Chapter Text
This is what I was born for. This is what I have worked and slaved to do. This is my design.
Then why can’t I act on my fantasies? The thoughts that have been plaguing me since I was sent to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane since I’ve gotten out of that hell as well, the thought and idea of killing Hannibal Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper and the Psychiatrist I have trusted my mind and secrets with for what seems like an eternity.
Even as he lays motionless below me, unaware of my presence with a knife in my hands I cannot bring myself to kill him. Something in my heart, or is it my mind? Is keeping me from gutting him like his victims, giving them that righteous feeling, that justice has been served. I want to give them that relief that the rest of their loves one will be safe and that their deaths were not in vain.
Yet, I cannot. The knife from Hannibal’s kitchen is in the tight grip of my hand. The silver polished and sharp point close to the beating heart of my enemy, all it would take would be one push and the silver end would be covered in ruby, rather than the clean silver that Hannibal took so much care in keeping that way. His home was always so clinically clean.
The man was sound asleep right now, looking so incredibly peaceful, almost angelic despite how devilish he was when he was awake. The silk sheets pulled around him in a soft black cocoon, how could I dream of harming this man? He looked so much more human in his mussed stayed, the complicated suits no longer there to hide him, and his normally slicked back hair a mess on his head.
“I’m sorry.” I apologized to my sleeping Psychiatrist, lowering my hand that gripped onto the knife and moving it to the bedside table. I knew that the man was always irked by untidiness, he would also know who held the knife on this night, and there would be no secrets between us. I want to see how he would react at my next appointment, or maybe even our next shared dinner. The very thought of that brought a small smile to my face.
I slid the knife into place upon the bedside table and removed myself from his bedroom, of course not without one last look upon the sleeping devil, who seemed so angelic to me right now. I gulped down the emotion threatening to bubble up and closed the door to his bedroom behind me silently.
My job was not finished, will it ever be? I’ve been given so many chances to kill him, yet with each chance I cannot bring myself to do it. Will my fantasies ever come true? Or will they remain in my dreams, and shared during long conversations with Hannibal during my appointments?
There is no point in dwelling on it, so I took my leave, shrugging my coat back on and went back to my beloved home.
This was certainly not, part of my design.