reading a book about horticulture, one that he borrowed from the library during the summer, and Mischa had come to his room to disturb his studying. As usual, he sent her to find mother, perhaps father if he wasn’t working on fixing the stairwell, and she would do so.
As he focused on Mark Warrence through the French doors, he burned the horticulture book and took Mischa to look for Dactylorhiza maculata - spotted orchid - where they spent the rest of the evening collecting flowers for mother. It would work out to be a wonderful evening. With the snow beginning its flourish once more, the psychiatrist found his feet and trailed his prints across the whiteness without averting his attention from the man who stole away childhood dreams. He could hear the voices coming from the television, the lumbering rustle of his body as he shifted to get comfortable, and the heavy breathing that accompanied his unhealthy lifestyle. He could almost smell the rot of his breathe, the feel of calloused hands, and the look of hunger from impurity in his eyes; he was too similar to them, and he couldn’t let Mischa see who - what - he had become for fear of her losing the older brother she once had.
Thump--thump-----thump---thump
As the television screamed alongside the muffled ones, his body was dragged up the stairwell in a careless manner, hitting the steps with each pull of his arms and racking pain down his vertebrae. His screams were replaced with the taste of masking tape, and the tears that threatened to fall stung his vision to the point of only seeing the blurred lights above. If only death would come sooner, but there was an end to the stairwell that he wished would continue on further for the time it took to beg for mercy and forgiveness. “She was eight when you took her.” His captor spoke, though there was no face to accompany the voice as he was forced to sit on his knees and face the stairwell that was his mountain. “You made no mention of her for a year, leaving her parents distressed. Did it make you feel superior, Mark? To steal a child away, especially from her older brother.” This information was not released to the public, but Hannibal had followed the case for a while and researched his way into eventually devising a plan to suffer the man who divided the two. Scratching at his neck, the rope was delicately placed around it before being pulled taught and digging into his jugular, causing him to choke out a gasp and swallow whatever rotten breathe he had left. “You disposed of her like rubbish. She was of no use to you, but you kept her any way.”
With his last words spoken, the psychiatrist forced the man to his feet before swiftly pushing him over the bannister, where he watched the rope stiffen and carry the weight of the deceased. Descending the stairwell once more, the male made his way slowly to the front of the other as he studied how serene he appeared; there were no more muffled screaming, or the sound of his toxic laughter. It was peaceful in the empty house, despite the television continuing to scream, and it reminded him of his younger years; it would begin with begging, and end with serenity. Everything was fine as he began to use a small pair of scissors to cut Mr. Warrence’s shirt in half, exposing a canvas for the art he used to paint in his teenage years. With one of the blades pressed against the man’s torso, he began to meticulously carve:
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There was no longer snowflakes descending from the skies as Hannibal slid the French doors and stood in the back garden, watching as the last flecks fell to the ground before eventually settling its course. The blood had not followed him from his home, and no birds were there to attack the glass, and for once he felt at ease after a murder. There was a calmness within him that brought forth the appreciation for righteousness, as he took his time to study the winter that he so-heavily despised; it seemed different somehow, and not the same one he remembered when he was younger. It was kinder, much more gentle, and he was allowed to see the scenery he was stole away from — and he found himself kneeling on the snow covered grass beneath him, watching as the poison from his mind melted onto the whiteness beneath him, staining it a dark purple.
He could feel the coldness of her hands on his cheeks, encasing them in her tiny fingers as she refused to speak a word. She refused to laugh, refused to let him see her innocent grin, or let him see the curious glimmer in her wide eyes. But what she allowed was the tears that fell from her brother’s eyes, landing on the tips of her fingers and warming her pale skin, because it was the first time in decades that he shed a tear for Mischa. He had no understanding of her appearance, why she had decided to escape the darkest corners of his memories, but he could only close his eyes and focus on her cold breathe - she was no longer warm from the years of being gone - as she began to whisper the words he spoke to reassure her before he knew she was going to be taken by those vulgar men, even if Mischa didn’t understand what he meant.
'Even if it takes years, I will find them. I will take them.'
He found them all, killed them individually, and found a way to escape the past. He could leave the memory of his parents alone, but his sister remained the flame that burned steadily — aubergine is the colour of her memory, and he planned to keep it so.
