hissing fauna, are you the destroyer?

    “S'great. Gotta point there doc.” Emphasis on the name, as if taunting him. “We should sit together sometime, you an’ I. Have a lil powwow. The shit I’ve done could rot your teeth. I’d even pay extra fer the therapy you’d need afterwards. ‘Cause I’m an outstanding individual like that.”

     He rolls his shoulders and readies himself for whats about to transpire, continuing to talk as he did so. “Hey, anyone whose sat through an extra however many hours’a school you did can’t be all bad. Mama always done tole me doctors were nice people,” His eyes rolled as he put on a thick Southern accent. “But y’know, gut feeling, doc—” 

    A step forward and he reached for the watch, body twisting as he saw the leg come up to kick him. It was sturdy enough, but Wade was faster. He grabbed Hannibal by the calf and yanked their bodies closer, effectively invading his space. Speaking low, he made sure to lean in to give full effect of his tactic. Violence, he muses, would be dandy but using himself as a self proclaimed weapon and simply existing would be more effective. [He thinks.] Its not a new tactic. Just rehashed and a different approach. 

   ”Somethin’ tells me yer not too nice. Help people, sure sure who wouldn’t. Good way to waste time. But like I said. Gut feeling.” His breath was foul and his lips curled back in a grin once more.  ”Decent is the word I’d use for all the reasons you listed. But y’know that. 

     He says nothing.

     His jaw is clenched in irate ire as he realizes his balance is, precariously, now dependent on the movement of his combatant; he figures he ought to start developing a way to cheat, because the victor can always rewrite history, and Doctor Hannibal Lecter has yet to tarnish his reputation by losing a fight to a back-alley derelict. 

    The situation is fetidly heinous; though dignified, elegant visage held high to the heavens even in such a compromising situation, he peers down his nose to see the few dislodged, wiry hairs straying from under Wade’s hood, the enlarged pores dusting his face like gaping maws struggling for breath in their heavy-wrought prisons and leathery ropes of wound flesh.  He, at this point, his infuriated that such a despicable person is touching him, and he decides that a death sentence is the only befitting verdict.  If he had, perhaps, just been after the watch, he’d paralyze him, leave it to God on whether or not he choke on his own bile or be saved by a later bystander coming to his rescue.  Desecrating the idol, however, is only to be remedied with blood.

     His momentum being abruptly jarred and stopped caused the watch to dislodge from his fingers and clatter onto the cement floor; somehow, behind his head, he can practically envision the delicate front growing cracks like creeping frost and tapering spiders’ silk, and he realizes he liked that watch a little more than anticipated.  When this is over, he shall have it repaired, and relegate it to display rather than active décor.

❝ There’s nothing to talk about.”

nothing of import weighs upon her mind. these sessions ( of which this is only her second, mind you ) were the impetus of her parents’ fears, a reality that has only mounted since the day they realized she was not like them. that their daughter was not theirs at all, but something entirely new. 

it’s in the way they watch her when they think she cannot see them, hidden by the wooden threshold of the kitchen as they slave away at her elaborate breakfast. wide eyes boring into the back of her skull like drills, burrowing in, attempting to break through the stoicism, to reclaim the mysteries swirling in gray matter. to reclaim the daughter they felt they’d lost.

well, let them try. the little girl they’d planned for died long ago, naught more than a midsummer night’s dream; a glamorous haze that hid the uncoming fog only temporarily. 

the distaste for therapy is evident in the way she bites off her sentences at the end, the way she swallows the irritation bubbling in her throat, smothering it beneath apathy. an hour. an entire hour here, in this chair, staring into the eyes of a man who is paid to judge and judge and judge what he could not possibly know. she does not like the way he looks at her, like a problem to be solved. like a puzzle with a piece out of place.

and so she stares. arctic blues shot through with black peer with extreme prejudice into that mirrored blank slate, skin so much darker than her own. he’s so…old. probably ancient. it’s quite possible his skin is made of leather. 

( she wonders what the sound of a riding crop on leather is. alas, these are thoughts for another time. )

a childish snort rises as she falls, slumping slightly in the chair, tugging lacy legs into her seat and sitting atop them, fingers idly picking at the hems of her socks. shrewd gaze flickers between him and the pink sassy cat watch wrapped loosely about her wrists. fifty-eight minutes left.

     He positions himself in a way to seem too intimidated to move, jaundice creeping into his deft fingers and paralyzing his graceful form: the persona is, however, exacerbated as a fissure slithers down its aperture, splitting the marble-cold and granite-strong. 

     It is crucial to communication, he reminds himself, to maintain her gaze.  He lets his lids fall shut, counts to three, and opens them again.  Her pupil hasn’t dilated, her iris hasn’t twitched, not an eyelash is out of place.  His smile turns a shade friendlier in response to her stagnant stigmata.

     "Why do you hate school?” he inquires.  “Your parents told me you have practically no academic difficulty and your workload is less than obstructive.  Is it the prospect of social interaction?  I’d rather not put words in your mouth, Mandy, but I’m aware of how laconic you can be.”  It’s truth in a gradient, a blushing median that could never be considered an outright lie but might force reality asunder; he would much rather coagulate a pearl from all her rotten, childish disgust and pry it free when he feels inclined, but there’s no sense in killing the goose that laid the golden egg.  He likes the sound of his own voice, pleasingly complimenting the oak undertones of his wooden furniture and swelling towards the vaulted ceiling like a sacrosanct sermon. 

     "What would you rather be doing with your time?”

    The stranger is everything that Wade stands against rolled into one package it seems but he continues to humor him. Violence against his pristine image would come. But for now he could make do with sarcastic eye rolls and baring his teeth in an animalistic display as the good doctor continued on. “I wouldn’t know, and I’d even venture ta say I really don’t care. But thats nice. Real nice. Germany, huh.” 

    It coats his words, makes them fall out like bitter, soggy pills he refused to swallow, that venomous distaste for people of his stature. The guy would be more tolerable if he didn’t act so tense, so tight. As if being human was some sort of chore.

    Wades snarling turned to grinning.

    “Wonder what kinda beastie you are. Place’s got all sortsa neat things lurking here. New things ta kill. But back to the topic at hand- ‘S the sentimentality of the thing. Kinda like rememberin’ someones name: means you care. Means you were actually listening when someone introduced you to them. Means you aren’t a complete lost hope. Like they took the time to remember your name, but do ya remember theirs?” 

         «Friendship: the ultimate guilt tactic!»                         [Maybe thats why we don’t do friends.]

    His head tilted in response at being flashed the watch, as Pavlovian as they came really; the hood keeping him shielded tilted and slid, putting more of his face on display. Jaundiced eyes bore into him from sunken, raw pits and his face was caught between a permanent grimace and current grin. He clicked his teeth at Hannibal. 

    “Not yet. Th’watch. You look like a decent enough guy. I’d hate for you to have to send me drycleanin’ bills ‘cause you had to be fussy.”

     He is very interesting.  He turns his wrist towards God in Heaven and works deft fingers on the strap, neatly unbuckling it.  “Who among man hasn’t committed a sin that they were too ashamed to atone for, done a deed most would consider despicable but have it overlooked due to ignorance?  You aren’t wrong: I’m a beast of the most sinister nature,” he remarks, good-hearted, pulling the watch free and trailing fingers across his previously covered skin, “and one trained in the arts of the human mind and all its shortcomings.  A psychiatrist.” 

     The watch’s H is deeply inscribed, but the crest forming the top of the L used to rest against his wrist’s jutting bone and has been worn and tarnished.  The preferred eyelet—the third, to be precise, out of the six—was widened due to its constant use, and there are minor scratches marring the surface of the glistening glass hiding the delicate innerworkings, cogs and guts of the timepiece.  Particularly appetizing and perched on a hook, he offers him his bait, holding the watch before him and smiling dully at his lack of reaction. 

     "Decent,” he mulls, “that’s a nice compliment.  Better than most—it’s got a certain edge of honesty, knowing that I could be much worse, but I somehow manage to scrape by and drag my weight over the edge: not bad, not great, somewhat good, somewhat askew.  Decent.  I’m honored,” he responds, deep voice thrumming with mockingly sincere appreciation.

such a serious face, this man has — the lines of his mouth are drawn tighter than catgut strings, jumping every so often via the tightening of his jaw, the long, sand paper swallowing of his throat. sweaty and fingers clenching and unclenching, hot and nervous, as if he’s fighting a particularly vicious impulse.

no, she corrects, azure gaze settling into his with that perception she’s always had but hannibal training, staring into the brown eyes that were once warm, that are now at once glassy and over-clear, like a picture drawn too suddenly into focus. he’s fighting something else. fighting for — control. control of himself.

❝ — He’s my therapist.”

and she says it so carefully, coloring it with that childlike sweetness that all adult men expect. she is perceptive, wicked smart — but this man’s intent evades her, tucked away behind the slate of his weathered features.

( she does not know why, but he is — striking, in the way that doctor lecter has always been. and that is as intimidating as it is novel, that in six words she feels as if this man is more than the ordinary. )

❝ Are you a — friend of his?”

she already knows the answer is no.

          ➵ "Th-This place is a m-m-maze—                                             I j-just need to find a l-l-library or s-something…”