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Abigail opens her eyes just as the window shatters.
There is blood on her hands. Metaphorically speaking, that is. No red stains her fingers, slipping under the crevices of her fingernails, drying hard and uncomfortable. No blood to wash off, turning clear water scarlet and metallic. There is no way to cleanse her sins.
Alana Bloom lies on cracked pavement, her body surrounded in a pool of blood, rainwater and glass.
Alana Bloom, who brought Abigail clothes and iTunes gift cards. Alana Bloom, who believed Abigail to be innocent, despite all the evidence saying otherwise.
She certainly doesn’t think I’m innocent now , Abigail hysterically chokes back something that she’s not sure is a laugh or a sob, and shoves her hands into her pockets so she can pretend they’re not shaking.
Hannibal is, as always, infuriatingly composed. He watches Abigail with an unreadable expression. He offers no words of comfort, no kindness. So different from the man she thought he was.
Will Graham arrives, gun held tightly in his grip, and he looks at her with the same kindness and adoration that Hannibal used to aim at her, but this time it’s real.
“Abigail?” A million emotions rush across Will’s face— guilt, horror, anger— before it settles on relief.
She opens her mouth to respond, but there’s nothing to say. Her hands are shaking, and she can still feel the woolen material of Alana’s coat on her fingers, the warmth of a body now bleeding out— maybe already dead.
She can’t be dead, because then Abigail killed her. And Abigail is not— cannot be a killer. Except she already is. She led all of her father’s victims to their deaths in order to save herself. Because she is a coward.
She doesn’t say any of this. She blinks tears away from her eyes, clenches her hands into fists to stop the shaking, and says “I didn’t know what else to do, so… I just did what he told me.”
It’s not the truth. Not all of it, at least. They both know it.
“Where is he?”
She tears her gaze away from Will, who is still looking at Abigail as if she’ll disappear if he gets any closer. But then he sees Hannibal, says “You were supposed to leave.” and Hannibal responds “We couldn’t leave without you.” and it’s in this moment that Abigail realises for all his bravado and confidence, Hannibal cannot live without Will, and Will cannot live without Hannibal.
And she realises this is the only reason Hannibal didn’t kill her.
For Will.
But Will does not want this.
Hannibal is angry. At Will, at himself, at Abigail. His rage is quiet and sharp, like the knife that guts Will Graham and kills Abigail Hobbs.
Abigail is nine years old, sitting in the backseat of her father’s car.
The radio is off— it’s never on, he says it’s distracting. It’s quiet except for the wheels of the car against dirt roads, camping supplies rattling in the trunk. Her mother is visiting her grandmother in Wisconsin, and so it’s only the two of them on the trip.
They set up a tent by the lake, not too far away from their cabin. There’s a doe and her fawn who watch them from the woods, disappearing behind a wall of tall trees and orange leaves. Abigail tears open a pack of trail mix, digging out the nuts and raisins and places them on a rock. She sits patiently beside her father, who is cleaning his hunting rifle, explaining the steps to Abigail as he does so; and she does her best to listen, though her gaze is laser focussed on the pile of nuts, until the sun is dipping into the lake, bathing the forest in a warm glow, and the two deer peak out from behind a tree.
There’s a gunshot, and the fawn falls.
Abigail opens her eyes just as the window shatters.
There is blood on her hands. Metaphorically speaking, that is. No red stains her fingers, slipping under the crevices of her fingernails, drying hard and uncomfortable. No blood to wash off, turning clear water scarlet and metallic. There is no way to clean her sins.
She has been here before.
Alana Bloom lies on cracked pavement, her body surrounded in a pool of blood, rainwater and glass.
There’s a strange, fucked-up sense of deja-vu that Abigail just can’t place. Maybe she could, if she was thinking straight, but there is nothing in her head except mindless panic.
Alana Bloom, who brought Abigail clothes and iTunes gift cards. Alana Bloom, who believed Abigail to be innocent, despite all the evidence saying otherwise.
Alana Bloom, who Abigail already killed.
Hannibal is, as always, infuriatingly composed. He watches Abigail with an unreadable expression. He offers no words of comfort, no kindness. So different from the man she thought he was.
A man who promised to be her father, to be better than the one who ran a knife across her throat, only to do the same.
Will Graham arrives, gun held tightly in his grip, and he looks at her with the same kindness and adoration that Hannibal used to aim at her, but this time it’s real.
And Abigail knows what he’s going to say before he says it.
“Abigail?”
“I didn’t know what else to do, so… I just did what he told me.” The words slip out of her mouth easily. She doesn’t have to panic and think. She knows what to say. What she should say. She doesn’t know how.
“Where is he?”
She doesn’t answer. She wants to say something else to him. To apologise, maybe. To seek comfort. But he sees Hannibal, and Abigail is instantly forgotten. Her mind is still a buzzing mess, right up until the knife runs across her throat, and she gasps, choking on her own blood.
Abigail opens her eyes just as the window shatters.
She does not move. She’s too tired. She stays still, staring out at the sky until the world becomes a blur of grey and blue and red. A puddle of rain forms around her shoes.
Will Graham arrives. Abigail does not turn to face him.
She does not move. She dies anyway.
Abigail opens her eyes just as the window shatters.
It’s around the fifth loop when it finally sinks in. When her brain finally comprehends that this , all of this, isn’t just a nightmare. It’s real and terrible but it’s real.
Will arrives, and she wraps her arms around him and sobs into his shirt, already soaked with rainwater. He’s shaking too, and he slowly hugs her back. They don’t speak. She thinks he’s crying as well. Distantly, she finds herself thinking that Will is much worse at hugging than Hannibal. He smells like shitty aftershave and dog
“You shouldn’t have come.” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, "We shouldn't be doing this." He doesn’t hear her. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything. She’s glad. She pulls him closer, and she holds Will Graham like the world is ending.
She tries, briefly, to imagine a world where their fucked-up family wasn't born out of blood and death.
She fails.
A gun sounds, echoing like thunder.
Abigail opens her eyes just as the window shatters.
She watches Alana Bloom plummet to the ground. She stands on the ledge and stares.
Will Graham arrives. She jumps before he is through the door.
Abigail opens her eyes just as the window shatters.