Songs of Darkness

Frederick wakes up with a gasp. He clutches the sheets as if trying to find the support he needs, and it takes him several moments to realize that it was only a dream. No. Not a dream, a nightmare. His heart is pounding in the chest, and to some extent, it feels good… to still have it in the chest. After his infamous encounter with Abel Gideon he started appreciating the things he had never thought about before. He stays still listening to the drum of his heartbeat echoing in his ears, and, after a moment of consideration, opens his eyes. There is a shadow in the form of a man sitting on the bed bench. “You are not real,” Frederick thinks, but he can’t utter a sound, and that is bad. He has a strong feeling that once he manages to break the silence, it will be enough to drive away any shadow. And especially the shadowman sitting on the bed bench Frederick had foolishly decided to be a great and trendy idea for his new bedroom. On the other hand, if there was no bed bench, the shadowman would have chosen another spot. Frederick knows everything about sleep paralysis but it doesn’t make this any easier. Because there is always a chance he is wrong. There is always a chance it’s not about the mind games. There is always a chance Frederick is not alone in his bedroom anymore. The shadowman shifts, and there is a lot of elegance in his movements not unlike the movements of a ballet dancer. He shrugs his shoulders in a way a person would when asked a question they find too inappropriate to answer. Too rude. “Rude,” Frederick thinks, and then it’s clear to him. The shadowman now has a name. He remembers now. He remembers the evening the shadowman shared his thoughts on “Romeo and Juliet”. He eloquently described his ideas on the play Frederick had always thought to be one of the most boring he had ever read, and that was enough to make the play seem worth of attention, worth rereading. Worth giving it a second chance. “I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptized; Henceforth I never will be Romeo,” the shadowman quoted from his memory, and it made the intended impression on Frederick. Not because he found it deep enough but because of the ease the shadowman had made it a part of their conversation. It was elegant, it was beautiful and it didn’t seem uncalled for. Frederick thought that he would have found it banal and unnecessary had it been anyone else but the shadowman. Who also had a name. This shadow sitting on the bed bench in the early hours of dawn has a name. Or had. That is the moment when it starts to hurt. Frederick has always wanted to be like that shadowman. To be that elegant. That sophisticated. That admired… but he was just his old self. Not someone else. That’s why another quote comes to his mind. Not an old poet or philosopher but a book he secretly enjoyed reading in his adulthood. He bought a special cover for it, just in case. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself. “Hannibal,” utters Frederick, and the shadow nods and vanishes. Now he can breathe, and move, and sit on his bed. Now he can wipe away the uncalled-for tears. He does not want to believe anything Jack Crawford believes in. Hannibal Lecter has not left the room. He never will.