#robert lecter

For a while, you watched him from a distance. You were no stranger to loneliness yourself, and something in the way he held himself, as if he were folding inward to avoid being seen, struck a chord. Finally, after a minute of lingering in the doorway, you took a breath and approached him. “You like books?” you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Hannibal didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge your presence at all. His small hands gripped the book tighter, his knuckles pale. For a moment, you considered turning away, feeling foolish for trying to reach out, but something kept you there. You sat beside him, leaving a respectful distance, and remained silent. Hannibal was undoubtedly puzzled by your behavior, no one else ever came this close to him voluntarily, but you just closed your eyes and allowed the quiet to envelop you both, the sound of him turning pages filling the empty air.

It became a routine, almost without either of you intending it. You would find him in that hallway, or sometimes in the dusty library, sitting alone with a book that he wasn’t really reading. And each time, you would sit beside him, never saying much, just sharing the space. Sometimes, you’d bring your own book, or an old blanket on cold days, but you’d always sit just close enough to show you weren’t going anywhere. You grew used to the rhythm of it, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the subtle shifts in his posture when he turned a page.

Gradually, Hannibal began to relax in your presence. He still didn’t speak, but he started to show small signs of acknowledgment. A slight nod when you sat down, or a shared glance when the other children grew loud in the distance. Occasionally, he would even slide the book between you, sharing the pages with you, as if inviting you into his quiet world. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

The first time Hannibal spoke to you was on a rainy night after the lights had gone out and the other children were already asleep. You couldn't shake the feeling that somwthing was wrong, so unable to lie still, you wandered through the darkened halls toward Hannibal's room. Slowly opening the door in case the other boy was sleeping, you, instead, found him sitting up with his knees tucked into his chest, his silhouette barely visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the narrow window.

“Hannibal?” you whispered, your voice barely carrying across the small room.

He didn’t look up, didn’t move at all, but his shoulders trembled slightly. His hands gripped the fabric of his nightpants, knuckles turning white, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a breath.

“Please stay.” The words came out soft and hesitant, like he was afraid to ask for anything. His voice was laced with a vulnerability that took you by surprise, the kind that made you realize how young and fragile he truly was beneath his composed silence.

Unable to refuse, you stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind you. Hannibal shifted, making space beside him on the narrow bed, and you tiptoed closer. Without a word, you climbed in, curling up at his side, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. He pulled the thin blanket over the both of you, the faded fabric barely providing warmth, but the shared closeness was enough.

For a while, you lay there in silence, your breaths slowly syncing as the rain drummed steadily against the window. The world outside seemed far away, and the cold, damp walls of the orphanage faded into the background. You could feel the tension in Hannibal’s body gradually easing, his form softening beside you as he leaned his head against your shoulder. It was the first time you’d ever seen him this open, the first time he had let anyone into his quiet world.

“Bad dream?” you asked softly, breaking the silence.

Hannibal nodded against your shoulder but didn’t offer any details. His small frame shivered slightly, and you found yourself encasing your arms around him, offering comfort in the only way you knew how. “It’s okay,” you murmured, hoping the words would soothe him. “I’m here.”

After that night, it became clear that you and Hannibal were each other’s only refuge. The orphanage wasn’t kind to boys who didn’t conform to its harsh expectations, and the other children often bullied the two of you: Hannibal because of his quiet strangeness, and you for your insistence on being by his side.

When the taunts and jostling became too much, you would retreat together to your favorite hiding places: the dusty library with its faded books, the creaky attic where the adults rarely went, or beneath the old tree in the yard. There, you could pretend for a moment that the world wasn’t so unkind. With how close you two were, you learned of Hannibal's past and the circumstances that led him to the orphanage.

You cried with him when he disclosed the tragic circumstances surrounding Mischa's death, and in return, you confided in him about the horror that shattered your own life. You recounted the night when men stormed into your home, faces obscured and voices shouting, tearing your family apart in cold blood. The details were a blur of terror and grief, but the core of the memory remained vivid. Your mother’s screams echoing in your ears, your father’s desperate attempts to protect you, and the chilling silence that followed their brutal end. A silence that swallowed your childhood whole.

In the midst of your shared sorrow, you found solace in one another, forging a deep connection that felt unbreakable. In your hopeful, naive mind, you wished that things would never change, that this fragile sanctuary you had created together could last forever. However, life was rarely that kind, and the specter of change loomed closer than either of you realized.

The end of your friendship with Hannibal Lecter began when Robert Lecter arrived to claim his nephew. On one hand, you were genuinely happy that Hannibal would be leaving the dreary confines of the orphanage. But on the other hand, a deep sadness engulfed you at the thought of losing your closest friend. The fantasy of staying together forever felt painfully fragile. But that fantasy turned reality (or so it seemed) when you learned that you would go with them.

Life at the Lecter estate was a world away from the orphanage: a sprawling house that exuded beauty and luxury at every turn, but it wasn’t the kind of refuge you had hoped for. The opulence felt cold and uninviting.

Hannibal’s aunt rarely spoke to you directly, and when she did, it was with a cool formality that made it clear she had little interest in your presence. She would politely address you only when Hannibal was around, her demeanor shifting to one of disdain the moment he left the room. Her words dripped with thinly veiled contempt: “charity case,” “burden,” “unwanted.”

These terms became your new reality, echoing in your mind like a refrain you couldn’t escape.

Hannibal, meanwhile, seemed blissfully unaware of the disdain his caregivers harbored toward you. He was too focused on his studies, his newfound life, and the remarkable changes unfolding around him. And why would you pit them against each other by voicing the truth? Hannibal was thriving in ways you had always imagined, and you didn’t want to disrupt his progress with your troubles.

As time passed, Hannibal was introduced to the finer things in life, from lavish dinners to exquisite art. He began to explore the world beyond the confines of his childhood, his intellect blossoming and his confidence growing. But as he embraced this new life, you felt the widening chasm between you. The warmth of your friendship became overshadowed by the shadows of his new experiences.

The second step toward the unraveling of your bond was due to Lady Murasaki, Robert Lecter’s exotic and cultured wife. She had a grace about her that was captivating, and her presence quickly became a focal point in Hannibal’s life. The two shared long conversations about art, literature, and philosophy, and he was drawn to her sophistication and depth.

While you had always been a safe haven for Hannibal, Lady Murasaki introduced him to a world of complexity and allure that you simply couldn’t provide.

You watched as he grew enamored with her, leaving you in the dust. You would catch glimpses of him laughing, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and it only deepened the ache in your chest. Each moment felt like another step away from the closeness you once shared.

The Lecter estate became a gilded cage for you, a beautiful facade hiding the pain of feeling increasingly isolated. As Hannibal ventured further into this new world, you were left to navigate your own feelings of abandonment and despair. The spark that had once ignited your friendship now flickered precariously, and the bond that felt so unbreakable began to fray at the edges.

You were losing him, and despite your best efforts to maintain the connection, the chasm between you widened, leaving you to grapple with the haunting realization that your childhood dream of being together forever was slipping away, replaced by a painful loneliness you had never experienced, even in your time inside the orphanage.

Eventually, the strain became too much.

When Hannibal had gone off to college, and his calls to you became less frequent, the loneliness settled like a heavy fog in your heart. Hannibal's silence spoke volumes. What Lady Murasaki had been saying was true. You were a burden to Hannibal, holding him back from blooming to his true potential. And so, one night, you packed your belongings and disappeared, leaving behind a world of cold marble and elegant emptiness. You convinced yourself that you were better off alone.