"Most psychology departments are filled with ham radio enthusiasts and other personality- deficients. Some are pre-dispositioned to the romantic 'whims' of the mind. I could never find comfort among their ranks."
Hannibal talked idly as he led Ophelia through the great wooden doors of his home. She looked around, only half listening to what he was saying; she was far too preoccupied with the lavishness and modernity of Hannibal's home. She had expected him to hold a high standard of living, but had not expected such a display.
The kitchen and dining room had clearly been paid the most attention. While the sitting room seemed to be barely more than a hallway with a television and couch, the kitchen and adjoined dining room were the heart of the home. Hannibal even seemed to relax more in these spaces.
"I will fix you some real food," he turned and smiled at her, the first glimpse of actual emotion Ophelia had seen on his face since their first meeting earlier that day, "Why don't you make yourself comfortable? Your room is through the sitting room, up the stairs and the farthest room on the right side. I am sure you will be able to find it yourself."
Ophelia nodded curtly and hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder as she turned to leave the kitchen. A few faceless and nameless men had brought her a duffel full of the belongings she had kept in the room she had shared in the sorority house before she had been carted off to Hannibal's home. She had not questioned it; she had been glad to get out of the holding cell with its uncomfortable chairs and blinding lights.
The bedroom that she had been assigned was larger and nicer than anything she had ever lived in, though it looked like it had been thrown together in a hasty whirl. Perhaps Hannibal was not accustomed to having company.
The wallpaper was forest green, with vines and flowers of similar, subdued hues, painted on. The floors were, like the rest of the house, dark wood and virtually spotless. Her bed was pressed neatly against the wall, the headboard sitting underneath a wide window. The bedspread was silky and cream colored, and the red detailing matched the rug that sat before the dresser and mirror on the opposite side of the room. Ophelia nodded with satisfaction, tossing her duffel down onto the bed. She could get used to this. It was far nicer than anywhere she had ever lived, even if it had just been thrown together.
The next room down was a bathroom made nearly entirely of marble. Chutes of bamboo sprouted from a vase in the corner of the room, and candles lined the counter opposite the enormous tub and shower. Ophelia cracked a smile. She couldn't imagine the esteemed Hannibal Lecter lighting candles and taking a bubble bath. Perhaps this was also something that had been thrown together at the last second in anticipation of her arrival.
The only other room in the dark hallway was locked. The door was larger, darker, and much heavier-looking than the door to her room and the door to the bathroom. The handle looked as if it could be made of solid gold, and it smelled of fine finish. Perhaps this was Hannibal's room. Ophelia jiggled the handle a few times, but was immediately distracted by the smell of cooking meat and spices. She hurried down the stairs, the locked room all but forgotten.
To the strains of Bach's Goldberg Variations, Hannibal sprinkled some garnish onto a plate of steaming, juicy meat. Along with an offering of fried tomatoes and onions, the meat was gently simmering in a wine stock that pooled at the center of the plate on which it rested. Ophelia was taken aback for a moment; in such a short time, Hannibal had created dish only seen, and smelled, at gourmet restaurants.
"I'm impressed," Ophelia took in the smell of the meat as Hannibal slid a plate toward her, "Looks fantastic."
"I'm very careful about what I put in my body," Hannibal gestured for Ophelia to follow him into the dining room, "which means I end up preparing all of my own meals. It's turned into somewhat of a passion."
Ophelia took a bite immediately after being seated beside Hannibal at the table, "It's delicious. Thank you."
"My pleasure," Hannibal nodded, "I would like to apologize for the analytical ambush that you had to endure earlier today. But I know that I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that. So perhaps I should consider using my apologies sparingly."
Ophelia laughed, her mouth full of the decadent food.
"Or perhaps," Hannibal took a sip of wine, "we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friends."
"You wouldn't find me interesting, I'm afraid," Ophelia shrugged her head, only halfway joking.
"On the contrary. I'm quite a patron of the fine arts, something you are familiar with."
Ophelia snorted, "At the moment, all I'm familiar with is Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford."
"Dr. Bloom is the exception to the personality-deficients I mentioned earlier," Hannibal smiled, "I mentored her for quite some time, but I certainly learned as much from her as she did from me. But Jack Crawford... We see in different ways. That's all."
Ophelia sat in silence for a moment, staring at her plate, but not eating. She was deep in thought, clearly, her mouth twisting into a frown and her brow furrowing.
"Eat your dinner," Hannibal prompted, and she obeyed, still lost in thought.
Ophelia's eyes fell on a swatch of purple beaded fabric wadded into a ball on the chair opposite her. It looked like a scarf.
"What's that?" Ophelia pointed to it with her fork, a droplet of sauce falling from the tip.
Hannibal leaned calmly across the table and grabbed the scarf, "A friend's. Must have left it here a long time ago." Without another word, he got up from the table and took the scarf out of the room. She heard his feet clunking up the stairs, and the sound of a locking being turned. Within moments, he had returned, without the scarf.
"So," Ophelia leaned back in her chair, pleasantly full, "Why am I here?"
"Evolution," Hannibal cracked a smile.
Ophelia laughed, "Ok, yeah, but why am I here? At your house? Are you going to psychoanalyze me again?"
"No," he shook his head, "You are here because Alana Bloom and I agree that there is more to your story that you should be allowed to tell. At your own pace."
"Okay," Ophelia nodded, "'More to my story'. That awfully dramatic, don't you think?"
"Nothing is too dramatic, I think, for this situation. What's truly dramatic is killing twenty girls within a period of ten minutes with a butcher knife."
"Yeah, that is pretty dramatic," Ophelia laughed, but her face had darkened.
"Tell me," Hannibal swirled what was left of his wine in his glass, "How have you remained calm?"
Ophelia shrugged, "I don't know, actually. I do know that killing is bad, and I know that I've done a terrible thing. But... somehow it feels like it was what I was supposed to do. Like I was filling some sort of contract with... whoever. I don't know. I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn't feel guilty about killing those girls. And I realize now that it was wrong in so many ways, but at the time... it felt good."
Hannibal hmph-ed, and stood, collecting Ophelia's empty plate and retreating to the kitchen to clean up. Ophelia followed silently, contemplating Hannibal's question. She watched him as he cleaned, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows and his broad shoulders hunched over the sink. What was it about Hannibal Lecter that she had been so keen to hide behind? Ophelia knew there had to be a reason, but watching him work in silence, she could not find it.
"Tomorrow," Hannibal looked up at her, "I will be at my office all day with patients. It will be a long ten hours of appointments, but you are more than welcome to come along. If you choose to stay here, you would be locked in the building, whereas if you do choose to accompany me I will allow you some freedoms around my office."
"I'd like to come with you," Ophelia nodded, grinning, "It'll be interesting, seeing how you work."
"It's not as thrilling as you may think," Hannibal laughed airily through his nose, "My job, however important, is a lot of sitting. And listening."
"I like sitting and listening," Ophelia made to help Hannibal with the dishes, but he gently shooed her away, "I'm pretty good at it, actually."
Hannibal shot her a small, almost unnoticeable grin, then nodded with approval, "Be ready to go at eight sharp. My patients don't enjoy waiting."
"Okay, yeah," Ophelia looked at the clock, "Eight o'clock." It was eleven. She could get a good night's sleep and still have time to shower in the morning. With a quick, and slightly awkward, goodnight to Hannibal she turned and hurried up the stairs. She changed out of her prison clothes as quickly as she could, eager to get the smell off of her skin.
She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching as goosebumps began to appear on her bare skin. She dug through her duffel and pulled on an old t-shirt that she had been given her first day at Chi Omega. It just barely smelled like her roommate's overbearing Chanel perfume. Ophelia wrinkled her nose at the smell, but resolved to ignore it. She would be under the covers, asleep, within minutes anyway.
After reluctantly slouching her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair, Ophelia burrowed far beneath the covers so that only a small bit of blonde was visible. The sheets smelled like Hannibal, and for the first time in a while, she felt comforted.
Ophelia woke in a cold sweat. She lay atop the sheets, her limbs splayed out, unable to move. Her head was held in place, facing the pitch black ceiling above her. The walls and floors seemed to swim around her, leaving the bed stranded.
The ceiling burst to life, loud industrial music blaring through unseen speakers. An octagonal matrix made of small triangles flashed and undulated, and at certain moments images could be seen within the matrix: first a bright white light shining in a dark cave, then a messily drawn diagram of human muscle, and then a beating heart.
"EVERYTHING CHANGES" flashed across the screen in enormous red letters, accompanied by the rhythmic pulsing of the music. Eight antique coins fell from the top of the image, and as they spun and rotated they transformed into scratched and warped CDs.
And then the screen was nothing but an enormous bloodshot eye. It seemed to bore into Ophelia's skin as she tried to struggle free of whatever was holding her. The eye began to quiver and shake, and then was pulled apart, morphing into a scene of a faceless man cooking in a dark kitchen. The man lifted the knife in his hand, as if offering what was stuck on its end to Ophelia. She tried desperately to look away as the same bloodshot eye stared at her again from the tip of the knife.
"THE DEVIL WILL FEAST ON THE SOULS OF THE WEAK." These words flashed and pulsed, alternating with the image of the man cooking silently, the eye still twirling and blinking on the end of the blade.
After that, the sequence of images became random, flashing across the screen with no real meaning. First, an energy-saving lightbulb melted and twisted until it came to resemble a yin-yang symbol. Then, a beating heart appeared onscreen, and then was ripped apart by a pair of rough hands, which then morphed again into feminine hands. A body grew from the hands, a small, slender body, whose features were obscured.
But then the female figure had a face. Wendy Jones, first floor of Chi Omega. Blood dripped from the corners of her lips. Then it was Kacey Sawyer, room 4B. Blood flowed steadily from a gash in her chest. Emily Dinklage, her favorite sweater blooming red. 2D. Annie DeGroot. Marie Hanso. Bea Klugh. Zoe, Sarah, Raymie. Soon, twenty female figures swam across the ceiling, their figures blurring into one. The single figure in the center of the screen held a butcher knife in her hands. And without warning, it leapt directly toward Ophelia.
"You're dreaming! Ophelia! Open your eyes!"
Hands clasped her shoulders and brushed across her forehead. Ophelia struck out at the dark silhouette hanging over her bed. She made contact with a jaw.
The lights in the room suddenly came on, and Ophelia found Hannibal leaning against the wall by the switch, his hand rubbing his jaw.
"Oh... crap. I am so, so sorry," Ophelia struggled out of bed. Her legs were tangled in the sheets.
"Not to worry," Hannibal shook his head and stood up straight, his silk pajamas and perfectly combed hair unfazed, "Night terror. Can't say as I blame you."
Ophelia glanced at the clock. Three o'clock. She felt her face reddening as she hung her head, "Did I wake you up?"
"No," Hannibal assured her, "I was having trouble sleeping anyway. Thought I would make myself some tea to help myself along. Would you care for some?"
"Sure, thanks," Ophelia nodded, still feeling rather sheepish. She straightened her sleeping shirt and cotton shorts and padded after Hannibal down the dark hallway. As he did not turn on any lights, Ophelia had to feel her way along behind him until they reached the kitchen.
"May I ask what you were dreaming about?" Hannibal watched Ophelia in the dim light that he had flicked on as he brought a pot of water to a boil.
"It was just surreal," Ophelia ran a hand through her hair, "At first it was just a bunch of random, morbid... gross stuff, but then it got real and terrifying and all the girls at Chi Omega... they were dying right there in front of me. It was the first time I really looked at them and saw them with blood on them and then a black mass came right at me and..."
"Suppressed memories, perhaps," Hannibal nodded.
"Yeah, maybe," Ophelia sighed, leaning against the counter, "There was a lot of weird stuff about people being eaten, too. Like an eyeball on a knife and a heart being torn apart," she blanched and stared up at Hannibal, "Did I eat somebody?"
Hannibal laughed, a deep rich sound quite welcome to Ophelia's ears, "No, Ophelia, you did not eat your sorority sisters. Or anyone else for that matter. Your mind is just working on overload at the moment. It has the ability to manifest surprising things that often make no sense. Not to worry. You're safe in my hands."
Ophelia looked down at his hands as they worked, pouring tea out of a black kettle into small china glasses. It steamed and bubbled, the smell of mint and citrus wafting to the ceiling. They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea. Hannibal studied Ophelia's face. He watched as her eyes widened with subtle pleasure at the taste of the tea. She yawned and continued to drink, unaware of his eyes drinking her in.
"Eight o'clock," Hannibal reminded her, rising and starting toward the doorway.
"Right," Ophelia looked over her shoulder and watched him go, "Eight o'clock." Ophelia sat in solitary silence for a few more minutes. She sipped the tea slowly, taking the opportunity to really study the kitchen. The enormous refrigerator, with two wide doors and an entirely separate drawer for the freezer, took up the vast majority of the wall to her left. Beside it was a spice rack, on which most of the spices were labelled by hand. The countertops were dark marble, and were virtually empty, save a cutting board and a rack of knives. The sight of the knives made her stomach turn, so she took her tea into her hands and headed for her room.
A light flickered from beneath Hannibal's bedroom door. Ophelia stopped for a moment, watching the warm light flicker on and off again. She could her his voice, low and muffled, and the sound of paper being ruffled and flipped. She considered knocking; her hand was held poised and her knuckles ready to rap on the thick wood. But she decided against it. With a shake of her head and a toss of her hair, Ophelia retreated into her room. She slept soundly for the rest of the night.