Dangerous Trio

Jekyll and Mr. Hide

***TRIGGER WARNING, MENTIONS DV***

I swirled the wine glass in front of me as I sat on Hannibal's couch. It probably wasn't a good idea to drink before a therapy session, especially given my history of bad symptoms. Yet, I felt myself sinking into something larger than myself, something I couldn't bear sober. The house was eerily silent.

Hannibal sat on the couch across from me, his legs crossed, his gaze piercing. The room's quietness was suffocating, amplifying the sound of my heartbeat and the clinking of the wine glass against my ring. Therapy had started to feel like a battlefield, something to overcome. I was a soldier, bracing for the fight ahead, knowing that each session would bring me face-to-face with the horrors I'd rather forget.

"You said that you've forgiven your abuser, but you won't forget what he has done to you. Explain," Hannibal began, his voice calm but probing.

I now knew this therapy session would be different from any before. I had never truly explained what my ex did to me; it was a dark secret I kept buried deep within. But I always knew this day would come. I took another sip of wine, hoping the alcohol would dull the edge of my anxiety. I set the glass down.

"Where do I start?" I asked reluctantly.

"When you noticed he was no longer who you thought he was," Hannibal replied

I closed my eyes, hoping for a moment of clarity, but instead, disturbing images of my ex hovering above me flooded my mind. His shadow loomed large, his eyes devoid of the warmth they once held. I wanted to scream. The room soon felt colder, the air heavier.

"Are we no longer doing light therapy?" I asked, my voice tinged with desperation. Even the nightmares of Hannibal seemed preferable to reliving this hell.

"It's best we address it directly first," Hannibal replied, his tone steady. "For your mind to be refreshed, we need to confront what you've suppressed. Light therapy may be ineffective if we don't first untangle these deep-seated emotions."

"One night, I was filling the bathtub, and I must have said something wrong," I began, my voice faltering. I closed my eyes, trying to block out the rising tide of memories. Hannibal was right—my mind had been working hard to suppress any remembrance of that night, and for a while, I had managed to forget.

But suddenly, everything came rushing back. The metallic taste in my mouth, mingling with the bitter tang of fear. The water, now tainted with a dark, unsettling red. The fabric of my robe, rough against my skin. It all came crashing over me in a vivid, nauseating wave.

"He grabbed me by my hair and shoved my face into the water, like he was trying to drown me," I said, my voice trembling. Tears began to well up, and my face felt flush with shame and anger, while the back of my neck turned cold, as if a shiver had settled deep within me.

"The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened," I continued, as I struggled to hold back sobs. "He made me breakfast in bed, and because I couldn't bear to accept the truth, I convinced myself he was still the same loving and caring man I had fallen for."

As the tears flowed freely, I felt the weight of those memories pressing down on me, the illusion of normalcy now shattered by the stark reality of my pain.

"You say you have forgiven him, but I am not so sure Gaby."

There was nothing as vulnerable as this moment. It felt as though a veil had been lifted, and Hannibal could see every detail laid bare: the fragile structure of my bones, the tangled mess of my innards, the blood rushing through my veins, and the frantic thoughts racing through my mind.

In the dim light of the room, I imagined Hannibal absorbing every gruesome detail with a kind of perverse satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling pride. It was as if my raw, exposed self was not just a revelation but a feast for him that soothed his appetite.

"Let's begin," were the last words I heard Hannibal say as I slowly drifted off. It was a feeling similar to being lulled to sleep, a comforting rocking motion, only to wake up in a complete nightmare. My eyes fluttered open to see a man on the side of the road, his car clearly stalled or perhaps with a flat tire. From my vantage point across the street, I watched him fumble with his phone under the dim streetlight. Confusion set in as I wondered why I was witnessing this scene.

Soon, headlights pierced the darkness, approaching from down the road. The car came to a stop, barely visible in the night, and a cold dread washed over me. I knew I was about to witness something terrible.

As the man stepped out of the vehicle, it became clear that it was Hannibal. His distinct, deliberate walk and the familiar scent of his cologne filled my senses, turning my blood to ice. Panic surged through me, and I started to scream at the man on the roadside, trying to warn him, but he couldn't hear me. For the first time I witnessed Hannibal killing. I wanted to close my eyes, but I was frozen and couldn't move so I continued to scream. Everything went dark, and suddenly I woke up lying on my back. I was on the couch. I opened my eyes and my vision was slightly blurred, but enough to make out things in front of me. I lifted my head to see Hannibal in the same spot, like a statue it didn't look like he had moved an inch.

"What happened" I groaned

"You tell me, what did you see?" Hannibal pressed

I couldn't possibly reveal what I truly saw, especially when I wasn't even sure myself. It was shocking how well I was handling it. My breath remained steady, my heart kept its pace, and outwardly, I appeared calm. But inside, my mind was a whirlwind of chaotic images—Hannibal's cold, calculating eyes, the poor man's lifeless body crumpling to the ground.

"I saw my ex," I said, pushing myself up onto my forearms.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his eyes searching mine for any sign of distress.

"I feel good, actually. I don't feel scared." I said

"What you saw, did it bother you?"

An image of the man's face flashed in my mind, the fear in his eyes haunting me.

"No," I lied, my voice steady.

"That's good. You're healing, Gaby," he said with a smile. There was optimism in his eyes, and I couldn't tell if that was a good or bad thing. Was making Hannibal happy ever a good thing? I wished I could have smiled. Despite my calm demeanor, a gnawing unease simmered beneath the surface.

I had so many questions, but the one that gnawed at me the most was, Who was the real Hannibal?