versusnurture | fourteen ♢ text & audio & spam

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[She wakes up screaming at what is, relatively speaking, three in the morning. It's a nightmare, the first really bad one since she died. She tries to remember what it was, what exactly, but it's all a blur; she remembers screaming in the dream, too; she remembers a lure; she remembers blood, lots of blood; she remembers a song. Ein Männlein steht im Walde . . . She remembers not being able to breathe. She remembers her mouth was full.]

[The first few nights, she calls people. She asks for help. After that, she wanders the halls, unable to get back to sleep, unwilling to lie in the dark any longer. Her hair is tied back, a scarf tucked around her shoulders, but her scar still stands out against the pale clamminess of her neck.]

audio } ben

[Night one, she calls Ben. She is crying, her voice muffled (she is using the bear as a pillow, as something with which to dry her tears).]

I'm not hurt. [She has to clarify this first, so he doesn't fear for her, so he doesn't hurt for her. This is how she protects him.] But I need you. Please. If - it's not too late.

audio } blight

[It's instinct to contact him. Maybe it's bad instinct. But it's what she reaches for the second night, once she's calmed herself down enough that she's no longer hyperventilating. Once she feels mostly human again.]

[It's midnight. She sounds as chipper as if it was noon.]

What do you know about brain chemistry?

text, filtered away from hannibal } public, april 7

who has nightmares

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I believe that you will.

[She hesitates, gnawing her lip.]

At least, I believe you'll try. And part of me thinks you'll succeed.

I don't know. It's hard to know what's sure anymore. I feel like the ground is slipping away under me.

But you won't let me drown.

Then that is what is most important, for now. That is the hard part.

[Some people would be offended to hear incomplete confidence in them, but Ben is practical in this. It is better, to him, to have his intentions believed than unproven results. Abigail knows he'll try.

And he will.]

What would best serve you now? Shall I stay, tell you a story? [He hesitates, glancing quickly at the walls, at the light he turned on, considering them critically.]

[She pushes her hair back from her face, flips her pillow over to the cool side, and hesitates.]

A story. They make me think so much.

[Yes. Something else to think about. To dissect and analyze. That's exactly what she wants.]

I want a story. Please.

Then a story you shall have.

[While she gets comfortable, Ben moves to the floor lamp, tilts the shade of it a little before bringing it back with him. He passes his hand experimentally over the bulb, once, and then shifts it again.

When he's satisfied, he glances back at Abigail, uncertain for but a moment. Then he twists his fingers together and raises them between the lamp and the wall, casting a long shadow away from himself.

And then moving his thumb and his fingers to make the duck's mouth open and close before it breaks apart and comes together again: a bear, clumsy with his inexperience but recognizable, menacing for a black outline on a blank wall. He says nothing, but walks the shadow-bear along the impromptu stage, as she once did for him in a church when she was young and he did not belong.]

[At first she doesn't recognize it. When she does, the brightest smile he's probably ever seen passes across her face. Because even though she doesn't exactly remember, she does.]

From the church.

[Her voice is quiet, reverent. She feels like she's in church now. Glancing at him, she ducks her head, hiding the brightness of her grin so it doesn't blot out the shadow of the bear.]

[Then she forms her hands into claws and roars quietly, like you do when you're pretending to be a bear. It's a joint effort.]

fourteen ♢ text & audio & spam

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