Eating Glass

Ch. 1

Hannibal Lecter had opened the door with a gracious: "Please come in," and offered the seat across from his own. It was out of politeness, as the chair had almost become as much a part of Will Graham as Hannibal had.

"It's getting harder."

"What is?"

"Looking — or seeing. I don't know what it means when it's a body."

"You mean to empathize with the killer, to see through their eyes."

Will sometimes resented Hannibal's pure invariability. "Yes," he said. "It's becoming...easier and more difficult. I feel as if I'm swimming into the deepest part of the ocean, holding my breath, but each time my lungs burn more and more until they" — he shifted — "...sear."

"Are you still fishing?"

"What?"

"A person who enjoys running water does not relish a stagnant life, yet you choose isolation. You have a gift, Will. Gifts do not come easy." The center of Hannibal's maroon eyes crackled, yet he retained a refined smoothness. "The Bauja tribe of Indonesia have free dived for so long that their spleens are twice the size of our own. They catch fish with nothing but a spear and their bodies. You talk of pain, but it is human adaptivity that has allowed us to survive."

"You're saying I'm growing into it?"

Hannibal leaned forward as he gave Will the last piece of the puzzle. "If your lungs don't burn, you don't catch the fish."

Will threw himself out of the chair. These talks were supposed to give him insight, but they often left him more conflicted. Hannibal had been quick to approve his psych evaluation, unbinding him from further sessions; yet nowhere else could Will tip his skull over and pour out its chaos — not without being sent to a mental facility.

Hannibal was required to set aside personal judgment while speaking to him. Even within the task force or his own classroom, Will did not experience such luxury. Depending on whom you asked, he was either a brilliant jackass or an awkward dork with an ambiguous disorder.

It was easier to be himself here.

Hannibal did not rise as Will settled at his own desk. On the first occasion, Hannibal determined it was the familiarity of the space and his own person that caused the behavior. Will was comfortable, and it made Hannibal feel the blood rush beneath his skin.

As a serial killer, he was careful. Will did not notice when he pulled back his sleeve, admiring the veins that split beneath his wrists. They only appeared as convex blue tunnels, but the vessels were carrying blood to his heart, the most important bodily function after the nervous system. The human body was incredible, but he knew that three layers of protective skin were easy to cut.

Hannibal found that the best time to visit The Baltimore Museum of Art was at three-o-clock, two hours before it closed. Any Baltimore resident would know the worst gridlock began after three-thirty. However, rush hour was not at the forefront of his mind as he drifted between paintings. The thinning crowd gave him the quietness in which he could rightly appreciate the displays. He also did not want to be a nuisance to the staff.

"Have you heard of Frieda Toranzo Jaeger?" Hannibal asked as he stared at the large three-paneled painting.

"It doesn't look well-thought-out." The woman next to him was in a black blazer and skirt. Perhaps it was his mistake to assume she was cultured.

"Her paintings often represent an over-sexualization of the female body whilst contrasting it with masculine images." He pointed. "The red can be feminine blood, while the upside-down hearts a symbol of failed love — or a rejection of it."