Too Dangerous to Keep
[Closed to @masonverger-rising ]
Fever dreams. Thatās what it had felt like, the slow purr of the carās slick engine as it sped through the night, winding through back roads with ease and precision. Was it the same car? Abigail couldnāt tell, though the sense of deja vu was strong, her flushed cheek pressed up against the cold window, the skeletal trees outside embracing one another and blurring to nothing. In the front seat, the driver was silent - barely visible behind a tinted screen. The last time sheād been in this position the drugs had made her woozy, everything softened around the edges. But this time it was sharp. She felt it acutely; every swerve of the tires on rain-slick road, every mile of asphalt between herself and Hannibal Lecter. And Will, of course. And what might have passed for home.Ā
When the first sheet of paper had fallen from between the pages of a book (notably, Angela CarterāsĀ āThe Bloody Chamberā), Abigail had thought it a mistake. But curiosity had gotten the better of her, as it so often did. And when Hannibal was away from the house one evening sheād picked up the phone, dialled the number scrawled in neat and refine cursive.Ā
In retrospect, part of her had always known - that it was too unlikely to be a coincidence, far too serendipitous to be a secret message from the FBI. Jack Crawfordās police work left a lot to be desired. Everyone thought she was dead.Ā
Everyone, apparently, except for Mason Verger.Ā
His voice on the other end of the line had gutted her, reached through the telephone and down her throat, splitting tissue and membrane until it curled itself in a vice around her heart.Ā
You didnāt think Iād given up on you, now, did you Abigail? After everything weāve been through?
It was a strange thing, to be caught up in the machinations of two deranged maniacs simultaneously. And that was, after all, what Mason was. Deranged. Monstrous. Evil, if such a thing existed. And after everything sheād been through, Abigail still wasnāt sure that it did.Ā
Sheād adjusted as best she could to her life with Hannibal - bought into it when he sprayed her blood across the kitchen floor in an expertly staged death scene. Sheād believed him, when heād told her he was birthing her anew. Abigail Hobbs is dead. Long live Abigail Hobbs.Ā
And then there were the months of painful recovery, isolated and alone. And then Mason, his angelic face, his white fur coat. Vermont. New York. Soft tongue licks on the outside of her ear. Bloody patches on hotel sheets. The dim and creeping realization that something was very, very wrong.Ā
Sheād made it out, eventually. It had been luck, really. An unguarded cell phone and Hannibal Lecterās natural propensity to staying one step ahead of the game. And, seamlessly, her agency had been transferred once again; out of the frying pan, back into the warm glow of hades.Ā
And it had felt like a rescue, at the time. To be back in Hannibalās house. To be clean, sober, clear-eyed. He hadnāt made her speak about what happened with Mason. It had been evident enough in the bruises on her body, her hollow features, the way she stammered when she spoke.Ā
Itās alright, Abigail. I have a plan for us. Will, too. Weāre going to be a family. And all of this will go away.Ā
And then Mason, whispering down the phone line: do you really think they want you? Arenāt you, at best, an inconvenience? How do you think daddy Graham will feel when he finds out his murder husband kept you from him all this time? Allowed him to take the blame for your death? Disfigured you?
He had a point. And as much as Abigail had wanted to hang up the phone, to cut all contact, to tell Hannibal, even - as much as sheād wanted to ignore him, Masonās words haunted her. What had she ever been besides a tiny, compressed force of chaos? Schroedingerās daughter; both dead and not, and equally burdensome in either state.Ā
She had no doubt Hannibal truly believed happy families were possible. It was just that, as Mason had so eloquently stated, Hannibal Lecter is a damn fool.Ā
The closer they crept to the date, the greater Abigailās anxieties became. And for the first time in a very long time, it had begun to feel like she had a choice. A shitty choice, certainly. But a choice nevertheless.Ā
All you have to do is make the call, Abigail. I can have a car there in twenty minutes.Ā
The car had taken a turn down a shadowy driveway, stopped outside a nondescript looking house - certainly not as grand as Masonās tastes customarily dictated. It was too dark to make out much; a sort of woodsy, ranch style. Windows lit, glowing warmth. It reminded her of something, but she couldnāt put her finger on what. The lie of home, perhaps. The illusion of safety.Ā
As Abigail steps out of the car, allows the driver to lead her up the stone path to the front door, she wonders what really motivated thisĀ ādecisionā. Sheād like to pretend it was selflessness; perhaps now sheās out of the picture Hannibal and Will can really begin again, find some understanding in one another without the cruel fact of her very fucking existence. She wants to feel like itās noble, this voluntary descent into hell. But as she stands on the threshold, sheās just not sure.Ā
Perhaps itās fear of stability, of being wanted. Perhaps itās a desire to watch everything burn to ashes.Ā
The driver punches a series of complicated codes into the worldās most elaborate lock, and the front door swings open, swings just as quickly shut behind her.Ā
The entrance hall is lit by the soft glow of many lamps, furnished with rustic, grandmotherly things; a hat stand, an end table. Familiar. Itās all so familiar, and for a few moments she canāt figure out why. She stands there in the hallway, shivering despite her woolen coat, taking in the details of her surroundings. A stack of magazines next to a kitsch looking piece of pottery - an ugly, malformed vase painted in a lurid shade of green.Ā
A vase Abigail had made in third grade, her childish thumb prints still visible in the glazed surface.Ā
Her brow furrows, heart rate accelerating. It canāt be the same piece - just as it canāt be her great grandmotherās hat stand, or the same dog-eared copies of Martha Stewartās Home Living that her mother claimed to collect for the recipes. A coincidence. A really weird, uncomfortable coincidence.Ā
Sheās still reeling as the driver ghosts away through an adjacent alcove, as his footsteps disappear only to replaced, moments later, by familiar, purposeful footfalls.Ā
Abigail Hobbs jerks her head up, away from the shattered relics of her childhood. Her eyes are bright, wide.Ā
āWhere did you get this shit?āĀ
