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Black, swirling darkness poured into his mouth, into his entire being. It was all consuming, all encompassing. It tore into him and shaped him into something else. Something gaunt and horrific with antlers and sunken black pools for eyes. He breathed in fog and exhaled smoke. He felt a tightness in his chest that slowly ebbed into a numb silence.
The black pools opened as images flashed so suddenly that his mind had little chance to process them at all. Flash, a teacup shattered. Flash, the color of ripe eggplant and a small child's haunted laughter. Flash, a mongoose tearing into a snake. Flash, star-shaped hands grasping at his face. Flash, flesh tearing. Flash, blood pouring out of a broken mouth. Flash, milk teeth at the bottom of a bowl. Flash, red hair.
Black pools closed and maroon eyes opened. Hannibal was awake.
He woke as softly as if he'd had a proper eight hours of rest. No gasp of waking breath, no night sweats, no weary, tired eyes tinged with pink, no hair out of place. It was not a night terror, it was simply a dream. A night terror would imply fear. Hannibal did not experience fear.
He sat up, the rich satin sheets sliding down his chest. No light streamed in through the windows. It would be several hours more before the sun rose high enough in the sky to stream through the French windows. Sunrise was especially beautiful in his hotel suite at Hotel Le Meurice. He chose the suite specifically for its world class view of the Tuileries Garden. He'd occupied the room for two weeks now, his companion, Dr. Du Maurier slept in an accompanying room. He trusted her enough to have her own space.
This of course did not mean that Hannibal was gullible or ignorant. He was well aware of how and why Bedelia had decided to join him. She found him curious and wholly unique. What better way to observe her subject in his natural state than by joining him of her own free will? She wished to watch him, learn more about him, and perhaps, when this ended as it most assuredly would, get out with her life. He had yet to make up his mind about whether or not she would live. She had as equal a chance as anyone that crossed his path. If she kept his privacy, if she remained courteous and if she never positioned herself as a threat to his freedom, she would be more than welcome to retain the rest of her natural life.
Hannibal rose from the lavish king bed and glanced around the room. It was pitch dark, or would be for most, but Hannibal's senses were heightened above that of the average man. He was more than just a bloodhound after all and had learned to see with his ears, with his nose, with his skin. He navigated the room as gracefully as he would if every single light was turned on.
He sat down at the table in the kitchen. He knew that atop the counter was the familiar elegant yellow box trimmed with brown from his favorite Paris caterer, Fauchon. Tied with two ribbons of silk gauze, the box contained truffled pate de foie gras and Antolian figs, ripe from the stem. It was perhaps, in Dr. Lecter's esteemed opinion, one of the most delectable and aromatic dishes one could find on this earth and one he'd longed for in his years in Baltimore. He had of course prepared foie gras at home, even accompanied with fresh figs but it was not the same as in Paris.
He couldn't eat it. Even though the smell had penetrated the box and filled the area surrounding him. Even though he had quite longed for the dish, and it was near the top of his list of things to do during his stay in France. He had found that his appetite was gone, much as it had been for these last two weeks. He ran his finger over the silk ribbon and stood, deciding to take a shower instead.
He entered the large en suite bathroom, decorated floor to ceiling in extravagant Italian marble. A large oval soak tub dominated the center of the room, opposite a large double vanity with six foot tall mirrors. A marble shower with jets and a a full marble toilet with heated seat to the right. It was the perfect bathroom to lounge in. When he had first checked in, the hotel had even provided a complimentary bottle of Montrachet in an ice bucket on a silver tray beside the tub for such an occasion. Hannibal had drank the bottle and forgone the soak.
He opted for the shower today. Standing in the center, beneath the rainfall shower head, he closed his eyes and let the almost too hot water beat against his back. Black liquid poured out of the shower, falling over his skin, sliding in a thick slick down his back, across his stomach, down his thighs, covering his feet. In a few seconds his body was covered, his chest tight with constriction. Black pools and sunken skin, protruding ribs, antlers tearing out of his skull.
Hannibal turned the shower off and grabbed for one of the towels, wiping away the water from his body and hair. He wiped the last of the water from his face and opened his eyes, meeting his own maroon gaze in the bathroom vanity.
It was the first time he'd seen himself nude in over a month. The first time he'd seen himself nude since the attack by Matthew Brown. Since then he'd rarely been completely naked. He'd taken to keeping his sleeves down unless absolutely necessary. And he'd kept the lights dim those nights he'd spent with Alana.
There was no fabric and no darkness to hide them now. Two harsh red lines took up most of his forearm. A garish mark on a canvas of flesh. He ran his finger over the scar on his right forearm, feeling the thick, gnarled flesh of the old wound. He didn't consider the scar to be Mr.. Brown's. In fact, the young man barely crossed his mind after watching him get shot by Jack during the quite absurd rescue mission. To Hannibal, this scar was Will Graham's alone. Mr.. Brown was merely a tool, and not a very good one at that. He was a blunt, dull knife hitting brick where only a sharpened sword would pierce.
It was not the first time he had been cut. He was cut many times as a boy in the orphanage. Shivs made from sharpened rocks, bits of stolen cutlery from the kitchen, anything the other boys could get their hands on had been used to pierce and break his skin. He was different and therefore he must be hurt. That was the simple logic so prevalent in the minds of little boys, regardless of heritage or cultural background. Hannibal was rail thin, lanky, mute and came from wealth, the perfect victim. The perfect victim until he bit through a boy's cheek and spat the flesh in his face. His red smeared smile never faded, even as they dragged him to the barn to beat him bruised and bloody.
After the final stabbing in the orphanage, Hannibal had made a promise to himself that no one would ever pierce his skin again. He spent many nights in his room in his Uncle Robertus's chateau, cutting into his hand with any sharp metal he could lay his hands on throughout the day. It was not suicidal thoughts that drove him to carve into his skin. It was control. He had never felt so in control of his own life and body as he had when he first shoved the stolen steak knife into the meat of his palm. He smiled watching the rich blood pour from his skin and onto the wooden floor. He didn't feel pain, he felt quiet. He felt strong. He felt unbreakable. Small white lines that littered the skin of his hands and wrists, faded as the years had passed, sealed the promise into his flesh.
He supposed he'd broken that promise to himself now. He had bled many times in the last several weeks, and not by his own hand.
His finger moved from his inner forearm to his neck, tracing a red line from just below his left ear, halfway across his throat. The angry red mark from where the rope dug into his skin. He could still feel the tight burn of the rope, squeezing the air out of his lungs, choking, tearing flesh. His finger moved across to his adam's apple where a faint white line remained, only visible if one knew where to look and in the right light.
Flash, cold steel tight around his throat. Flash, cackling laughter and salty tears. Flash, feeding moistened bread to her from his own mouth. Flash, singing. Flash, milk teeth in a bowl. Flash, miles and miles of snow covered woods. Flash, hunger so vicious and aching that he could barely stand. Flash, the snap of chains and the tearing of his flesh until the soldiers realized that the metal collar had sealed itself to his skin with layers of dirt and blood and sweat.
He closed his eyes but continued to explore his flesh, layers and layers of scars, raised skin across his back from whips with wet leather lashing his skin till it bled. Scars across his thighs and calves, more lashes, more broken flesh.
Black swirling darkness, the dull ache of loneliness followed by numbness. Flash, star-shaped hands. Flash, tear filled blue eyes. Flash, blonde soft locks. Flash, brown pigtails. Flash, brown curls soaked with sweat and drenched in fear. All cut from his life, cut from his flesh as real and as raw and as deep as the harshest, most gaping wound.
He splashed water on his face and lifted his head, gazing at his reflection in the mirror again. There was a reason he had chosen Paris as his first stop after his sudden departure from America. It was not because he had family here, though he did plan to visit the chateau in Étampes and spend a week or more with his Uncle and Aunt. It wasn't the time for it, not yet. Lady Murasaki was incredibly adept at reading others and she would register something was wrong.
He had chosen Paris because it was the place where he had built himself the last time. He had killed himself and been reborn as a new being. Stronger, smarter, more guarded. He became Hannibal Lecter, MD, culinarian, talented surgeon, renowned psychiatrist, FBI consultant, Chesapeake Ripper.
It was a good life, one he had cherished in the twenty years it had served him. It's time had come to an end. He had to tear his life apart, brick by brick, inch by inch, dust to dust. He must kill himself in order to survive.
He didn't blink as he stared at himself, maroon eyes hardening as his mind shifted. He was becoming something new. He was adapting. His memory palace shifted to accommodate this new self as well as storing chosen memories from the old. He raised his walls tenfold, stone lifting to blot out the sun, protecting the palace from all threats. He shed the person suit and donned a suit of armor. He had allowed someone in and he had been betrayed. He was not going to make the same mistake twice.
He continued to build and fortify his palace long past sunrise. He clutched the Italian marble, eyes still open and glazed over as he built. It was an impressive defense, but it was perhaps too late. Hannibal knew, deep down, deep in the depths of his palace, locked away in newly constructed rooms of dark wood and red flames, stainless kitchens and quiet streams, that he could not wash away the scars that remained. The scars that marred his flesh and would always serve to remind him of the past, the cold truths, the dark and violent end. This had happened. Someone had burrowed their way deep inside and used him. Used and manipulated and betrayed. They had tried to take away his life, his freedom.
He continued to fortify the walls, reinforce his armor. He would become impenetrable. He had been broken before and he adapted with each life. He would come out of this stronger, smarter, more in control.
Flash, maroon. Flash, stone. Flash, steel.
He would survive. Survival was all he had.