Please note: I'm not advocating self harm at all.
There was something so beautiful about pain, and Hannibal Lecter was fascinated by it.
It was a fascination that Lecter found completely healthy. There were many who enjoyed it, and many (though they were less) who enjoyed giving it-and many more who enjoyed both. But Lecter held himself to a higher standard than most, and as it was such a beautiful thing, he accepted and doled in out in the most artistic of means.
Being on the receiving end of it was something he rarely experienced; it did, after all, require a great deal of trust, and he trusted very few. But he would give it to himself, delighting in the controlled sensation; a prick of a pin, or the tip of a blade, brought about a plethora of sensations. The spark that traveled through the body, to the spinal cord and up to the brain, was something that, if he concentrated carefully, he could feel transmitting. He would sometimes close his eyes and count the seconds, predicting when the first flare would start, then the second, abrupt wave that quickened his breaths, before the third and the gentle calm that followed. He was very careful with the amount of blood he allowed-two or three drops at the most-and other times he would simply stare at it, and his pupils would dilate, and his mind would race wildly. That crimson liquid which controlled both life and death, that contained so much power, was a thing he would ponder endlessly. In the animal and irrational part of his mind he would think to himself how he wished he, a mere mortal who relied on this silly thing, could hold even a tenth of the power it did. And he could; there were ways he could.
It was something entirely different to be the one giving the pain. It was every bit as fascinating, as inspiring, but it was also something that required incredible restraint, something altogether challenging and different. Pain was not always related to death, but blood was-and to control that pesky thing was something that took patience and diligence and understanding. To watch the blood leave the face of a body, to watch the face's expression contort and change in shock and often fear, was distracting, and Hannibal would, at first, spend far too much time caught up in the bizarre beauty of these victim's faces. But as he grew in experience he learned to curtail the awe that came with the rush of power that had so often consumed him. The intensity of the feeling, however, never went away. But Hannibal, occasionally and in his more reckless of moods, did wonder what it would feel like were the experience to be shortened, and were the person's face to brighten again.
There was much talk in psychiatric circles of sadism and masochism and its origins, of stress and relief, of those who relinquish power and those who crave it, and of the reasons people did; but Hannibal paid no mind to these things, and actively refused to, for pain was something so visceral and sensate that any kind of rationalization would destroy its purpose.
He knew this, for sometimes in the midst of these experiences-most always in years prior-his mind would drift, and a pale face with a pained expression was all he could see, and her pain was all he could feel, and he did not wish to think about it at all, other than the determination he possessed never to see that face again.