Ophelia shifted in her seat. In the past five hours, she had been allowed one bathroom break. She had been given a small plastic cup of water, and a piece of toast. The orange jumpsuit was hot and prickly on her skin, as if it had been worn recently, but not washed. Her hair was greasy and still speckled with blood, tied loosely out of her face.
Nothing mattered but the fact that Hannibal Lecter would soon be here. She wanted to see him. Needed to see him, to finally meet him, with every fiber of her being. When she thought of what she would say to him, she drew a blank. In fact, she did not know much about him. It had just been ingrained into her mind that he was the one to speak to, and to get close to. And she did not question it.
The longer she waited, the more apprehensive she became. Ophelia began to pick at her fingernails and pull at the pieces of string that dangled from the rolled sleeves of the jumpsuit. The old thing smelled like dogs, iron, and sweat. Ophelia wished she could actually clean herself up.
In any other situation, she would have focused more on the "big picture" of what had transpired within the last twenty four hours, but the prospect of Hannibal Lecter made Ophelia forget the redness beneath her nails and the stickiness in her hair.
Hannibal Lecter was coming.
The door slowly creaked open, and Ophelia snapped her head up. In through the door strode a handsome, professorial man with light brown hair combed neatly to the side and a suave brown suit. Ophelia watched, her mouth hanging slightly open, as he made his way slowly to the chair before her, the dim fluorescent lights casting shadows across his cut, sharp facial features. She was suddenly very aware that she was slouching.
"I would stand to shake your hand, but..." Ophelia's voice cracked as she attempted humor. Relief flooded her as Hannibal had a seat.
He did not smile, "You are Ophelia Ford."
"And you are Hannibal Lecter."
"Correct," he stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, studying her face, "Why am I here, Miss Ford?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly found herself without a definitive answer, "I... I did a bad thing."
"I would say so," Hannibal smoothed the front of his suit and adjusted his tie, "Are you aware of just how many lives you took last night?"
Ophelia looked at the ceiling and scrunched up her face, "Fifteen? No. Nineteen. Twenty?"
"Twenty," Hannibal nodded, "Each and every one of your sorority sisters."
"Chi Omega," she scoffed looking back down at Hannibal, "What a joke. They don't know... anything. They don't know anything worth knowing at all."
"Tell me how you did it." Hannibal studied Ophelia's eyes. They were empty. She was clearly doing a lot of thinking, as if she was working hard to recall a number of facts.
"I..." Ophelia frowned, "ah... I put Xanax in our sorority mom's coffee. You know, sorority moms are there to make sure we don't die or whatever," she snorted, "But anyway, I put that in her coffee, I think, and she was out pretty fast. So I went to the kitchen and... and... I was in the dance studio. Covered in blood. It's hard to... the details..."
"Do you not recall butchering twenty people?"
"All I remember was being so mad. So, so, so angry at everyone. I just... I can't remember a lot of things. I really vividly remember being in the dance studio. I remember being on the ground, with a whole lot of blood... all over me." She nervously began to pick clumps of blood from beneath her fingernails.
Hannibal studied her again for a moment then asked, "Does your family have any history of mental illness?"
Ophelia looked at him like he had slapped her, "No my family doesn't have any mental illness. My dad was the smartest person I know; he was a scientist. He worked in a research facility in Phoenix. Mental illness... no. Nope."
"No offense intended, Ophelia, I assure you. It was just a question."
"And I don't have anything wrong with me either," Ophelia's fingers began to twitch, "I don't have a problem. I don't have a mental illness."
"I never suggested that," Hannibal's face remained impassive, "But you do seem to have some problems with remembering things."
Ophelia shrugged, "I guess I do."
"Is this something that has occurred more than once?"
After a moment of thought, she nodded, "Yeah, actually. There are patches... missing. I just figured that was what I got for running three clubs, majoring in fine arts, and being a part of a sorority." She attempted a laugh, but it came out more like a strangled squawk. Ophelia suddenly felt rather nervous, as if Hannibal has placed her under an unusually large microscope.
"What are these bruises from?" Hannibal reached a large hand toward Ophelia's wrist, but she jerked away, nearly knocking her own chair over backwards.
"Don't touch me!" Ophelia cradled her hands to her neck, where other purple blooms had been since the night before. She did not remember where these had come from either, but she knew they held a secret, whatever it might be.
Hannibal held up his hands and looked down at the table, "I apologize, Ophelia. Why don't we take a break? You take a moment to rest. I would like to take this opportunity to speak with my colleagues."
Ophelia nodded, but said nothing. The same fear that she had felt the night before flooded her entire body, making her hands begin to quiver.
What is happening to me? Ophelia covered her face with her hands and inhaled deeply and exhaling as if to expel some sort of demon from her body. She began to rub her bruises again.
Hannibal and Alana stood outside the door and watched Ophelia virtually fold in on herself.
"Well?" Alana looked up at Hannibal, whose stony face was still fixed on Ophelia, "It's possible that she has some sort of personality disorder, but-"
"No," Hannibal shook his head, "It's no disorder. Has anyone run blood tests? Given her a good, thorough physical examination?"
Alana shook her head, "Jack didn't want to move her until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with."
"Test her for drugs," Hannibal instructed, "Let her rest, eat, clean up. Get her out of that jumpsuit. No one wants it here, either. I will sit with her, attempt to calm her down and keep her calm while tests are run. I will need the results by the end of the day if possible, Alana."
"What are you thinking, Hannibal?" Alana recognized the glint in her old colleague's eyes. He was onto something that no ordinary man could see.
"I believe that Miss Ophelia may be under more influences than she is letting on. She exhibits all the symptoms of the first stages of withdrawal, as well as those of abuse."
"Her file," Alana handed him a thick folder, "She hasn't had parents for years. Who would be the abuser?"
"That is what I must find out," Hannibal nodded as he started back into the room, "But first she needs to relax, or we won't be getting anywhere."
Ophelia pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her hands around them as Hannibal took a seat before her once again. She prepared to be berated, punished, or given a fatal sentence.
But instead, Hannibal just smiled, leaning back and clasping his hands in his lap. He cocked his head to the side, studying her, drinking in every feature of her face. She fidgeted, uncomfortable under his piercing gaze.
"The name 'Ophelia'," Hannibal quipped, "A reference to Shakespeare, no doubt?"
Ophelia nodded, "Tragic, huh? Kind of has a reputation."
"I've always enjoyed Hamlet, actually," Hannibal shrugged, "His tragic lover was always one of the most fascinating characters."
"Never gotten that before," Ophelia snorted, "One time when I went to the gym on campus, a bunch of my sorority sisters pretended to drown me. Not funny, I know. Pretty unfortunate, is what it is. I guess my mom thought it would be funny."
"Perhaps she understood Shakespeare's genius, and thought it fit to share it with you."
"Sure," she was skeptical, but she had never thought about it that way, "Shakespeare's work is pretty great though. I was in Romeo and Juliet in high school."
"And did you enjoy that?"
Ophelia shrugged, "I was the Nurse. I wore a fat suit."
"Arts are a passion of yours, or so I have been told. You are a dancer?"
"Yeah, yeah I am," she seemed to perk up a bit, "I study dance at my college. It's not like school, really. I just get to dance all day. I got all the boring classes out of the way the summer before my first semester. Did you know that I got one of the choreographers from So You Think You Can Dance to come to the campus and teach a class? Sonya Tayeh. The one with the," she made a wild hand gesture about her head, "hair. Do you watch that show?"
"I'm afraid I have not seen it," Hannibal pursed his lips.
"Of course not," Ophelia laughed, stretching her legs back under the table again, "You're an adult."
"Tell me about your friends."
"All my friends were in the... the sorority," Ophelia suddenly went rather quiet, "When you're forced to live with people, you kind of have to get close, ya' know?"
"Quite true," Hannibal nodded, "Did you have friends outside of the sorority? Some of the others in your classes, perhaps?"
"I guess," Ophelia began to wring her hands, "I would always look forward to coming back to the Chi O house, but... sometimes it was a bit much. Being around all those girls all the time. They would always have these parties. I never really went to them; I would just sit in my room and practice or... or read. I got kind of into classical music for a while. But they would always make fun of me. I was the only one who wasn't," her voice suddenly became venomous and hollow, "so superficial. So stupid and insignificant. I knew that there was more out there than sorority parties and 'keg stands'. Whatever. I guess I don't have to worry about it anymore."
"You don't," Hannibal agreed slowly, "What made you feel these things? When did you start to think so little of your sisters?"
"The word 'sister'," Ophelia grimaced, "should not be used to describe sororities. Friends, sure, but sometimes they took the 'sister' thing a bit far. They were great and all, but sometimes I would get away. I... don't know how, but I would get away."
"Where would you get away to?"
Ophelia was silent, as if the lines she had been reciting were not coming to her as easily. She shook her head and mumbled, "I don't know. I don't remember."
"Alright, then let's move on to something different. How about your family? Tell me about them."
"Well," and Ophelia had perked up again, on a roll, "my mom stayed at home mostly. She had done art in college, so she stayed home painting and sculpting and stuff. Dad worked at a research facility in Phoenix. Medical research. Lots of big words that I never understood."
"And where are they now?"
"Um," Ophelia grew quiet again, "Mom left. She found an artsy type from Seattle, and I guess she's still there. Dad... dad's dead. They never told us how. Experiment gone bad, I guess. I don't know."
"I am sorry, Ophelia," Hannibal reached his hand out, and for a moment she let his fingers brush against the sleeve of her jumpsuit. But when his fingers drew close to the bruises on her arm, she pulled away, banging her elbow on the back of the chair.
Just then, two men followed by Alana Bloom entered the room, carrying a bundle of clothes and a tray of food.
Hannibal left the room, letting Alana hand the small girl a pair of sweatpants too large for her frame, and an old white t-shirt. She left the guards to give Ophelia her food, hurrying to join Hannibal outside the room.
"She's so erratic," Alana shook her head, "It's like there are two different brains in there, fighting for control."
"Look," Hannibal pointed through the window at Ophelia, who was still changing into the grown man-sized clothes, "Look at all the bruises."
"I noticed," Alana nodded, "And see the bruises on her torso? Where the bruises would be hidden, they're centered around little welts. Look."
"Insect bites, perhaps?"
"Maybe. But look at the way she's trying to hide them." They watched as Ophelia's arms buzzed about, trying to shield the little splotches of red, blue, and purple as the guards helped her out of the oversized jumpsuit and into her clothes.
"Not insect bites, then." Hannibal and Alana stood in silence while Ophelia downed her small bowl of soup and her bottle of water within minutes. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, then looked over to where her observers stood. Ophelia stared at the door, unmoving.
"What do you think?" Alana looked up at Hannibal, his impassive face still on Ophelia.
"I think," Hannibal sighed, stuffing his hands in his finely tailored pockets, "There is something going on, more than she's letting on. More than she's even capable of being aware of."
"How so?"
Hannibal was silent for a moment, then he chose his words carefully, "Perhaps... she needs to be observed. Carefully. She loses memories. She is erratic. Ophelia displays all the behavior of an addict, though there is no way to be sure if that is the case until she can be seen by a doctor. She seems to be fighting within her own head."
"So, what should be done? Psychotherapy? If we don't figure something out soon, she'll be in prison for life. Twenty people. Alone. She's got to be some kind of neurotic."
"It's quite fantastic, how she achieved it," Hannibal nodded, "But there is more to the story. Perhaps she doesn't even know what it is."
"Then she needs to be observed."
"Yes," Hannibal nodded, "Observed and guided."
"But she only speaks to you," Alana rubbed her hand across her forehead, tired, "Whenever Jack or I try to communicate with her, she turns robotic. Unresponsive entirely."
"Then I will be the one to guide her."