[ I'm back? ]
[ I am literally the most inactive person ever but keep coming back to new followers, what is happening. ]
[ Garrett Jacob Hobbs slightly resembles my dad and it disturbs me the more I think about it. ]
Who is the Lamb and Who is the Knife || Garret Jacob Hobbs & Abigail Hobbs
[[ Closed to sensitivepsychopathy. AU in which Garret Jacob Hobbs survived the gunshots inflicted on him by Will Graham. Now residing in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he is visited by his daughter, Abigail. ]]
It was against Alana Bloom’s professional recommendation, but Abigail didn’t care much for Dr. Bloom’s advice. She hadn’t bothered arguing, had smiled and nodded and agreed that it probably wasn’t time, yet. That she hadn’t had enough time to heal.
Six weeks had passed since what took place in the kitchen of the Hobbs household, and although the laceration on Abigail’s throat had closed, Dr. Bloom’s argument was that the psychological wounds were still too raw, too open.
“Do you really want to?" Alana had asked, those big, doe-like eyes brimming with sensitivity and compassion in a way that made Abigail feel slightly nauseated. "I think it would be better if you waited - at least a little bit longer. Perhaps after the arraignment - when he’s been formally charged?"
The court was really dragging its feet when it came to charging Garret Jacob Hobbs, and Abigail couldn’t for the life of her figure out why it was taking so long. He’d let his wife - her mother - bleed out on the front steps. He’d taken a knife to her throat, in front of two credible witnesses, one of whom was working in conjunction with the FBI. And she was evidence, wasn’t she? The deep purple scar on her neck was testimony. What more could they possibly need?
Will Graham had explained it to her, as best he could - sitting on the edge of her bed, his hands shaking, painfully aware of his own role in the situation. He’d talked Abigail through the legal process, how red tape and paperwork prevented these things from moving swiftly.
“It might be a while, before your dad goes to trial. And even after—well, you’re obviously not going to be returned to his custody. So we all think its best if you just stay here for the time being. While you’re getting better.” ”While you figure out what to do with me, is more like it" she’d replied, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "Whatever. But I still want to see him".
She still wasn’t sure why she had wanted to see her father so badly. She supposed she should hate him, despise him for the things he had done to her, and for the things he had made her do. She should resent him for killing her mother, for dismantling her entire life in the space of fifteen minutes, while the bacon sizzled to a black crisp on the stove. It had been the phone-call that had done it, she knew that much. Whoever it was, on the other end of the line, had said something that had made her father snap.
Perhaps it was curiosity. A desperate need to know why, to understand that dark, disturbed part of her father that he had wrestled with for so long, the shadow-self that had eventually won out that morning in the kitchen. She had glimpsed it before, of course - had apprenticed under it, bait on the hook, waiting for the girls who looked just like her to come. To bite.
She knew they were dead, those girls. She had known it back then, too, even as her father kept her from it, turned her away from the violence and the brutality. There was no actual blood on her hands. As if that made a difference.
In the end, it was Hannibal Lecter who had given her written permission to leave the hospital - Hannibal, who had driven her to BSHCI and spoken with the director, a Dr. Frederick Chilton, and convinced him that a supervised visit would benefit both father and daughter. It was Hannibal who had placed his hand on her shoulder, steered her down the dingy corridors of the asylum and into the large, austere room furnished only with a line of metal cages.
She hadn’t realized they still kept people like this, trapped and shut up like animals. Her insides were stone, heavy, and she looked up at Dr. Lecter, lips parted, unable to form a question.
"You don’t have to do this, Abigail" he told her "Not if you are not ready".
"I’ll never be ready, though" she hovered in the entrance way, looking into the room. She could make out a figure in the center cell, but only the silhouette. Impossible to tell if it was her father. But it had to be.
"It’s fine. I’m fine." she glanced up at Hannibal once more, smiled. The expression felt foreign on her face. "Are you going to wait?"
"Of course" he nodded, took a step backwards. "I will be watching. If you need anything."
Abigail adjusted the scarf at her neck, fiddled for a moment with the frayed edges, and stepped into the room. It was remarkably quiet - every foot-fall seemed to echo like a gun-shot, and for a horrible moment she thought she might faint. It was difficult to take breath.
He was there, in the middle cell, sitting on a utilitarian metal folding chair, his hands cuffed. He looked the same. A little grayer, maybe - in this light, at least. But not much changed. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting - for horns to have sprouted? For some horrible disfigurement to have appeared, as if by magic?
She approached the cage, faltered just behind the line. Someone had provided a chair, but she didn’t sit.
"….dad." it was more a statement than it was a greeting. The word felt thick and ugly on her tongue.
Very little was said to him about the upcoming visitation. Only that his daughter had decided she wanted to see him. Not why, or how permission had been granted for that, and no word on how her recovery was. With the impending visit came only two things; a warning from his appointed lawyer, to be extremely well-behaved and careful with what he said (What he said now would scarcely make a difference, with credible witnesses and evidence stacked against him…), and a different set of cuffs for his wrists. As if he would break free from the walls of his prison to make another attempt on his daughter’s fragile life.
…In the end, he hadn’t managed to protect her.
A curious sort of feeling stirred within as the fateful day’s events unfolded themselves in his mind. The voice on the phone, a knife in his hand and the spray of blood, not once but twice. It would have been a mercy, the last thing that he could have provided her. Instead, they had taken it from him, removed his final chance. Taken Abigail from him.
Hushed sounds of steps nearing the boundary of his cell. Hobbs slowly turned his face towards the source of the sound. His eyes traveled from the taller figure shrouded in shadows to the slim figure of Abigail, then back to the dull gray floor. No shared look between either of them lasted much longer than a few seconds.
Her voice was the same as it had been, and her appearance was unchanged, but his daughter had been wholly lost to him. It would never be the same. The order of his world was destroyed forever. “…Abigail…” Words from his lips were a ghost of a whisper, as quiet as the feel of the room was.
Damage the organs, you ruin the meat.
[ -cries about reply b/c it sucks and works on drafts through tears- ]
[ Look, I do reply at times, believe it or not. I am still alive. ]
Oneironaut || closed || sensitivepsychopathy
In navigating sleep or waking, Will often found that landmarks were the key.
It was the basic of survivalism, after all- find a familiar place, navigate from there. Taught both to those that wandered the woods and those that often wandered lucid dreams. And Will so often found himself in both.
He was stealthy, quiet through the leaves. Look for a landmark.
He didn’t see black antlers. He didn’t see dark and hollow ribs, or the sickly green sheen on black feathers.
However, he found a landmark.
"Hobbs." Will was tired, so tired, and the woods were cold, and Hobbs’ eyes were blank. They both stood, hunters silent in the night. "It always comes back to you, doesn’t it?"
One world waking, one world dreaming.
In between them was this place. Neither one nor the other entirely.
It was what Will Graham's mind made it to be. Regardless, it was there he would reside. In a waking reality or one of dreams. He could be found.
This was a woodland empty of the rustle of leaves or sounds of life.
It would be odd to find another there. If he were a physical reality.
He isn't. He is the absence of sound that lies within the ethereal woods.
"You've found me for a reason." His lips may move with the words, but the sound coming forth isn't entirely his own. "Isn't that right?"
[ I feel very insecure about this blog in general and my writing for it, that's why I take so long to reply to everything. I'm not ignoring anyone or dropping a thread, I'm just being hung up over it all. Totally my fault. It's not you, it's me. ]
Garrett Jacob Hobbs is a softcore cannibal. Then there's Hannibal Lecter. Hardcore cannibal.
Relevant Blog Info
Instead of sleeping like I said I was doing, I wanted to write out a less formal post for this. The blog will updated better with it after more rest.
This way I can hopefully interact with more people who would like to.
Verse 1: Hallucination/Dream verse. Mostly for Wills, but open to others. Pretty obvious. Will/(your character) has trippy Hobbs hallucinations. Who wouldn't want that?
Verse 2: Garrett Jacob Hobbs survived the shooting and is a prisoner at Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane. Set at any point in the timeline.
Verse 3: Set at any time before the discovery, Garrett Jacob Hobbs is alive and free. That's it. That's the verse.
I've got nothing else yet but this at least opens up some new doors for interaction.
[ Honestly I don't know how to interact with the majority of my followers given my character appeared for a very short time and knows basically none of you.
And is also dead. Not that this stops anyone ever. ]