Silent Confessions (Mads Mikkelsen/Hannibal)

Silent Confessions

Silence.

Not a single sound except the soft murmur of my breath.

And his.

His breathing sounded just as loud as the beating of my heart appeared to be in that instant. It was thrumming at the base of my throat, a rapid pulse that felt like I should be hiding it, but just quite couldn't. And it rang in my ears like the rising and lowering of the tides, a constant roar in my ear that prevented me from any other thinking except of the man sitting right in front of me.

"So, Miss Dawson, how are we feeling today?" his deep timbre caused something inside me to flutter nervously, but I said nothing, eyes trained on the bookcase behind him.

But that didn't stop me from noticing several things.

His scent, for example. Dark and heady, it smelled o cedar and a hint of smoke, and a twinge of expensive aftershave, or perhaps an expensive cologne? I couldn't be quite certain, but my nostrils flared involuntarily, trying to get a better lock on that sinful aroma.

Or his serious expression, that I spied from the corners of my eyes as I tried fruitlessly to ignore. Dark hair framing an angular face, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, prominent nose balanced out by sensuous lips that seemed continuously drawn into a thin line, ever so serious.

Clean shaven, I could imagine what a slight stubble might do to that strong jaw, and for the briefest second I wished to run my lips over it, to feel that slight prickle against my naked skin as he kissed his way down my body.....

Wait...where the hell did that come from?

Mentally reprimanding myself for the turn my thoughts had taken, my eyes caressed every book on those shelves, now so familiar. Every binding, shiny and new or old and worn, were now like old friends, and the thought of maybe one day reading them or examining them more closely invaded my mind.

Stop it! I ordered myself. There was no need to think those thoughts. There would be no exploring, no examining any books. I'd read most of them anyways, back then, in another lifetime, when my life wasn't as fucked up and problematic as it was now. And I had to let it go, forget it, and not think about re-reading all those words that once brought me comfort and would now only bring me pain.

"Miss Dawson, don't you think it's time you said something?" my therapist, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, mused quietly, his voice commanding as usual.

Again I remained silent, biting my tongue yet again as I fought against the charismatic man in front of me who seemed to have such a strong hold over my thoughts and emotions. Thoughts I was afraid to voice out loud and emotions I would rather not speak of.

"In the eight months you've been my patient, Miss Dawson, you have failed to utter a single word during our sessions, which you've been attending twice a week" he said sternly, the fingers of his right hand tapping on his knee, the only outward sign of annoyance that I could see.