A/N: Welcome to my mind – or rather, Will Graham's mind. Feel free to view the spectacles, but don't touch anything. Draw near at your own risk. :) Here we see Will's mind as that of a developed psychopath, very much aware of his condition, and somewhat proud of it. It seems cliché to have picked this somewhat pedestrian type of psychopath, the narcissistic kind, but it seems that that is what the show is going to explore this season. I've also taken it upon myself to use American spelling for a more personal touch, but as an Australian, forgive me for any errors.


Visualization. Alas, a common method of relaxation among the reasonably informed. It doesn't work on me. Why, you ask, why me? Why am I so special? The simple fact is that my brain is better than yours.

When you first take your seat, the mental health specialist that you've chosen and hopefully researched is observing your posture. Is your body language open or closed? Is your voice clear and confident or shaky and shy? Then they'll ask you some questions about how you've been feeling lately, how your relationships are going, blah blah blah. But chances are they know exactly how you're feeling. It's written all over you in forehead wrinkles and crossed arms. Unless you're like me, and you know how to change your behavior so they know nothing. Take a neutral position. Speak only in a calm voice, and choose your words with composure. Tell them what they want to hear; what you what them to hear.

They still know nothing.

It makes me laugh just thinking about how easily I control them. But back to the point – Dr Lecter, our dear old friend, has instructed me to visualize how I scheme for the death of Margot's brother Mason.

Let's just say that I got a little off topic - although in my opinion, I only revised it.

Hannibal is hanging from a steel cable noose, and I've had his hands taped crudely behind his back. Accurately theatrical, I say. The taping job is just as amateur as he is; how symbolic. If you're looking for symbols, take the dimness of the room as another one. Take all the symbols you want. I'm here to watch him die. I bring the knife in my hand to the apple of his neck, and I slit his throat like the belly of a fish. Arterial blood, dark and wonderful, spurts and gushes into my patient palms like infantile rivers of bibliological life. I taste the iron in my open mouth. His blood brings a cold sensation to my heated fingers, like his veins were a network of refrigeration instead of function efficiency. Ah, there we are, I think as I press the button and he starts sliding towards the pig pit, that inevitable transition to past tense. I shut my eyes as the pigs squeal in vicious delight.

Come, relish the sounds of death and starvation with me.

Can you hear it? Can you hear the crunch of his murderous bones? The rattling and slamming of bodies into the cage walls, fighting for a chunk of flesh? Are you relishing it?

I wonder if Alana would relish it. I wonder if she would love me for this. Maybe I could invite her to watch the show; she was never much of a flower girl. So she would have to love it, I think.

She will worship me.