I notice the repetition of "I feel" as in it boils under my flesh and I refuse to make it evident. I narrate all my experiences like a constantly spinning reel of film in my skull, meekly keep thoughts hidden under a bitter scowl and lots of time spent looking at my feet. How I feel twists and turns like a burning coil of incense turning into ash inside of me, and often times, I fail to differentiate between my emotions, like I'm an outside observer of inner turmoil. The separation and self-awareness I experience makes me believe that my id and ego really did grow legs and run in opposite directions.
I'm going to assume that this peculiarity of an identity crisis is the exact same thing that Will Graham let fracture him: he became a killer and I became myself, I suppose, versus who I aspired to be.
It's not as bad, but it's suffering. I selfishly mull over my bitterness and qualms with life, wringing my hands in an attempt to remind myself that my physical body and mental energy are still connected. I wanted to be better—I am a month in, and I seem to be trodding down the same well-worn path. I feel betrayed by my own lack of talent, that maybe I'm being a pawn instead of a player and taking charge, that the trickle-down effect of stress drips onto my shoulders and sets like mold. I feel useless and empty. I had so much purpose: did I really grow up just to give mediocre consultation on crimes, is this what evolution and the spinning Earth wove like a tapestry, did God make man in His image so that I could be sad and scrubby?
How does that make you feel? I hear the phrase in a voice I can't place. I reach up to card a few fingers through my hair, feel my scalp, bite my lip. I want a purpose more than anything. I want to know true morality and goodness. I do as I'm told, I don't do as I want.
I feel very, very disappointed in almost everything. Almost.
"Such slovenly work; these poor folk died painful deaths, though—as the word sacrifice entails—the intent was above the mortal concept of pain and agony," Dr. Lecter muses, hand hidden beneath luminous latex gesturing to the tear in the woman's chest. How calm. How poised. I feel safe in his presence. I feel in his presence, I experience luxurious bouts of entrancing emotion and quixotic, fantastical hopes and wishes. He controls my mood like the moon looking over the ebb and flow of the ocean; the fact that he exerts so much power over me of all people without even laying a finger on me is ethereal. His words and actions seem nothing more than gratifying.
"You know this is the same killer: incredibly inexperienced is right. He's leaving plenty of evidence—finger prints, hand spreads, body fluids—the only thing is, we can't identify him! They don't match anything that we have, and it's not like we can just shoot into the ocean and hope to nail a fish." I think his name is Zeller, or something, and he looks disappointed to have all the pieces in front of him but nothing to paste them on.
"Any thoughts on where to start?" Beverly asks, hands crossed, eyebrow elegantly arched, and all eyes swivel in my direction. The picture comes into focus, two blurry images melting into one: they're talking to me. Tangibly here, present and hearing, a living breathing human that other people recognize and are forced to process. Even Dr. Lecter must be looking at me, thinking about me, regarding me; my voice skips, bubbles growing in my throat, before I clear my airway and hum a little in acknowledgement.
"Look for younger people. Older folks tend not to have the same drive even in regards to spirituality—well, I mean, not enough to kill. I'd say he's younger than twenty five—old enough to know the consequences and old enough to make his decision as to either do his…his 'job,' I guess, and risk getting caught or shirk his duties, but young enough to have no idea how to go about them. I doubt he has a set family, and he might even be underage, so there's no real way to check up on records. Given that I'm assuming these killings are done with the intent of religious sacrifice, examining individuals who have a distinct absence in churches would make sense. I mean, he's got his own brand of God, he doesn't probably like the mainstream version." My voice dwindles in importance. This profile is a mess. Too preoccupied with my own world ripping in half like water-logged newspaper to actually do my job.
I'm embarrassed. I feel ashamed. I nod with fierce intent at no one in particular, turning towards Dr. Lecter and blinking, watching his shallow eyes stare back at me and nod as well.
"Either way, if he truly is in such a destitute situation as to be young man with no purpose and goal other than to carry out his godly plan, I'm certain he wouldn't have the willpower to maintain a job or proper residence. Homeless, I suppose, or living in a shelter."
"He can't go far, and we know that. He's trying to space the murders out, but you can only go so far on foot," Crawford amends, accepting Hannibal's hypothesis like a hundred dollar check, and my skin crawls off my bones and melts into a fatty puddle under the drain that catches the blood from the autopsies. I am gone. I wish I was smart, I mourn, lamenting my own shortcomings as Dr. Lecter smiles, placing his fingers on my shoulder.
Nothing touches, I remind myself, thinking back to when Dr. Bloom's cool hands graced my own like a goddess laying fragrant petals before me as an offering. He doesn't grip, shake, do anything amiable; I hear him throw my name into the bowl as a sidenote, I suppose, to his conclusions, crediting me in his bibliography, a brief moment of recognition, and they all begin to talk amongst themselves, voices increasing in volume and urgency as Dr. Lecter's hand drifts back to his side.
I wonder what my emotion would look like if it was physically etched on my face. My eyes bulge out, just a little, before they roll back and sink into my skull and vanish. I stand there and no one notices me, which I gladly reciprocate by staring at my brain and refusing to notice them.
Empathy, I grind my teeth as I think of it, is what is preventing me from doing this. From helping. From caring. From attaining. I can't understand them, I can't pity the dead, I can't even begin to imagine what Dr. Lecter is made of or how he manifested from gold and pearls to the saint he is.
Will Graham's words are astringent and leave a taste of rot in my mouth like bacteria coagulating into ulcers and plaque. I am seldom wrong, and when I am, I had previously known the right answer because my selection was only made because I wanted it to be right even if I knew it was false. Confusing, unrealistic, non-scientific and not predictable—are "gut-feelings" just a cliché that people use to justify their lucky guesses or do my intestines really have a better brain than me?
Time flies, literally, a terrified bird tearing its way out of a cage, and I realize that I am still in the same place and everyone is gone when Dr. Lecter bids Jack farewell and places his hand on my shoulder once more.
"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention," I choke, tripping over my words, and I make a few strangled, gooey sounds in my throat as he smiles the slightest bit and shrugs on his coat.
"Nothing to be sorry about, Ameya," he comforts me, and his hand brushes stray hairs falling on my forehead to their typical residence behind my ear. He says goodnight, walks out the door, nods at those he passes as he departs.
I know how I feel.
The budding head of razbliuto occupies majority of the space in my brain. There is nothing left to do but wait for it to bloom, wilt, and die.