Did I say he left? Hah! Well, he didn't! : P
In the darkness of the main landing Hannibal saw the shape of the mysterious door, the fingers of his left hand twitched involuntarily toward it. He grimaced as he walked over to the room he once saw Adelaide disappear into to fetch her cello, he knew to choose a better time to satisfy his curiosity but he wasn't keen on it. He was just scanning after all.
Hannibal turned the knob with all the patience in the world and slipped inside without a single sound. Satisfied that the closed door would keep the light secret, he searched in the dark for the switch on the wall near the door. He detected the heavy smell of turpentine in the air, accompanied more subtly by the trace of sweet incense.
He closed his eyes for a moment, the sudden light threatening to blind him.
The room was full, chaotic, colourful – overwhelming. The ceiling was high, the length of the entire house, lined with paintings of all shapes and sizes. He even spotted a few posters and photographs pinned up along the canvases. A tall ladder, splattered with paint, workbenches – with paint stains – a single barstool at a high table, not without a fair share of smears. He had no doubts, this was the artist's studio.
He counted two large black sculptures; they seemed to have been made from clay and then blackened by fire, judging by the smell of it. They stood at the far side of the room next to a low bench; the creatures were created a pair, two stags with their dark horns interlocked, and the bone seeming to have grown together in their timeless struggle. Their bodies were smooth and devoid of any rough textures, only light cracks webbed over their husks.
Hannibal stood for a moment, looking at the room from the door before he turned his attention to a random desk standing against the wall near him; there was an array of dirty brushes laid out on an old rag next to a drying canvas. The small tubes of oil paint looked like they were shaken from an empty jar now residing on the floor.
Only the colours of fire were moulded together on the surface of the painting and he found himself intrigued by the ferocity behind the image.
This must be one of her newer creations, not older than a few days. It wasn't much yet, but he could make out the outlines of what looked like a burning city.
Perhaps Rome, he mused and bent down for a closer look, his hands clasped behind his back.
Flames licked from the windows and doorframes of countless homes shaped from slack brown lines.
His trained eye caught on a glossy piece of paper, sticking from it's hiding place between the unruly pages of a folder underneath the dirty rag. It looked like it was meant to be stowed out of sight...
Hannibal plucked the tightly folded square out and inspected it. The paper was worn and thin, like it had been carried with someone for many years.
He started unfolding the flat parcel with great care.
It was a photograph... he paused... and frowned...
It was a bad photograph... heavy with movement and too little light.
But he could see what it was as clear as daylight.
The terrified face of a middle-aged man looked up at him, the eyes were wide, brows knotted and his mouth drew a perfect "o". His skin was slick with sweat running into his light beard and matting his white-blonde hair to his forehead. A blotch of colour stood out from the shadow obscuring his chin, but it looked like it could be blood. The picture was taken in his face, hastily, almost like an accidental shot...
But it must've been on purpose.
Hannibal had killed many men before; he'd seen their faces as they died - the shock writ over their features. This, this was a photo of a dying man, he'd bet his neck.
And Hannibal did not gamble.
He took a moment, drew a deep breath and slipped the flat parcel into his pocket as he turned off the light again.
He waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness before he slipped out just as he had come in.
So... what do you think? R&R (it means the world!)