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It’s hot today. It’s always hot these days, a constant pressure of heat and sweat that clings to your skin even after a cold shower. Will feeds the dogs a mixture of store bought and homemade food. The garden is luscious and vibrant, most plants delighted to be the victim of the never ending heat and rain provided by the tropical weather. Will can’t say the same, but he’s used to it. He’s used to a lot of things, now.
He picks out some pineapples, lettuce and zucchini before heading back inside. He washes his produce meticulously, with care and attention.
Do you really have to do that?
Do what? He stops, turns and focuses on Will. Always on Will.
Wash every single lettuce leaf so meticulously. One would think you’re enamored by them
A raised eyebrow, a slight smirk, fond eyes. He reveals too much and not enough.
I take great pleasure in caring for the things I love. Food and people alike, and it’s a fact and there’s mirth in his eyes and he looks young, so young
A reckless and unexpected laugh, an admission of defeat,
Alright then, you stroke your lettuce, I’m gonna go walk the dogs
A nod, a smile
patience, understanding,
Love.
Lunch is is served at exactly noon. There are three types of silverware on the table, though Will only uses the one. Claire, Francis and Billy scatter thought the dining room, hoping their owner is in a good enough mood to spare them some food.
Will pays them no mind, for today the burden is his and his alone. The meat is better than last time. Not as tough to bite into, though the flavor is still not as rich as he would like. As he remembers. Liver served with rice, beans, zucchini and some pineapple. Not as fancy or colorful, but honorable just the same. He hopes.
~~
It’s colder, now. Not cold exactly, never cold, as the heat is relentless in its presence, never letting up. The garden is still thriving, but the gifts it brings Will are of a different kind – apples and cucumbers give space for tangerines and kiwis and carrots.
He hasn’t left the property for a while now. Months, probably. Chloe is adjusting well to the growing family – no, not a family, a broken version of a broken dream, a twig holding on for dear life while its leaves turn yellow and dry. The meat is almost ending. He figures he has two months at most. He doesn’t eat it every day, that would be too wasteful – once a week is all he has. He still fishes, sometimes, in the nearby lake. It’s quiet there.
Tell me something.
It’s raining and the power is out. It doesn’t matter.
Something?
That curious tone, almost childish if you know what to look for.
A recipe, that you enjoyed cooking, he says, looking the devil in the eyes and finding comfort and love love love so much love
May I ask what prompted this?
Still careful, still cautious, still hurt. Both of them.
Want to know you
You do.
Want more
Anything
The meat is great, tonight. Flavorful and cooked to perfection. It tastes like sorrow and regret. Like grief and lost time.
Will hates it. He eats two servings.
~~
I miss you, he tells the empty air beside him on the couch. His hands are dirty with come and his cock is lying on his belly, spent.
I know, comes a nagging voice in the back of his head.
No you don’t, because you’re not here, he screams into the void. Pleads.
He cries, that night, for the first time since it happened. It’s loud and ugly and his throat hurts.
~~
Once he runs out of meat, he starts working on the house. It’s easier, familiar. At least, that’s what he tells himself. There’s only Billy for company now; Will found the others nice families some time ago. Billy is too old and too blind to be adopted. The cabin will stand tall long after the memory of everything that was (and wasn’t) fades out of existence.
Do you still fantasize about killing me?
Yes
A pause, to stare, to breathe, to want
What else do you fantasize about?
Lots of things, he says, already leaving, tending to the dogs, caring for the garden, always leaving, running, not ready.
If only he knew how little time he had left. How sick Hannibal actually was. How unlikely it was that he would recover at all.
The guilt and grief swallows him whole sometimes. The missed opportunities, the betrayal, the hurt
The love, the gentle touches, the laughter
It’s too much, and he just sits there staring at the wall thinking of tea cups and time.
~~
It’s summer again and there is no trace of him left anymore. No more meat, bones, organs, nothing. It’s all been put to use, one way or another. It’s forever in him now, a part of his body and mind and labor. Hannibal and himself, merged together,
I miss you, he confesses for the last time.