abigail-hobbsrp:

Stray. It’s a word that Abigail has become familiar with hearing in the same sentence as her name. A majority of those around her seem to consider her to be one; to be some poor, lost soul that needed shelter and was taken in by those who felt pity in their hearts for her. It makes her want to dig her nails into someone’s flesh and rip at their flesh, makes her want to feel the warmth of their blood soaking her fingers.

She can’t let herself act on the urges. Instead, she makes herself grit her teeth and take a deep breath, plastering on a fake smile for those who would inquire about her well-being, pretending to be interested in how she was adjusting to her new life. She has to bide her time, make everyone come to believe that she is truly innocent. Hannibal was right, of course, when he told to make everyone she comes into contact with trust her. It’ll make the pain in their expressions when they learn the truth even more sweet.

For now, she keeps up appearances. It’s all she can do. Though, she truly hates it. She hates knowing that people think she needs some sort of crutch to keep herself going. She’s not a poor, lost soul. She knows exactly who and what she is.

She’s not some little, stranded stray with no clue of where to go. She’s not.

“I’m not. I’m not a damn stray,” the words are muttered under her breath in an almost angry manner, fingers clutching a book tightly to her chest as she keeps walking down the paved walkway in the park. She needs to get home soon. If she doesn’t, she’ll miss dinner and Hannibal had promised to make her favorite.

Ducking her head, she quickens her pace a small fraction and mutters to herself once more, “Not a goddamn stray.”

He’d gotten into the habit of taking walks. Cheesy as it sounds, he found it calming. He walks down small trails in wooded areas and places most would not think to look for him in. Without the constant hum of other voices in his head and the images of other people’s worlds making it hard to differentiate between real and not real, he found he could finally be able to think and hear himself think. 

Of course, those thoughts weren’t always pleasant thoughts.

I am not Garret Jacob Hobbs

                                                    I remember you

                                                                           You k i l l e d my dad

         His mind R E B E L L E D against him

 How does that make you [ feel ] ?

               Sometimes, I turn the lights on in the little house

                       And I walk across the plain

                              Looking back, it looks like a boat.

                                        It’s the only time I feel s a f e

Well, walks used to be helpful. 

As he exited the small trail he’d emersed himself in, he almost wished he was in a room with people again. Almost. With Jack Crawford barking in his ears, Hannibal Lecter’s lazy psychiatry, Alana Bloom’s constant look of pity and worry, he never had to focus on himself; they did it for him. Perhaps that is what he needed, even if it wasn’t what he wanted. 

He wasn’t a fragile little teacup, contrary to popular belief.

It was then he notices a familiar brunette walking just a few paces before him. Abigail Hobbs. His stomach twists and rolls at the sight of the girl and he slows down ever so slightly. 

Does she want to see him? Does she want to see the man who murdered her father?