Work Text:
Hannibal,
There are things I won’t ever look at the same way.
They all say that, right? After a breakup? “Rosalie loved tiramisu, I can’t eat one without thinking of her.” “Kev’s favorite team was The Jets. I get sick when they’re playing.”
I’m not even sure I can call what happened between us a breakup. I think you’d find the word juvenile. Inappropriate for the situation. I don’t know what else to call it.
I think of you every time I see a goddamn lamppost. Because you love the way the lights look at night. You’ve told me they’re especially beautiful with psilocybin in your system. You tried to illustrate it for me once. Said the drawing didn’t do it justice.
Sometimes that anecdote reminds me of those men who do psychedelics for the first time and come out of it having discovered empathy. “Did you know other people have feelings?”
I wonder if you’re even capable of that, if you have it in you to feel an ounce of remorse.
It’s cold in Michigan. Fucking freezing. My thighs are still defrosting. I went on a walk and couldn’t avoid seeing lampposts, the warm glow of them reflecting on the snow. It’s still the incandescent ones, not the new LEDs. I left after dinner, as Molly and Walter sat down on the couch to watch one of his favorite movies. God, he has watched it a thousand times and I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what the title is. That gives you an insight into how great of a father I am.
You once told me I’d be a good father. Do you remember? It was late at night, and I should have gone home hours prior. But I stayed. Because conversation with you was easy. And it was good. Abigail was still alive. The first time around. The subject revolved around her, about her future, about what schools she could possibly apply to after her dad killed girls at all the colleges she could have attended. I joked that I could homeschool her. You said I’d be a good father. For a second there, it felt like you said that together we’d be a great family. But there was something in your demeanor that told me I shouldn’t read into it. That it was never going to be a reality. The dream would be crushed before it even began. The teacup, shattered. And so, it was.
I suppose I knew that from the start. I suppose you did too. It was never going to work. None of it. Not us, not Abigail. And I suppose I knew that.
Knowing you, you’re probably still stuck on the Molly and Walter family-movie-night part. Thinking about how I’m somewhere in the house writing this instead of joining them in the living room. Wipe that fucking smirk off your face.
I went down to the basement. Told Molly I needed to be alone. And here I am, writing a letter I probably won’t send, to a man that I doubt can care.
I don’t understand you. Yet, understanding you is all I do.
It’s always been like that. We disagreed fundamentally on loads of things, yet I always went back to you.
I miss you, you know?
From our bedroom, I can see the glow of the street’s lamppost. I always shut the curtains as soon as night falls. Can’t look at it the same.
I’ve always liked the lights. And I feel like you soiled that.
I wonder if you think about me as much as I think about you. I reckon you don’t. This is all a game to you. You let yourself be apprehended to make your move in this game of chess I didn’t even want to play to begin with.
Couldn’t it have been simple? Easy?
You, and I, and Abigail...
Walter wants to be a baseball player. Like his father. Abigail wanted to work for the FBI.
Like me.
There was a future where that was possible.
Molly just knocked on the door. Told me she’s going to bed. I guess I should join her.
I hope she drew the curtains.
Yours,
Will Graham