𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡

The depth of her gaze was enough to disarm and leave most squandering. Like submerging a hand into brackish water, uncertain of what lurked beneath, it proved a fool’s errand for the imprudent and the key to transcendence for those who sought immortality. But to Hannibal, those silver-blue irises were significant in a different way, often serving as the fertile soil in which he sowed seeds of doubt. A place where he governed the effects of her madness in a peculiar stroke of luck: Immunity. The realization that he had a gift of his own—that he could face her demons without risk of mental catastrophe—came early on when Dr. Lecter eased her into maintaining eye contact, telling her it was okay to explore her interests. And that peering into the windows of her soul allowed him to ‘fix what was broken.' That was the first time she’d ever felt seen and heard, reminded of it by the way his eyes now captured hers. Reality plucked the threads of Jezebel's consciousness, coaxing her out of her trance as Hannibal flashed a grin and drifted from one side of the table to the other. Much like the influence of his gaze, his voice played the role of Puppeteer–veering her emotions in one direction and then another. High and low, left, right, and upside down. At which rate, the poor girl couldn't tell which way she was facing, let alone determine where her dizziness originated. So silently, she watched as Hannibal sifted through his collection for a particular record, and the moment he turned, her upper body lurched forward. Barbs jabbed the more she leaned, pulled, and twisted, threatening to puncture delicate layers of flesh. Tugging at the restraints was taxing, but with increasing desperation, the efforts paid off. Even the physical discomfort didn't seem to register, granting her the opportunity she needed until, with a slip of the wrist, she was one step closer to freedom. Before she could work her other arm loose, however, another familiar melody serenaded. This one far more sentimental, provoking a vivid recollection of events that transformed the entire room. The paint began to recede, exposing a different color underneath. The ceiling rose higher, revealing a beautiful display of embellished architecture, and the dining room stretched into a larger, more comfortable space. Furniture faded, replaced by fittings, decor, and other paraphernalia one might expect to encounter in a private study. Beethoven’s “Violin Romance” transitioned from one setting to another–to a time of innocence and bliss, narrated and reenacted with disturbing accuracy. Jezebel’s eyes trailed after a younger version of herself as she was swept away on Lecter's feet, their dance enlivened by joyous giggles and suppressed laughs. Merriment painted their expressions in a kaleidoscopic array of vitality as the pair set themselves adrift. A step here, another there… all precise movements to match the fluidity of each violin riff as Dr. Lecter held small hands within his carefully trained grasp. The current Jezebel, the one bound to a chair, reached for them as pain and longing dampened pale lashes. And when the little girl turned to look, fear overshadowing her doll-like features, her eyes went straight through. Unseeing and unaware. Abruptly, the scene flashed to another—a similar screenplay of the previous one playing like a live cinema. She couldn't have been any older than eleven this time. Huddled against Dr. Lecter's side, wearing her hand-knitted vintage dress and little black shoes, the same panic from before seeped across her features. Father Gabriel stood at the entrance to the study, irate and disgruntled. His mouth opened to speak, but it was Hannibal's voice that cut through the fabric of her recollection, piercing her psyche in a fashion that mimicked the priest’s. "The calm before the storm before your father would push through the chamber door and remind you, you are just a child." Unable to handle additional injury to her clouded mind, Jezebel whimpered, banishing the memories like they were malevolent spirits. He was breaking her, over and over again, and all she could do was revert to that same girl who used to cower beneath the blanket when monsters appeared in the closet. For an indiscernible amount of time, that’s how she stayed, head bowed and eyes shut tight. Her shoulders quivered, each drawn upward with a tenseness that, no doubt, made her vulnerable. Not simply because she appeared so, but because she knew Hannibal was watching. A gentle clang rang in her ears, metal against metal, as the scent of seasoned, smoked flesh wafted throughout the dining area. The new smell hadn’t initially garnered her attention, but when it finally did, the room grew deathly still. One second passed. Then another. And another… All while she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. It’s an interesting thing to ponder, isn’t it? How people think they’d act in circumstances like these. One might consider Jezebel foolish to have gotten herself into this situation in the first place, yawning on and on about the course of action they’d take—why they wouldn’t do this, why they wouldn’t do that. But, truth is, no one knows the choices they’d make until they were face-to-face with the lion’s den. Not even Jezebel, herself. So when time slammed to a halt and adrenaline clouded her judgment, the stage was set. With one kick, Hannibal’s guest sent her chair thrown backward, the impact splintering wood and sending debris skirting across the floor like shrapnel. It was enough to knock the air from her lungs, though only for a fraction of a second before the next impulse backfired. Amidst her terror and without forethought, she yanked her left wrist free, shredding skin and exposing tendons in a mess of pulpy, red tissue. Blood gushed, cascading down her forearm, and with it, white-hot agony. The scream, the shrill cry that followed, quickly turned guttural as Jezebel bit back her tongue and forced focus on the nearest escape route. With self-preservation on the forefront of her mind, she maneuvered off of the chair, onto her side, and drove it away with her foot, knocking the piece of furniture against a table leg. Silverware rattled—forks, knives and other cutlery all falling within proximity of her reach. A perfect recipe for the perfect disaster.

"...Will it hurt…?" "No, my dear. Now close your eyes and imagine something pleasant. Perhaps the contentment of biting into ripened fruit? You know that feeling, don't you? The tasteful delicacy? Revisit that. And before you know what's happening… it'll all be over." Stationed at one end of an oblong table was a peculiar sight. A damsel in distress, imprisoned and propped up for presentation. Head loose on the shoulders and wrists fastened to the armrests by twine and barbed wire, she appeared frozen in time. Her gown was formal—champagne, slim-skirted and half-sleeved in sheer, floral fabric with an illusion neckline to accentuate virtue. The appliqué patterns swept across her bosom, creeping upward before ceasing at the midpoint of her neck in a tantalizing display. Even her hair, which would—on normal occasion—kiss the backs of her elbows, held a degree of sophistication. Excluding the bangs, it cleared her face, each wavy strand pinned back in a braided halo—a boho updo fit for classic tastes. As for who she was… well… The girl's name carried its fair share of stigmatized criticism. But to understand even a sliver of its past required patience and an open mind. Neither of which most possessed. For starters: Of the two most prominent figures in Jezebel's life, both were men. However, one withheld a deeper, more intimate bond than the other. Known as the famous Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the psychiatrist developed an interest in the priest’s daughter right around her sixth birthday. Father Gabriel, the second prominent figure, never expressed why that came to be the way it was, but more pieces fell into place as years progressed. And by the time she'd reached womanhood, it was apparent that Gabriel’s prize, a girl with pale skin, blue eyes and hair the color of pearl, wasn't the same as any average passerby. But, rather something far more extraordinary. For Jezebel, the awareness of being different haunted her. It unearthed an age during the earliest consultations with Dr. Hannibal and how frequently he’d pick her brain, trying to understand the subject in front of him. The memories of those days would often resurface. Sometimes during solitude and other times during supervised visits to her study. They lingered throughout Father Gabriel's sermons and reappeared as faces in dreams. Or as projected forms in her artwork where convoluted textures often masked the tragic meaning hidden beneath. A seemingly innocent layer of grandeur did well to disguise the ugly. And tonight was no exception. From the next room, high crescendos billowed in a familiar, classical melody. Its complex structure crackled over large speakers, weaving throughout the dining room in a mixture of dramatic and depressed notes. Loud enough to rouse Hannibal's new guest from the deathbed of her sleep. "F-f…ather?" cried the lass in a raspy, feeble voice, easily smothered by the rich background choir. It was all she could manage, earning her the attention of something ill-placed and unexpected. Jezebel couldn’t hear, let alone recognize the Host’s voice before his hand dipped below her chin to capture the saliva she hadn't realized was accumulating. The inappropriate gesture sent her nerves screaming in a fit of panic, begging to recoil. Nails–short, plain, and manicured–gnawed the wooden armrests. Her hips squirmed, bunching the fabric of her dress between her legs, and her arms tugged weakly, senses floundering. As her heart rate elevated, symptoms increased. Darkness teased the edges of her vision in wave after wave of drowsiness, but determination fought the assault in a desperate fight-or-flight response. Her limbs, however, didn’t have that same option. Lethargic, the weight of her head slumped against her captor's caress, battling the heaviness of exhaustion. Eyes lacking their usual luster reflected helplessness while her breath shuddered with a fear she had yet to comprehend. Though what proved more dreadful than that—more traumatizing than being trapped in a drug-induced body—was the level of betrayal upon realizing who had done this to her. Imagine something pleasant, urged the ghost of a memory. And before you know what's happening, it'll all be over.