#chilton

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85044066

The world around me is twisting, morphing. It contorts the being’s spine then snaps it to fall on the floor and just peer up. It’s dark, haunting. I feel my heart race but my legs are frozen and paralyzed. Its antlers grow above me, filling out all the empty space of my house and it scraps against the ceiling. The dryfall dusts my hair, my eyelashes, my tongue. What is this taste? Chemically foul, but invasive and stinging through my nose and throat. It burns. Why does it always burn in the dreams that are not filled with recollections of being disemboweled, like the taste of chemical burning or smoke is meant for me. The creature disappears to leave me be and my world fades to black, then flashes bright white like the sunlight peering through the linen curtains of my bedroom.

I jump when a sharp noise reverbates from my polished hardwood floors, similar to a sturdy bowl hitting the floor but not to shatter. The world is painfully bright and it makes the waking headache worsen as I stir. My skin is sweaty and humid, but the weather was a nice breeze outside, suffocatingly so where my neck is free from the shirt collar. It’s always the worst there. Where am I..? It’s not the beautiful outside, certainly. My mouth tastes foul as if I don’t brush my teeth daily, like rot and chemical death with a hint of mints that were kept in candy bowls in my childhood home. I want to spit it out yet my mouth is dry. There’s a weight on my lap. Is it Margaret? Has she finally come to sleep on my lap after all these months of feeding her and.. Loving her. Yet it’s.. Cold. There’s an ache in my knees as if I took a fall, pulsing in my lower back. That is what forces me to open my eyes. Is my other kidney gone?

My vision adjusted to the flashbang of brightness to see my kitchen. By the walls, I am in the piano room. I glance down at my lap, I need to see if it truly was Margaret or even Sylvia. It’s not, but I cannot feel disappointment for long. I feel cold nips pass through my spine, every nerve it feels like there’s a shock. My stomach feels like it’s going to retch as I stare at the blood covering my hands, then my suit pants, and shirt and tie and face.. It’s on my face. It smeared across my forehead when I pressed the top of my hand to it, but it’s not like oil. Thicker. It’s been a while since whatever this is. I swallow my rotten tasting spittle and take the gun into my right hand, standing myself up with a stumble on the loveseat. My legs feel weak and aching, especially in my knees and hips. My back throbs and I feel the panic to check it again, my left hand going up my shirt to feel over my back for raised skin like scars and I pull my hand back to see any fresh blood. There is none besides the thickened, red wine bits under my fingernails. Oh, my fingernails and prints.. Was I holding the gun before? Was this my choice..? This is evidence.

I suck in a sharp breath, it expanding my ribs painfully as the scent of sweet scent of copper with a bit of rot and cleaner invade my nostrils. I gag, my left hand going to instinctually cover the reaction to an audience of no one. It keeps the vile taste in really, so I stop. I take one step, then another slowly as to not slip on the floors. Anxiety fills my chest at the puddles of blood that lead a path to my kitchen. Where are the girls? Margaret screeches at me within ten minutes of arriving home, scurrying between my feet to get my attention! Where is she? She wouldn’t leave me in peace this long, no, no, no-

I glance behind me, hoping she is sleeping on the floor or if Sylvia is at least. I feel a spark of hope at a bit of black, but when I come to see what is on the side of the chair, it’s only a bloody knife. A knife and gun. On my floor. With blood puddles and my soiled clothes. This is all evidence. Of what, I don’t know, but this is evidence and I need to flee. To discard it.

I hurry to the kitchen instead despite the dread filling my stomach, hoping maybe that one of them or even both got stuck in the cabinets. Silly cats, God please just be stupid and safe now. I freeze. The scent that was putrid at a distant room is rancid here and unescapable. I gag then, a bit of sour bile coming up to sting my throat as my eyes land on a still form. My pristine white kitchen is splattered in puddles of crimson and viscera, to also presume, leaking out onto the floor and countertops. There’s the bright jacket of an FBI officer yet I don’t recall them ever arriving in the first place. Why were they even here? My voice is frozen for a moment of weakness and I call out to him with no response back. He is slouched over my counter, facing away from where I awoke. My hand feels clammy as I keep a loose hold on the gun, my finger on the outside ring of the trigger. The house is painfully silent, unalive. Has it always truly been like this? 

My eyes go to his face, then the pile of pink and grey viscera in his lap with his hands around it. That’s me, that’s me, that’s a warning, I need to- I retch, a guttural sound leaving me as I kneel over and expel my lunch. It’s a version of hell really, mixing with the chemical taste lingering on my tastebuds still. Why do I only question God and religion during times like these? Sick to my stomach, holding it even. I hold my stomach now as I puke out my sins, desperate to keep my dignity in. My body feels sweaty and cold while burning inside. My vision goes white, blurry, and my body craves to go limp from the lightheadedness. Why me? Why now? How?

I choke back my cries and get up, hobbling over to the sink to flush my mouth. Strangely it was unstained by the gore next to it and that made it easier on me to use it to rinse my mouth. I wash my hands of the drying blood, crusted flakes coming off into the water stream and down the drain. I take off my ring then, feeling it start to slip around my finger. 

When I look up and spit the last rinse out of my mouth, another officer catches my eye with the sharp silver glint of surgical tools. It has to be a joke. One representing my disembowelment and the other a mockery of my failure as a surgeon.. No one should know that. I hid it the best I could. My stomach is thankfully empty and I cannot purge it again, but my breathing is shallow. Tight. What could I even do?

I step closer to it, recognizing a few of the knives from my kitchen stand that surely have some of my fingerprints. I dropped the gun on the floor when I puked, but that’s stained with them too. I have blood on me. No one is going to believe me. How did this even happen?

I freeze and suddenly snap out of my thoughts when I hear scratching at the kitchen pantry door. I turned to check it, hoping it was them, and I once again stained my hands with blood without a doubt opening it. It smears of the handles and to the palms of my hands, but it doesn’t matter when I see them both in there. Safe. Margaret even gives me the softest meow I’ve ever heard come from her little lungs. Sylvia brushes against my leg, not caring for the blood at all. I feel my eyes prick with hot tears and I get on their levels, petting them to see if they were hurt. They aren’t.

I sniffle and blink away my want to cry, choking it down like always. How could I be this soft? Even now. My father would be ashamed. The girls stay in the pantry, not wondering past me as if they understood better than I give them credit for. 

I straighten up, the cat carriers are in a closet, and I stand up. My knees and hips still ache, but I shut the pantry door on them to keep them in one spot as I retrieve one of the cat carriers. They both can fit. I return and open it, the metal door cold against my fingers before the pads are warm again by the girls. I usher them both in there and close the door on them, feeling my heart tug at their cries. They associate it with the vet, of course they’re unhappy! 

I break then. I give in for the first time in years, it felt like. I didn’t even cry this much after what Gideon did to me. Or to the nurse despite the nausea seeing her corpse. Or when my parents barely congratulated me for graduating and were disappointed when I failed being a surgeon. I sobbed now though. For once in my lonely life, I had something I actually loved and they loved me too. A bit, at least. I wanted them safe. More than me. 

I wipe away my tears and take a breath. Will Graham takes fosters. He’ll take them, even if they’re cats. Or Alana! I would be okay with her too. She took care of Graham’s dogs during his imprisonment after all. 

I have a solution, but I don’t know how. It’s just me in my memory. Is it gone? Did I black out? My fingerprints are on everything, intimate details I kept hidden coming in the form of a mockery murder. Was it my own subconscious? Why would I even do it if I truly did? The blood is on my hands. Even with an expensive attorney, I’d look guilty. My DNA has to be on everything in here. They came in to arrest me, didn’t they? I’m the same as Hannibal, same profile and professional background. I was being brought in for interrogation and it lead to this. 

There was no Hannibal today though. I did not speak to him a single word and he has not entered my house. It’s just me. Did I break now? After so long?

There’s no other answer, no other clue or idea of what occurred before or during in my head. It’s all blurry when I arrived home despite the aches in my body. There’s really no use running. And despite my panic, I can’t help but agree. 

_____________________

I pull into Will Graham’s driveway, still holding his address information from his time under my care. Imprisonment. As I get out of my car and take out the cats, he opens the door and his strays rush out to greet me. The girls whine as I hold them, stepping onto his porch. I ask him to please take care of Sylvia and Margaret. He agrees if I let him call Crawford. I hand him the cat carrier and ask for a shot of whiskey. He takes them inside and I follow along with his dogs. He sets the carrier down on the floor and his dogs sniff them, surely overstimulating then. I crouch on the floor, numb to the pain in my knees from the heaviness I feel everywhere else. I sit with them, listen to their meows. I pet them through the crate until Will comes back with a glass of whiskey for me. I thank him and nothing else as he leaves the room. ____________________________________

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/80876111/chapters/220329046

1) Poacher's Pride

This song is the starter track off of NBL and it is in the form of a sonnet, a form of poetry Frederick likes to read. It is beautiful to listen to and the song describes how the narrator shot an angel or other divine creature and how they will one day go to hell for it. I personally see it as Frederick loathing himself and seeing himself as a living curse for misfortune, so he worries about it affecting those he cares about too.

"I should have set it free, but I let it bleed, made it into taxidermy."

Frederick sees himself as cursed for injuries and suffering, but he is far too selfish of a person to give away something he adores. Also, he will keep someone and show them off like a trophy wife or taxidermy, rich people hobbies. 

"And I know one day, Hell will catch up with me And I'm sure that I will burn eternally. One day, it will come to claim its pound of flesh. When it's done, there won't be anything left."

Frederick knows how unethical and downright cruel he is will damn him to hell due to some religion in his upbringing or just his conscience weighing down on him. Also imagery of being disemboweled and you can see it as Gideon getting revenge by digging into Chilton's guts. There will be nothing left after countless attempts on Frederick's life. 

2) Mean

This song is about someone being desensitized to their partner's cruelty because they've lived with it for so long, but it can also be interpreted as BDSM. Frederick chooses the latter cause he's a freaky man. 

"You are the way you always were, you like your cruel games."

He understands this line as himself with his disregard for others if it means he gets anything remotely good in return. Also sadism and sadistic fantasies. 

"But I am not so quick to break, I count my gains in blood and pain. I like it when it hurts like hell. There's nothing you could do to me that I wouldn't do to myself."

Despite all of his injuries, Frederick is still standing and I believe it's warped his mental state at least a little bit into almost fetishizing his pain to validate it. Also, I fully see Chilton as a masochist who puts himself in situations where he will be put, both on purpose and unintentionally. 

3) Swan

There isn't much about the bio of this song, but I see it as a person who killed a swan for the sport or fun of it and despite feeling some guilt, they would cause harm and death again because they can. He doesn't listen to this often, but enjoys it when he's in a mood.

"You can't forgive me when you know if I had The gun, I'd choose to shoot again."

Plans for a large craftsman-style shade front yard with stone landscaping.

Some months ago I decide I needed to draw something gay so I drew a short Dr. Chilton comic. It doesn't make any sense.