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Abigail awoke to the smell of fresh flowers; the prick of a needle.
She could see her captor clearly. But she couldn't find the words to say his name. Instead, she reached towards him, mouth trying to form thoughts - questions.
"Shh," came the soft voice, floating over the chamber music that filled the empty space. "You're safe here, Abigail. I can keep you safe here."
Abigail's eyes fluttered closed; where exactly was here? Her memory was so foggy. Everything around her felt surreal. The last thing she could clearly remember was Hannibal's hand on her face, comforting her...
Cutting her.
She gasped loudly, eyes flying open again in her panic as she recalled the way Hannibal had pulled a pocket knife from his coat pocket, flicked it easily across her throat. Just like her father.
The pain had been immense; overwhelming. She had one, singular thought the entire time Hannibal cut her open and then patched her up much as he had the first time: I'm going to die in this kitchen after all.
"I'm sorry I had to do that," Hannibal's voice drew Abigail back to the surface. "It was for the best. It was the only way I could keep you."
There was a short silence as the song changed, and Abigail turned her head slightly to look at the walls around her. They were glass; all glass. She felt like she was in a fish tank, on display.
Strangely, she didn't feel fear. Hannibal had made her feel safe since the death of her father, and even after he hurt he like he had - she still trusted him.
It was sick, and it made her want to choke, but she was too transfixed by Hannibal's piercing gaze over the surgical mask he wore.
Reaching up again, Abigail ran her fingers over the papery material gently. Why?
Hannibal seemed to hear her question without her ever having to voice it, and he tilted his head sympathetically.
"I have removed one of your ears," he said simply, and it was then that Abigail registered the medical equipment around her; trays of instruments, bright lights, a steel gurney chilled against her skin.
When Abigail didn't react, Hannibal continued.
"It will not affect your hearing, but it will convince the FBI that you are dead. And that is what we need most right now, Abigail."
His voice was strangely reverent; almost loving, and Abigail wished she could speak. To thank him.
To tell him she hated him.
She wasn't sure yet; but she suspected she would have many years to figure out the answer to that particular question as the sharp prick of the needle dragged her under once more.