𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐈𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

#001

      Today was exquisite. To complement the first time in five years I've regretfully conversed with Jezebel, I presented an exceptional dish for such a special occasion: Bistecca alla Fiorentina — and complete with a charming chianti. 

       It would be a foolish little lie if it didn't bring me oodles of joy seeing her standing strong, smiling, after all the years of suffering. I've met many marvelous minds, but never more mesmerizing. Her mind should be caged, corroded in cruelty, covered with cowardice, and certainly not carrying this composed confident countenance.

      The way she longingly looked at me at the market had also caught me by surprise. In some ways, it breaks my heart to see her so strong, staring at me like a long, lost father figure who abandoned her. If there was anyone I've failed, it was poor little Jezebel. I can't tell her how it's impacted me, my undying desire to correct my mistakes, but it seems her biggest fear is that I've forgotten her. 

      I'm ranting. Let's get back to my beautiful Bistecca. 

        For the best Bistecca alla Fiorentina, an aged porterhouse is required; simmered, and served rare. This young buck was an exceptional hunt, an aggressive and persistent animal worthy of the time spent slow-cure in my cellar. If only Jezebel knew how long I waited for this particular meal.

   Thyme, parsley, and green onions with equal parts olive oil set the base, and a splash of Chianti adds to a fantastic, fragrant flambé. To go a step further, a Tuscan pepper aioli served as the bedding for bacon-wrapped asparagus, as well as garlic and herb potatoes. 

—Dr. Hannibal Lecter

[𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣]

#002

  Today I've discovered dreadful sorrow, disguised beneath the blanket of sexual depravity. I do not know exactly where the root resides, only the clues my patient has given me… but I do have my suspicions.

   At first, it seemed she had a gift for the arts— a passion we both share. Sitting upon my lap, she showed me the scenes shadowing the darkest reaches of her young mind– a somewhat serene scribble of what at first seemed as the very last memories of her mother. Long flowing hair, almost down to the hip, covered by her arms in an uncomfortable, insecure pose like a model unwillingly capable of having her canvas captured. 

   “You miss your mother?” I remember mentioning, only to be reminded that there simply are no memories of her mother. The very woman she had drawn was her. It is who she sees in the mirror. At age eleven, this was a reflection of herself, with full exquisite breasts, and the heart-shaped hips of womanhood. I can still hear her quiet yet quaint ‘yes.’ haunting me as I inquired next: “Is this how you see yourself?” 

   What came next surely caught me by surprise. To better lean over and examine her work, I regretfully placed my hand upon her cold knee. As I did, I immediately felt the presence of hers overlaying mine in what I assumed was an act of defense. My assertion was soon proven wrong when she nuzzled harder into me– and for a small second– I felt both our hearts skip. 

   There was this smell; some sweet scent that can only be described as purity– or more pungently the fragrance of prepubescent pheromones. The aroma radiated off her like a coming fever, an intoxicating warmth that caused my blood to begin to boil. It masked the notes of vanilla, pomegranate, crocus, and white strawberry which I presumed was perfumed from her hair treatment that had me sauntering in a forbidden garden into a newfound forest better forgotten. 

   Before I could shake myself from the moment, I felt the crisp flesh radiate into the warmth of her inner thigh. It was running my fingers over the crest of a vat of acid, burning beautifully to the bone with temptation providing its terrorizing tingle. Her flesh felt soft, powdered, and like the delicate wings of a butterfly free from the confines of a cocoon. She grew warmer, greeted over the garter and the nylon frills that frayed over my numbed knuckles like razor blades. 

   Time slowed to a standstill. My hand felt as though it defied gravity, flowing against the current of a magnet before it broke away. Luckily, not a second before it was too late. 

  These are all the signs of sexual suffering. If there is one soul on this planet to be raptured from this hellfire I plan to unleash upon the earth, it will be my beloved little Bella. For we are all demons in the wake of Hell's brutal bloom, and I shall reign the promiser of pain, their very dreary doom.

—Dr. Hannibal Lecter

Edited September 1, 2023 by cruel.