#pounds table

        It comes in silence and in whisper, sudden and sweet, tacked upon the farewells and societal niceties of camaraderie. He’s bid goodbye to an acquaintance in the moments preceding, turned away from them, stepped beyond the frail border of “company” into that of “loneliness”.

        It comes with the memory of a certain MAN, drenched in white coat and traumatic memory bidden on his own merits, a dedication that had led him down into a dark, DARK alley, and further down, FURTHER DOWN, into a pulped mess of punishment for the nooks and crannies of Florence’s brickwork.

        It comes with a burst of sudden intimate sound and an impactful burst of blood, the distance and its POWER sending the projectile through and through, leaving behind its negative space in the cloth of his shoulder. His collarbone. It turns him with its power and sudden arrival, takes his legs and shatters their sturdy resolve, but for the wall of the BAKERY he can stumble against would clatter to the ground.

        That is the way to do it. THAT IS THE WAY. From a distance, as a surprise, a launch of assault too far away to STOP. But the failure comes in one of two realities: the choice to stop at injury (YOU SHOULD HAVE KILLED HIM), or lack of skill with so long a range. Either one provides him OPPORTUNITY, and as the scant number of people around him lift their voices in shock and panic, scurry away together for shelter from a HIDDEN GUNMAN, Hannibal chooses to melt against the curve of the building, the edge, and disappear from open view down the shadowed space of the next street.

FUCKING FUCKING SHIT FUCK.

The words were so loud in his head he might have screamed them. His target was idle for but a few seconds, and at the very moment he squeezed the rifle’s trigger, the man had started up again. The bullet penetrated his shoulder instead of his skull---a debilitating blow but not nearly enough to kill him. Panic shot through Zeller’s brain like a jolt of electricity. As quick as he could, he released the empty shell from the chamber and loaded the next, then moved his scope over where the doctor braced himself against the wall.

The brick near Lecter’s face exploded, sending shards and dust everywhere, and Zeller swore aloud this time. Before he could eve load the next round, the doctor had disappeared behind the corner. “SHIT!” Zeller reared to his feet, wincing at the one knee that had been dislocated from Lecter’s beating a week earlier. Abandoning the rifle on the landing, he scaled down the fire escape, ignoring the painful protests from his battered body.

Lecter was not getting away, not AGAIN.

He leaped the last fifteen feet to the ground instead of bothering with the ladder. BIG MISTAKE. His one knee gave out and he fell hard into the pavement, the force giving reminder to all his other injuries. Releasing a shuddering hiss, he pulled his agonized body from the ground and started running toward the corner where Lecter had slipped away. His handgun patted heavily against his side from the inside pocket of his coat. The police would be here any moment; he had to be quick.