collects_strays | [OOM] cum sodales tui exterriti erant pro eo quod homines

It was a gray afternoon, the kind that seemed to reach out and soak everything in its dull pallor. Looking out from the shore, he couldn't distinguish the distant surface of the water from the clouded sky. The smell of salt, soft splash as low waves tumbled up into the sand, made his footing feel unsteady. Down along the beach, Abigail was motionless, aside from the wind gently lifting a few strands of her dark hair over her green jacket. She watched the surf, making no movement to reel her line back in. Do it too quickly, and they'll sense the disruption, but not see the bait. Wait too long and you've probably lost your bait, with nothing to show for it.
just because you killed my dad doesn't mean you get to be him
Graham couldn't tell if Abigail was very patient, or just bored.

The waves along the beach began to creep higher, and finally she moved, turning to face him. Abigail gave Graham a small, uncertain smile.

He returned it, exactly. It pulled at his mouth through no will of his own.

Her line went taut. Maybe she was patient, after all.

They caught eight together – she brought in three redfish, he took two and three snappers. Their bait were sand fleas that they scooped up in handfuls from the shore, their thin legs and antennae still twitching when they were impaled on their hooks, and hopefully when they were tossed into the water.

Graham took her catch, and they walked together back away from the shoreline, not speaking. After he laid them out in the sand, Abigail produced a knife, the steel flashing as she held it out to him.

"None of it's going to go to waste," she didn't quite ask.

He nodded, taking the blade from her. Graham lowered himself to the ground, over the bound, still-but-never-meant-to-be-breathing body of Joel Summers. The man struggled as Graham (not Graham that's kind of what you do isn't it) ripped open his jacket, touching the tip of the knife against his shirt before shoving it down into his chest and through his heart. Summers' cry was muffled by the tape over his mouth. His eyes widened, but not for very long, and his body, curled up around the wound, slackened and fell back against the sand.
your one act as a father was to destroy your son
"There's a lot of blood." Abigail was right. It pooled out beneath Summers' body, draining from his sliced heart. "Can you leave that here?"

"The gulls will clean up what we don't take," Graham answered. He looked up, reaching out his hand to take hers, but she wasn't there.

"Abigail?"

He rose from the sand, turning in place, looking for her. But he was alone – the beach was empty, save for him, the shallow waves rolling up along the sand, and –
a totem of your own making
There was a shadow on the water. Or its color had changed, like the clouds were growing darker before a storm. But his skin prickled, as though someone were approaching, and his head pounded with a sudden burst of certainty.

Fear pulsing through him, his hands shaking, Graham looked back down. Abigail's once-widened gray eyes were now looking past him, blood soaking into the sand beneath her. She doesn't move, but he can hear her, breathing in huge, gulping gasps –

"Will," Lecter's voice, hand on his shoulder, "We can tell no one."

Graham turned, and Abigail's eyes were wide again, looking up at him, her breathing harsh and unsteady and there was such a fast flash of steel as she slammed her knife into him and pulled up, opening his chest, but not too deep -
damage the organs, you ruin the

Graham wakes up like he's surfacing for air. He gasps and grabs at the mattress as though it were rocking violently. It takes nearly a minute for him to settle into the view of his darkened ceiling, the faint blue glow of his clock in the corner of his eye, the sound of the dogs' paws scratching at the floor, a few of them making soft, whimpering noises.

He glances at the clock, but only long enough to see the hour. Three. Three-something. His throat feels scratched and dry, like he'd been drinking salt water.

Rubbing at his face, Graham climbs out of bed. He hears the scratching against the floor again, but doesn't open his eyes, keeping a hand on his forehead as he makes his way to the bathroom.

When Graham opens his eyes, he's dressed and standing in the kitchen. The patterns on the walls shift and stutter. He doesn't remember getting dressed or stepping in here. His throat still hurts, so he picks up a glass from the counter and fills it in the sink.

He's lifting the glass when a flickering shadow catches his eye. Moonlight pours in through the windows in the front room, but something's disturbing it. He turns; the glass falls from his hand, rolling away as water spills out across the floor.

It's in the front room – he can make out the shape of its head, that it's looking back at him, as though waiting for him to see. When he does, it turns away, and walks or glides toward the open front door, tall antlers silhouetted against the windows. Graham follows it – he doesn't hear the dogs or feel them circling at his steps, doesn't feel himself pull on his jacket, or holster his weapon.

He does feel his footsteps, smooth and even like the very slow tick of a metronome. There's a distant sound that makes him think of water rushing along the hull of a ship, a faraway roar that he knows is growing. Has been growing.
do you feel unstable
Graham follows the stag, and walks out through the door.