Chapter 2:
The session was incredibly difficult for Hannibal to sit through; he was surprised he even finished the appointment without lashing out in some form at Will.
This was the first time since Hannibal had killed the fishmonger* that he had come close to losing his composition. This was the first time in a long time that he doubted himself and felt hot pangs of anxiety overcome him.
"Will…Knows.." He repeated to himself in disbelief. He couldn't fathom that he would ever be saying these words about his own plan, nonetheless that Will would be the subject of his unease. He knew that Graham was intelligent, possibly clairvoyant, but he never thought that this unstable man would even account the truth as a possibility.
The doctor rationalized this as he drove home for the night. Once home, he quickly chopped up some potatoes, carrots, and meat from his former accountant. After this was done, he removed the accountant's liver that was stewing in wine and garlic that he had in the refrigerator. He mixed these ingredients, then placed the mixture in a casserole dish, and covered the dish with kneaded dough. After an hour his dinner, the Baeckeoffe, was ready.
In his dining room, that he usually reserved for parties, the doctor ate his supper in silence. He felt as if this would be one of his last meals that he made, in his house. The thought disturbed him; being caught, humiliated, and sent to prison because he had failed to make a successful scheme.
On the other hand, he would finally get recognition for his genius, and all other plans that had prospered. He would be hailed as "One of the most notorious killers.." or " criminal mastermind," or even, "iconic". These were thoughts that reassured Hannibal and kept his mind at ease; sleep would come easily.
In preparation for slumber, the doctor completed his bed-time rituals- showering, washing his face, flossing, and finally, brushing his teeth. When he looked in the mirror, Hannibal was bemused at his reflection. His cheekbones were more severe than he had remembered. It was almost as if he was looking at a non-existent twin, or a weaker version of himself. This thought was preposterous. How could he look different than he had this morning?
He forced himself to dismiss this paranoia as delusions, or stress-induced fugue. The doctor considered this as he lied down, and turned off the light. Curious and worried, he put his hand up to his face and carefully drew his pointer-finger up and down the curvatures of his face and carefully examined the topography of his appearance. If it weren't for the pseudo-seriousness of this moment, one would perceive this as almost sensual. Soon, a worrisome thought came to Hannibal's sight, but he fearfully ignored it.
"This is not my face."