Laughing Through the Teeth of Waterloo

Untitled part

"In 1815, dentistry as we know it today was in its infancy - and the mouths of the rich were rotten. So they took teeth for their dentures from the bodies of tens of thousands of dead soldiers on the battlefield at Waterloo."

- Paul Kerley, 2015

Loneliness was an echo chamber in Hannibal's office. Over time he had adapted to solitude, working alone amongst the lives he took – those who silently walked in the house he had built. Even so, the chair across from him was empty. Will Graham roamed the loft, out of sight and out of touch. For the first time in decades, Hannibal wanted to reach out for company.

"There is a shroud between us," Will said. He was holding the handrail as he looked outward. "Neither of us can truly confess to the haze that is behind our eyes,"

"Do you see this as a confessional?"

"I see this is as a means in which I can't get arrested. Anything I say here stays here. Supposedly."

"Psychiatrists are not unlike priests," Hannibal said. "There is a cleansing of the soul whenever a person unburdens themselves to another."

"Does that make you the priest?"

"Priests are religious authorities. I am here to guide you."

"That word is meaningless."

"You see the veil, and I see the confessional screen."

"No, you project or extract whatever you want from your patients." Will glazed over. "I am on the edge of a knife. You said you wanted to help me, but you left breadcrumbs, didn't you? Leading me to its tip without telling me what I was standing on. Now I'm responsible for taking the final step."

Hannibal turned on the stove. The gas lit with a small 'tick.'

"Responsibility is a heavy burden. It is natural to feel anxious when under pressure, especially when it is a problem you have created for yourself. You are only feeling human." He watched Will as he sifted through his thoughts. "Or perhaps you are upset knowing that you have been the one holding the knife."

The manipulative affirmations would have once agitated or disoriented Will, but he was motionless. In some way, it was as if being in the loft kept him from sinking to Hannibal's level. Hannibal felt the slight, but he brushed it aside. Recognizing feelings was difficult; embracing them and blossoming into one's true self was another matter.

"You smell like Dr. Bloom's perfume."

"Does that bother you?"

"Is it meant to?"

Hannibal admired Will's astuteness as he climbed down the latter and sat down. Beneath him, the chair creaked as it curled upward. It twisted like a mass of vines, leather stripping itself away until it had transfigured itself into a throne of antlers. Bloody velvet dangled from the red-stained bones. The old flesh was fragile and thin. Hannibal could see the steady snowfall from the window.

"I think we need to terminate our doctor-patient relationship," Will said.

Only a minor tick of the head showed Hannibal's surprise. "You were the one who was insistent on resuming our sessions."

"There has been a shift in feelings."

"Who else can you trust with what lurks beneath your skin?"

"I don't trust you."

"You recently told me you find me interesting."

Will's leer was somber. "And that is the crux of it all."