Failing to see what? Evidence of potentially fabricated hints of information? Material you won't elaborate upon? Things you want me to take at face value, despite your deceit? Failure to see whatever nonsense you'd love me to buy into? I'd rather fail to see that than do as you're doing; you're failing to understand. Failing to understand why you coming out of the blue, like this, without rhyme or reason and armed with a belated apology. You've been an ass to me, Kate, well before you played a round of blame the victim. Do you think you're immune to the standards that you hold others? Should I base my expectation on that which you expect from others? Do you know comprehend that this has only been building, that I authentically thought that was simply how you behaved amidst your friends -- much like an ass -- until it became apparent that someone you honestly considered a friend would have been treated like a human being?
[He imagines what she would have done if Billy had been tortured and nearly killed, if she had come across unflattering one-sided material and condemned him immediately for it, without consideration for his health, even if he might have deserved questioning later. It was a painful hypothetical -- Chilton enjoyed Billy's company. The young man had appeared invested in Chilton, and while the psychiatrist savored that with all the abandon of a narcissist, it was an emotion fueled by a need to connect to people, raw and craving. Those whom Chilton himself considered interesting, worthwhile, he appreciated those connections. Too often had he been shunned by people (not without some effort on his own part, usually), and that bred a distrust in the human condition. Kate, it seemed to him, was more like the snubbing high society her elocution revealed than at first blush. Hiding bias behind hypocritical morals, as if others wouldn't notice.]
You never liked me. I had thought you did, and yes, laugh all you want about that. Laugh that you only went to dinner with me for a free meal -- that was it, wasn't it? Laugh that I never had the ballroom training your parents could afford you. You never conversed with me without some underhanded motive, isn't that so? And it's insulting that you think you can convince me that now things are different. You want to know what is different, Kate Bishop? I'm seeing you for what you had done to me.
[The agony lies within the repetition; Chilton, upon his return and the puzzle pieces of information that fell from the fingertips of his Baltimore brethren, had realized that Hannibal had done the same thing to him. Chilton mistook interest and company for friendship, when all along he had been served ulterior motives. A graver mistake with Hannibal, who had been actively manipulative; something that Kate Bishop was not. A less provoked Chilton would have accepted that the degrees were uneven, that much of a the parallel was only in his own perception, but in this moment he felt the sting of humiliation, of lies and smiles. Of empty friendships. Of Alana Bloom, whom he could not trust. Of Hannibal Lecter, whom he would continue to be tormented by. And still, he disdained so many people -- and still, he needed human connectivity.
He was a starved man.]
How can you dare demand openness and honesty when you won't return even that much?
text.
[He imagines what she would have done if Billy had been tortured and nearly killed, if she had come across unflattering one-sided material and condemned him immediately for it, without consideration for his health, even if he might have deserved questioning later. It was a painful hypothetical -- Chilton enjoyed Billy's company. The young man had appeared invested in Chilton, and while the psychiatrist savored that with all the abandon of a narcissist, it was an emotion fueled by a need to connect to people, raw and craving. Those whom Chilton himself considered interesting, worthwhile, he appreciated those connections. Too often had he been shunned by people (not without some effort on his own part, usually), and that bred a distrust in the human condition. Kate, it seemed to him, was more like the snubbing high society her elocution revealed than at first blush. Hiding bias behind hypocritical morals, as if others wouldn't notice.]
You never liked me. I had thought you did, and yes, laugh all you want about that. Laugh that you only went to dinner with me for a free meal -- that was it, wasn't it? Laugh that I never had the ballroom training your parents could afford you. You never conversed with me without some underhanded motive, isn't that so? And it's insulting that you think you can convince me that now things are different. You want to know what is different, Kate Bishop? I'm seeing you for what you had done to me.
[The agony lies within the repetition; Chilton, upon his return and the puzzle pieces of information that fell from the fingertips of his Baltimore brethren, had realized that Hannibal had done the same thing to him. Chilton mistook interest and company for friendship, when all along he had been served ulterior motives. A graver mistake with Hannibal, who had been actively manipulative; something that Kate Bishop was not. A less provoked Chilton would have accepted that the degrees were uneven, that much of a the parallel was only in his own perception, but in this moment he felt the sting of humiliation, of lies and smiles. Of empty friendships. Of Alana Bloom, whom he could not trust. Of Hannibal Lecter, whom he would continue to be tormented by. And still, he disdained so many people -- and still, he needed human connectivity.
He was a starved man.]
How can you dare demand openness and honesty when you won't return even that much?