Hannibal sat four rows from the stage, and only one empty seat away from the center of the row. He found himself bracing against the shrill soprano of the title character in Madama Butterfly, gripping his third empty champagne flute so tightly that it teetered on the brink of shattering. On his left, the usual opera-goer crowd sat, enraptured, wrapped in furs and dripping diamonds. Normally their extravagance entertained Hannibal; they were as far from the banality he despised as one could reasonably reach. But the empty seat on his right left him cold; nothing could change the icy frown on his face.
He thought briefly of the flowers that were strewn haphazardly across the kitchen floor, and then of the pearl necklace that he had stuffed so unceremoniously into the top drawer of his bedside table. Surely the flowers had begun to wilt, laying there on the tile for so long without water. Hannibal did not care for the fate of the flowers, though, nor did he care for the state of the fine jewelry that his other acquaintances would have been so eager to get their paws on.
They had chided him for neglecting to prepare them a feast for them as he so often did. But the more they chided him, the more he longed to make a feast out of one of them. Childish, sulking thoughts they were, but Hannibal knew that he had no one to please, no one to keep up his cool, collected pretense for. He would return home, remove his shoes, and spend the majority of the night at the bottom of a bottle of red.
When the final ballad ended, and Madame Butterfly drew her last breath, Hannibal did not stand as quickly as he would have under different circumstances. As the rest of the audience rose to applaud, he glanced down at the empty seat beside him, slowly and deliberately.
He pictured her small body there; perhaps she would have worn blue as she had before. Her hair would have shone in golden waves, and by now her hands would be clapping wildly, tears stinging her eyes and rapture glowing in her cheeks. But Hannibal merely stared into empty space. It was a tragic void in the midst of such a brightly gleaming crowd.
The terribly rude teenager that Will had thought to hire to watch the dogs had been so unintelligent and uninterested in Hannibal's presence, it nearly gave him a migraine. What little information he was able to glean from the girl had been punctuated by eye rolls, sighs, and the popping of spearmint gum. The only thing that kept Hannibal from killing the insolent little brat was the thought of how sad Ophelia would be upon finding that the dogs had starved to death in her absence. Under other circumstances, Hannibal would have been indifferent.
Instead of slitting the girl's throat and watching her bleed, he had crumpled his offering of roses and pearls and thrown them into the back seat of his car, barely looking at them long enough to dispose of them once he arrived at his home. He hated himself for waiting as long as he had to call on Ophelia again. The sitter had drolly informed Hannibal that Ophelia and Will had simply picked up and left for an impromptu getaway three days before. The day following her episode.
Hannibal could not help but wonder if perhaps Will had taken advantage of her weak vulnerability, filling her head with perversions and half-truths. He stood, disguising his desire to bash in a skull with fierce clapping. His small entourage all shot him sideways glances, barely noting his odd humor.
All save Wyatt, the greasy entrepreneur who had so obviously thrown himself all over poor Ophelia when they had first met. He stood directly to Hannibal's left, watching his face dissolve into a gloomy frown.
He elbowed Hannibal and hissed into his ear above the continued sound of clapping, "She seemed below your league anyway, Hannibal. You know how girls like her are."
"Girls like her?" Hannibal snapped, "Tell me. How are they?"
Wyatt was taken aback for a moment, "Well... you know. Snooty little sly bimbo bitches who take what they want and then disappear, no matter how nicely you treat them or do them up. When'd she leave, anyway?" The smell of his aftershave was unbearably strong. A trace was left behind in the air around Hannibal. He could smell it mingling with the strong tones of whiskey and craft beer. Wyatt seemed to always smell of these things. It was a wonder how a man so oblivious to social function could convince himself that he possessed the right to make such egregious comments about other human beings.
Hannibal's jaw ground, popping and clicking, "This is hardly the time or the place to be discussing my relationship with Ophelia, Wyatt, though I appreciate the concern." It was a blatant lie. He did not appreciate the dim little man's concern; in fact, he had never been fond of Wyatt and his ever so obvious, and failing, attempts to weasel his way into their tightly knit group. Hannibal could not stand him for much longer, especially if he were to continue to speak so negatively of Ophelia.
The scent of a struggling liver was strong on Wyatt. Hannibal would not hint at it, though. He did not deserve the warning. He deserved to suffer for the way he had mistreated his body. It would be intriguing to watch him deteriorate.
Sadly, though, Hannibal did not have the patience. He yearned to see the rude little man's life come to an abrupt end.
"Actually," Hannibal turned to him as they began to shuffle out of their row of seats, "I feel it would do me some good to discuss it with such a friend as yourself. Why don't you accompany me back to my home for a few drinks?"
Wyatt's face pulled into a beady-eyed grin, "I would want nothing more, my good man." He then proceeded to babble on about the most trivial things, to which Hannibal did not listen. From the theatre to Hannibal's front door, Wyatt talked, and talked, and talked. Hannibal was quite proud of himself for not murdering him outright then and there.
He considered how he would do it. Suffocation was easiest, and required by far the least cleanup. He could always stick to the classic knife-throat or knife-chest, but he was not in the mood to clean gallons of blood from his pristine wooden floors. There was poison; he had no aversion to tainting liquid. It was food he would not stand to see made unclean. Strangulation and beating were also quite plausible and also quite a stress reliever. Endless possibilities awaited Hannibal just beyond his foyer, and it had been far too long since his last tryst. In fact, he had not killed since Ophelia's disappearance. But her presence had given him renewed vigor as well as a fresh bout of ravenous insatiability.
As he poured Wyatt a drink, a sense of calm washed over him as he made a series of decisions. A mask of pure tranquility settled over his face. Hannibal was in his stride, and it had been missed dearly.
In his mind, he pictured a slab of meat simmering in a pan along with a wide array of savory vegetables and a drizzle of dark, delicious herbed sauce. His mouth watered, but he waited, taking a sip of his drink and watching as Wyatt tossed his back quickly. Through deep swallows, the man waxed false philosophic.
He would not be missed by anyone.
In one swift motion, Hannibal latched his hand onto the back of Wyatt's neck and slammed his head down onto the table, directly atop his glass, which shattered, splintering into his face. He was knocked unconscious immediately, and Hannibal wasted no time. With some effort, he dragged the plump man's body into the kitchen, ignoring his unconscious groans. For the slightest of moments, he looked down at his old comrade's face, bloodied and torn to shreds by the pieces of glass that had wedged themselves deep within the pudgy skin. Hannibal felt no sadness or remorse; he never did. In fact, in this case he felt a strange, refreshing sense of relief, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from atop his shoulders. He would be glad to be rid of this man.
It was almost an erotic feeling, ending a life in honor of another. Hannibal imagined what the old Ophelia would have felt if she had knows that he had defended her honor. Her cheeks would flood with color. Her fingers would clench as her stomach would proceed to twist into knots. Hannibal, with Wyatt's blood on his hands, would trail his fingers across her quivering collarbone. Her lips would part and an involuntary gasp would escape her lips. And then...
Hannibal was snapped from his brief daydream. He had slipped in and out of similar visions quite frequently lately. But he knew there were much more pressing matters at hand; namely, the fat man bleeding out on his kitchen floor. His blood blossomed out like the wilted flowers on the tile next to him.
With a hard exhale, Hannibal rolled his sleeves up above his elbows and bent down so that his face was level with Wyatt's. He pictured himself as the Angel of Death, with great, fantastic black wings spreading overhead and shielding them from God's watchful eyes. And with the kiss of death, the Angel would claim another soul.
"What shall I do with you, then?" Hannibal hissed, "Your heart is far too black to consume; I don't prefer my meat charred. Or too fatty for that matter." He thought for a while, twisting a piece of glass back and forth in Wyatt's cheek, "Ah! I know where you belong," Hannibal cast a glance over his shoulder at the dark window that peered out into the backyard, "My vegetable garden is in need of fertilizer, Wyatt. Usually I would prefer horse shit, but I suppose I have the next best thing."
And within the span of a single breath, Hannibal pulled the largest of the glass shards from Wyatt's face and slashed his neck with it. He watched with great serenity as the man's life left his body through the gash in his throat. With a flick of his forefinger, he wiped a speck of blood from his jacket.
Hannibal stood, quite bored with the spluttering beneath him. All his mind could focus on now was the gift he would begin preparing for Ophelia within the week. A basket of freshly fertilized vegetables and a note from Hannibal would surely set her mind on him again.
It would have to. Hannibal could not be patient much longer.