If one should look at the man sitting alone in his grandiose office, the only sounds being that of the tip of a pencil swooping along drawing paper and the placid lull of Vivaldi streaming throughout the room. Nothing ill at ease would come to mind. No outstanding disconnect or veil between the viewer and he who is being viewed. There might even be a recognition of similar lifestyles and perspectives, yet the being sitting in his meticulous suits, drawing painstakingly perfect lines with a perfectly cut pencil, is so much more and so much less than any man.
Hannibal Lecter closes his eyes and allows the sublimity of life that is music to wash over him. Light and air and sound and beauty, yet he is restless, bored. With his plaything locked away, he yearns for a way to ground himself. No more appointments for today; time to begin his purge.
Scouring the Baltimore streets for his choice of pestilence is easy work. After slipping into the interior furnishings building and locating his target who has stayed behind late, Hannibal gets to work. An abandoned warehouse serves his purposes well. Wrapping a plastic bag around the man's head deprives his brain of oxygen long enough for him to pass out. The restraints a put in place and the store clerk is laid out carefully on a tarp. Hannibal waits. Patience, of course, is a virtue. He wants his prey awake for this next part. The eyeballs are first to go; he shouldn't have rolled them. The man begins to struggle, but the attempt is futile. The bonds are too tight. Hannibal wants this rude man, this...this mongrel to see the blade draw closer to his eye. He wants him to be fully aware of the hot, thick red running down his face. The man attempts a scream, but it is stifled as Hannibal swiftly and precisely cuts off his tongue. Shock takes over as hannibal finishes the job. He senses a feast coming.
"Alana, please," the good doctor steps aside,"Come in."
"Thank you for the unexpected invitation," replies Dr. Bloom, "It has been quite a week."
"I would image...would you like something to drink?"
"A beer sounds great. Thanks," Alana folds her coat over her arm as Hannibal hastens to fulfill her request.
"Have you been to visit him, Will?" Hannibal inquiries as they make their way into the kitchen. Alana sighs.
"Yes. Oh Hannibal, I don't know what to do. Seeing this way, it's unbearable. What about you?"
"No," the beer froths into a cold glass, "Though I plan to make arrangements soon. His illness much reach its very lowest before he will be able to begin recovery. Ideally, it will come to that point in the safety of a hospital."
"It's just that these dissociations, they are so vivid to him. I shudder to think what it must be like to live in his mind, ergo to minds of every killer he comes across. Thank you."
"My pleasure," mouth comes to glass.
"What's for dinner?" swallow.
"Langue," glass set down.