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Mar. 21st, 2017 07:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
imthepilot{From here}
Bodhi woke after sleeping long and deep. The calmed undrugged sleep he has had since… since he died. Because he was no longer alone. Because he was loved. Because Galen was here.
Only, Galen wasn’t there any more.
Just an empty bed, cold sheets, and a note.
Autor was right -- I woke up to the realisation that I'm not Galen, but Hannibal Lecter, having been in the throes of that influenza induced identity dysphoria syndrome Autor had rightly been referring to. Words cannot confer how deeply sorry I am for causing you this pain all over again, and nothing that I might offer can possibly make amends.
However, please accept my deepest and most heartfelt apologies.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. Hannibal Lecter
Three times he read the words, unable to believe them. And yet, unable to make them not true. He had wanted to believe Galen had finally come. Had wanted it so badly, he had ignored the signs, the small things Dr. Lecter had challenged him to see.
The lack of scars on Dr. Lecter’s hands. The shortness of his hair.
But his heart, his mind. They had been Galen’s.
How? Why? Why make him suffer this? Why give him back his reason to live and then take it from him?
He made it the few short strides to the fresher to vomit. Throwing up the only proper meal he had eaten in weeks. And kept throwing up until there was nothing left but pain.
Shivering on the cold duroplast floor of the fresher, despair overtook him.
There was no light left. This was the final cut, the last torment. He could take no more. The Force was done with him and he would suffer its whims no longer.
The knife was still where he kept it, tucked behind the bedhead. A talisman against the dark. The short blade was clean and sharp. Without hesitation, he rose to fetch it. There was indecision now, no shallow cuts, no transferred pain. He was done. It was time to embrace the darkness. To let all the colour left in the world drain out.
But his body betrayed him.
A cough rattled through his chest, so violent his weakened knees buckled and he fell onto the floor. The cough would not relent and he sucked air between fits like a man drowning between waves.
The cough grew so powerful he threw up again, nothing left in him but bile.
Too much pain, too little strength. It wasn’t long before he passed out, curled foetal on the floor.
And woke up a different man.
Bodhi woke after sleeping long and deep. The calmed undrugged sleep he has had since… since he died. Because he was no longer alone. Because he was loved. Because Galen was here.
Only, Galen wasn’t there any more.
Just an empty bed, cold sheets, and a note.
Autor was right -- I woke up to the realisation that I'm not Galen, but Hannibal Lecter, having been in the throes of that influenza induced identity dysphoria syndrome Autor had rightly been referring to. Words cannot confer how deeply sorry I am for causing you this pain all over again, and nothing that I might offer can possibly make amends.
However, please accept my deepest and most heartfelt apologies.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. Hannibal Lecter
Three times he read the words, unable to believe them. And yet, unable to make them not true. He had wanted to believe Galen had finally come. Had wanted it so badly, he had ignored the signs, the small things Dr. Lecter had challenged him to see.
The lack of scars on Dr. Lecter’s hands. The shortness of his hair.
But his heart, his mind. They had been Galen’s.
How? Why? Why make him suffer this? Why give him back his reason to live and then take it from him?
He made it the few short strides to the fresher to vomit. Throwing up the only proper meal he had eaten in weeks. And kept throwing up until there was nothing left but pain.
Shivering on the cold duroplast floor of the fresher, despair overtook him.
There was no light left. This was the final cut, the last torment. He could take no more. The Force was done with him and he would suffer its whims no longer.
The knife was still where he kept it, tucked behind the bedhead. A talisman against the dark. The short blade was clean and sharp. Without hesitation, he rose to fetch it. There was indecision now, no shallow cuts, no transferred pain. He was done. It was time to embrace the darkness. To let all the colour left in the world drain out.
But his body betrayed him.
A cough rattled through his chest, so violent his weakened knees buckled and he fell onto the floor. The cough would not relent and he sucked air between fits like a man drowning between waves.
The cough grew so powerful he threw up again, nothing left in him but bile.
Too much pain, too little strength. It wasn’t long before he passed out, curled foetal on the floor.
And woke up a different man.
