Short journey and we are outside a stainless steel locked door. Outsides stand or sit four orderlies, discussing the results of the latest hockey match. They do not notice us and we slip past, through the door and into the locked room beyond. On first entering we are both blinded and smothered with a thick cloud of steam that seems to completely fill the long room. The heat of the suspended moisture takes a while to adjust to as does the poor visibility but gradually we can see the dull yellow of the tiled floor submerged in about an inch of hot water and then a long row of shower cubicles, about 6 on either side, each full on with their doors pulled wide open creating the spray and steam. Someone was in here that didn't want his or her scarce times of total peace disturbed. As we continue down the corridor we are soaked by the steam and flecked with water streaks.
At the end of the long room we start to see a wooden box-table emerging from the cloudy atmosphere. It can be used for either hanging towels or placing the mace and cuffs if things got nasty. But fight now, its being used for a different reason. Slowly creeping into our vision, a lone figure is seen to be sitting on this table, half slouched with their feet half submerged in water. We can now see that the figure is a man then we realise its not just any man but the sole purpose of our visit. Hannibal Lecter.
You can take your time as you take him in for he is absorbed in thought and unaware of our presence. He sits half slid down on his table seat, toes scrunched slightly to support his weight. From this note, we let our eyes wander up his legs, past his ankles and calves, beaded with water from his shower ad the accumulating steam clouds, past his knees, one flattened, one bent to accommodate his position and up to the towel wrapped loosely around his waist, falling to mid-thigh. Past and up to his belly, the beaded water quivering and dripping at every breath that expands and contracts his pale skin. Our eyes slide to his defined hips, distinctly masculine yet slightly curved like that of a woman. It fits well with his Western European features.
Further up on his chest we can see the slight out line of his ribcage from his great distaste and distrust of asylum food though great strength is still evident in both his chest, arms and hands. His nipples are dark and shadowy against his sun deprived skin and ever so slightly erect from the cooling room, and as our eyes widen at the sight a bead of water courses around and past his left one to gather in his naval. As we travel up again we linger on the curves and hollows of his collarbone and jaw line. As his face is still bent down in thought we instead examine his spread arms on either side of the table, hands clasped at the edge, long, slim fingers tapering as they curve around the bench.
The smooth, pale skin of his arms is also beaded in droplets; curves and dips reveal the wiry muscle structure in them, his hands are thin yet capable looking, long elegant fingers curled around the wood. Ah! Finally his head rises, although he is still apparently still lost in a memory or particularly interesting thought. His dark, emotive eyes glare straight ahead; clear and sharp like a whip crack - the kind of gaze that could pin you down with a glance. He is still unaware or uncaring of our presence.
His dark hair hangs longer than he usually has it and due to the shower is not slicked back but hangs dripping either side of his slightly pointed face, a few strands stuck to his damp skin. His normally pale skin on his face and body is flushed in certain places by the showers hot blast.
From his beautifully bewitching, slightly haunting eyes, our gaze travels down his almost perfectly straight nose, that gives his fine featured face an almost vulpine quality and drops to his dusky lips, ever so slightly pouted in thought. Any further inspection of this glorious creature before us is interrupted by a buzzer sounding through the haze of steam, like smoke after a gunning.
Sighing in annoyance he pulls himself from his retreat and pushes himself lightly to his feet, his damp hair swinging back slightly. As we watch, he turns in our direction, tongue flicking out momentarily as his eyes scan the empty steam, empty for we are leaving, floating back to our own reality and leaving him to his own.
But as you are placed back where you began, sitting before a glowing monitor, eyes scanning the text. I think you realise you'll be back in his world before long, don't you?
