𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣

There was so much to behold in the wake of her silence. He searched the beautifully blue-tinted windows, peering into her soul. The traces of her tranquility turned terror were evident the moment those dark, dilated pupils shifted from drug-induced pins to stretched saucers. “I know, Jezebel. You feel betrayed, don't you? It truly pains me to see that disapproving look on your face.” Lips tightened into a thin frown. He lifted his hand to hover beside his belt. “Even when you were a small child I found that glare gutting.” Words are a weapon. As Hannibal would say, they were alive. They not only have souls but character and personality. There was meaning, intent, even the subtle silence when he paused to allow them to bask in her beautiful brain. He was choosing them carefully, allowing them to take root before continuing: “I hope this doesn't mean we can't still be friends. As you and I both very well know, I have quite a fondness for you…” He presented his most grimacing grin. “A rather hopelessly unhealthy obsession– I must confess.” Hannibal made his way around the dinner table, stopping short where Mozart's tempo thrummed. A finger lightly skirted the old chestnut of a vintage vinyl cabinet. He opened the clear face, pulling the needle off the track. Those careful digits plucked a new record from the sheath, the compositions of Beethoven. Violin Romance #2 began to softly serenade from the speakers. One hand lifted a single digit dancing to the gentle rise of the romantic riff. “There. That's better, now isn't it, Jezebel?” He turned, a grueling grin stretched wide. “If my recollection recalls, this is one that's been your favorite ever since you were a wee little thing. Why yes– I remember it now just like it was yesterday.’’ Dr. Lectar began painting a picture with his pose. His palms were waist-high, folded upwards in ballroom fashion. Those rutilant red orbs softly sealed, drifting to the requiem of lost, living dreams. Back to the days when she was six, those lithe little dainty digits resting upon his trained talons. It was so vivid that he could remember a particular dress, those shiny black dress shoes, and stockings as she stood on the ends of his toes. His feet started to sidestep, then twirl. “You remember–” His swaying slowly stopped, those familiar frightening eyes fixated on her. “Don't you, Jezebel?” It was a trap set by a skillful hunter. With the anesthesia, the careful wording, and the serenades of her favorite symphony, building up the blocks before abruptly changing course to her father. He knew it was a fresh nerve, raising his voice to match the pace and tempo of Father Gabriel when scolding her: “The calm before the storm before your father would push through the chamber door and remind you, you are just a child.” At the center of the dining room table sat a sterling silver platter, its contents unseen beneath a Victorian-age dome. Etched at the front facing her was the armorial crest – a red dragon – carefully crafted by a renowned English silversmith. His hand rested upon the fleur-de-lis handle, lifting the cover as steam flowed out, revealing the dish he had prepared. “Or was it something else?” He tested, licking his lips in suspense. Shivering to the scent of scorched, smoky skin. “Ahh, yes. I remember now. That you, my old friend, are nothing more than a demon.” Crystal eyes, caked in white, its once blue color cooked. The prominent pompadour hairline of a priest. It was a countenance cruelly captured in her cranium– that of a disapproving father. At times the man looked at her as if she were a witch, captured now for Dr. Lecter in his final, frightening moments. Dried lips wrapped around a Fuji apple, appearing like a ball gag to silence the words that could escape the dead.

Black was bold. A color befit for a king. It was always one's duty to dress their best for company. Hannibal Lecter could only hope that his guest for the evening would find it favorable, with scarlet-stitched pinstriping accentuating the charcoal checkered print he picked for his undershirt. Buttons made of mother-of-pearl lined down the center and at each carefully placed cuff. Topping off his three-piece of perfection was the tie, tucked flamboyantly with an array of coal, ivory, and ruby red jacquard weaves and vest to match. The mirror reflected the stern stare of self-reflection. One hand came up, capturing the hint of cologne wafting from his wrist with notes of nectarine and smoked cedar while prying his eyes. A single drop of saline solution softly struck his right eye, then the other, dismissing any signs of strains. He had unique eyes, or so his mother declared, but the sunburst of maroon needed a flawless white to compliment them adequately. Some found eye drops displeasing, even painful– though if there were a time discomfort never merited reward, he would have died satisfied long ago. For a man like Hannibal, one is never satisfied. Not for all the pain and punishment in the world. A preen of his blazer, a fresh comb to touch up, perfecting the part at his crown. Gel helped subdue the stubborn blonde strands, darkening them to his charming color choices. Hannibal hummed to the tune of Mozart's Requiem. The night he prepared most certainly called for the mood. Music was the melody for the wordless– so he told himself when turning on the faucet. All that was left was a fresh evening shave. Many men had high regard for disposable triple-bladed heads or electric ones. Hannibal, however, had a love of a straight razor. There was beauty in it, the craftsmanship of chrome so pristine and sharp it could strip the skin in open-heart surgery. It was a danger that gave him chills even to this day, at the age of fifty-five as it shaved along life's vital freeways in long, slow strokes. Fingers strolled the smoothness of his dampened flesh. He turned his cheek, checking for any imperfections. When there was nothing left to clean or critique, the madman smiled at his reflection. It was charming at first, growing more cheshire the longer he stared into his soul. Teeth peered beneath the blankets of smooth, soft lips, then lightly chomped. With a flip of a light switch, he was finished. “My sincere apologies, Jezebel.” Hannibal played plummy, somewhat strangled at first sight of her. “I hope I haven't kept you long. They say patience is a virtue. One I hope to see you through.” Devilish digits skirted the seams of his dinner jacket, preening perfect folds. Despite the black, the charcoal checkered print purred to life by a lick of candle fire. His complexion – cool and collected – coalesced a radiance of freshly lotioned shimmer. He smiled, that slow slither of a tempting snake. “Tell me, Jezebel–” Her name punched from his breath, strolling off his lips like steamy sex. A lovely name that could never tame his silver tongue. “How are we feeling this evening?” Hannibal slowly sauntered, this gentlemanly gait of a predator inching closer to its helpless prey. There was evil in his eyes, an eerie playfulness that'd send shivers down the most stoic of sadists' spines. His tongue trailed his lower lip, attempting not to bite the tender tissue in anticipation of the unquenchable appetite he shared. “Perhaps the Propofol was a bit too much to mix with Ketamine.” He exclaimed, drawing one hand to rest below her chin, clearing the slight shimmer of drool that dared escape. There was something exquisite in her somniferous eyes. Her head craned, administering the two black holes of Dracula's drug-like lovebite, strolling a thumb along the soft strawberry lumps. “I hope it has not interfered with your appetite.”

‘Are you coming or are you going?’

I'm no longer exclusive, so if you're still looking for this, let me know. ^^

Enjoying a Tennessee sunrise with a cup of coffee, black, no bells, no whistles, pure Columbian bean. My youngest daughter bought me a new coffee cup, too, when I took them to pick pumpkins to carve!