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“I can’t.”
Abigail stared down at the plate, face straight and eyes hollow.
Hannibal didn’t blink and didn’t speak.
“Abigail,” Will started quietly, slipping a brief glance at the psychiatrist on his left. “Abigail, you can’t not eat.” He gave a weak smile. “Humans don’t do well when they don’t eat.”
Abigail looked up at him again, and she saw Will twitch uneasily when they locked eyes with one another.
“I. Can’t.”
Did they think that she was enjoying this? Did they think she liked the sound of her stomach growling loudly at all hours of the day? Did they think she took pleasure in the gnawing sensation in her gut, along with the occasional urge to dry-heave from the desperation of her hunger? She hated it. She hated it with every remaining fiber of her being- those fibers which were not already consumed with hating her father for doing this to her.
Meat was the most obvious culprit. When one discovered that they had been consuming human flesh for any amount of time, be it one dinner or intermittently over eight months, it was enough to turn anyone vegetarian. The slightest whiff of meat being cooked (or anything that could be associated with meat) was enough to send Abigail running for the bathroom.
Vegetables, fruit and other non-meat items were off the table as well; they were contaminated. She had experimented with vegetarianism for a time about two months back and hadn’t heard a peep of protest from her father over it. Abigail had assumed at the time that the smell of the meat her parents had been eating had caused the steamed broccoli on her plate to taste meaty as well.
In retrospect, it wasn’t at all unlikely that her father might have dipped the vegetables into the juice of the meat as he made dinner. If he was sadistic enough to kill seven girls, her mother and almost herself, then he was probably twisted enough to force her to eat the meat of his victims in one way or another.
Even though Abigail knew her father was dead and knew that the staff at the facility wouldn’t feed her human flesh, her stomach had begun to turn violently whenever she was presented with any sort of foodstuffs. Her logical mind knew the food was probably untainted- the irrational part, the subconscious part, looked at everything and saw the skin and organs and bones of the girls her father had killed.
And every time she tried to convince herself otherwise, she remembered the last breakfast she’d had with her parents and wondered who had been used to make the sausages. She remembered the hair that she pulled from the pillow in the living room, and knew that nothing was safe. Nothing.
Needless to say, Abigail’s appetite (and weight) plummeted whenever food was presented to her, as her stomach turned at the thought of ingesting it. Thus far, she was only capable of eating pre-packaged foods, something that had come from far away and couldn’t have been tampered with (which she knew was ironic, given all the stories of health violations in food factories). Even that came with some difficulty, but at least she could swallow it.
It wouldn’t. She felt like she should tell them, tell someone so that maybe they could find a way to shape her mind and thought processes back into something resembling normal, but didn’t want to sound... Well, silly. Her dad was dead, and normal people didn’t eat the flesh of other people. The odds of Abigail eating a person or any other part of them in her life were slim to none.
“Is it the food they prepare here what you disagree with, Abigail?” Hannibal finally inquired. “I would be happy to invite you to my home for a meal, if it would tempt you to eat.”
“I-” Abigail continued to avoid looking at either man, fingers idly toying with the hair hanging low enough to get close to her lap. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
Let it never be said that Will Graham’s gift for empathy was only useful at crime scenes. Abigail chanced a look at him and saw his eyes fall shut and his expression go distant. He stayed like that for a few minutes, until Hannibal look at him without turning his head and simply said, “Will.”
Will opened his eyes. “It’s the cannibalism, isn’t it?”
Abigail tensed, and Hannibal sighed. “And Jack accused me of being too direct.”
“She’s not a little girl, and this is serious.” Will said flatly. Abigail felt a small sense of happiness at that- being kept in the loop and treated like the adult that she would soon legally be was always nice. “Food is tainted for you, isn’t it? Knowing what your dad did, it makes it almost impossible for you to stomach eating anything at all. Why didn’t you tell Alana?”
Abigail shrugged. He’d figured it out, she’d let him take it from there. He and Hannibal were the people experienced with psychology, not her; if she knew how to fix it, she would have already. She trusted them enough not to lead her astray.
Will sighed and rubbed his eyes, undoubtedly having a ‘How and Why Did I Get Myself Into This’ moment.
“Why not try this,” Hannibal suggested, folding his hands and settling his elbows into the armrests of the chair in a position that was, to her, so utterly indicative of his choice of profession. “Tend a garden in the greenhouse, or in a pot in your room. Grow the vegetables, clean them, and eat them raw. You will have the peace of mind that they have not been tampered with, and we will be satisfied in knowing that you are at least eating something.”
Abigail turned the plan over in her mind, considering, and could not find any apparent flaws in it. Maybe it would be best if she didn’t think too hard about it, else her paranoid mind find the flaw and throw out the idea entirely. She did need to eat.
“Okay.”
“We’ll see if we can clear it with the staff.” Will said, relief clear in his voice; but his eyes were still uncertain. “But what about in the meantime?”
“I’ll…” Abigail bit her lip. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to tell them the rest. “Pre-packaged foods are easier.”
Will’s expression deadpanned. “And since they don’t really do much in the way of pre-packaged foods here, I’m going to assume that you’ve been wall-hopping?” Abigail’s shrug was a little less lifeless and a little more ‘oops’ that time; it was precisely why she had been hesitant to mention it.
“Then when we mention that you are more inclined to eat pre-packaged food, you will not need to climb anymore walls, will you?” Hannibal’s look was pointed, and Abigail nodded obediently. Privately, she wondered if Hannibal had ever been cooped up in a mental facility before; she doubted it, else he might have some sympathy with her little fieldtrips.
Will adjusted his glasses restlessly. “We’ll tell Alana. She’ll probably want to talk about it with you personally, of course.”
“I figured.”
“I’m sure with time and the proper treatment you will be able to eat a normal diet again, Abigail.” Hannibal said, rising to his feet and straightening his jacket. Then he smiled, and said, “Perhaps once you are more comfortable with eating, you can come for dinner at my home.”
Abigail was less pleased at the idea of food than she was of Hannibal’s company and an escape from the hospital. She smiled in return. “Sounds nice.”
At least she knew he wouldn't feed her people.