I know some want Hannibal to stay a psychopathic, monstrous, non-feeling, non-reactionary monster...but, c'mon. I think there's more there than that! So here is my first Hannibal story. Many more to come. The ideas keep hitting me! ...please, make them stop, because it's starting to hurt.
Anyway! Enjoy the story and please review!!!
- Mishka
Chapter 1:
"The Fetish"
The heels of her pumps clicked loudly in the nearly empty train station. The steam pricked her skin and the smell of raw sewage wafted at her nose. The homeless men chattered to themselves in a barrage of slang and mumbled insanities, made even more unclear by their thick cockney accents.
"Hey, hold the door!" She shouted loudly. Her American accented alto echoed off the walls, making her ears ring as it broke the white noise she was now used to. She had lived in London for approximately a year now and had quickly become used to her surroundings. Everything had become routine and boring, but it was her routine and she knew what was going to happen and when. Sometimes boring was comforting.
She rushed between the doors of the train, held open by an elderly man in a bowler hat. She nodded her head at him as he smiled back, sweetly. She quickly took a seat as the train lurched forward in an awkward motion. She set her messenger bag on the floor and blew a long breath out of her chest, making her lips pucker and cheeks deflate.
She quickly grabbed her anatomy book out of her bag and flipped to page number 522. While she read the train began to rock, almost in a comforting movement. She could feel a pair of eyes burning through her. She glanced up to find a man of approximately 30 staring at her. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, bringing her pencil skirt down to conceal any piece of skin she could. He sneered at her.
"Hey…aren't you-?"
"No, I'm not." She interrupted his question, knowing what he was going to ask. She caught his eyes with a stare of her own, her piercing, blue eyes telling him where to go if he didn't shut his mouth real quick. To her chagrin, he was more amused than intimidated. He chuckled a disgusting laugh, his browned teeth showing while she could hear the phlegm rolling in his chest with each heave of laughter.
"Yes, you are! I would know those legs and your face anywhere. Don't remember your hair bein' that light, though. Hard to tell, usually the boys and me are just lookin' at your-"
Her face turned red with embarrassment mixed with anger. "Sir, I would advise you to please not speak to me in such a manner. Let alone the fact, you must have me mistaken for someone else. If you continue, I will be forced to either contact the police for sexual harassment or deal with you myself. Are we clear or are we clear?" Her southern accent drawled over each word with malice deep from her gut.
Her eyes were focused on her reflection in the mirror, but she could see his face contort into a scowl from the corner of her eye. She felt the train slide to a stop and couldn't bring herself to face the perverted man still scowling at her. Granted, he technically paid her bills with his slobbering perversions in which the images of her other half provided, but she still was bitter. She was very bitter. It's such a shame to be so bitter at twenty years of age. The train doors opened and she saw him stand. She continued to watch her reflection as the lighting changed with the opening of the doors and more fluorescent lighting filtered in, shining off of her bright red hair.
"Never figured you to be such a fuckin' cunt. You bloody whore." He sneered as he walked out of the train.
She glared at his back and memorized the outline of his worn, brown jacket as it walked away, between the train doors, and then up the stairs of the station. Her lip quivered and she could feel her eyes welling. Were they tears of rage or tears of sadness? She couldn't tell the difference anymore. One emotion was just the same as the other and all provoked the same reactions – either tears or violence.
She never figured that the little girl in the pictures she had of her and her parents – the same little girl in the tutu and the make-shift fairy wings her father had made out of fish netting and wire – would become such a bitter and angry woman. She was not as angry with herself as she was with the rest of the world.
She rose from her seat and slowly walked through the train doors. She grimaced as her tired feet fell back into an uncomfortable position in her shoes. She shifted her messenger bag on her shoulder and clutched her textbook against her chest. As she passed the people, she pushed harder on her chest. Almost wishing she could press hard enough to make her chest become less of a woman's. To crush the same breasts that she exposed only to the world of fetish photography and modeling. She almost wished she wasn't a woman.
But with pussy, came power and she knew that all too well. Power as it may seem, was disguised in grabs in the streets and companied with catcalls, incredulity, and double standards. The only man besides her father (whom had taught her to respect herself and show her equality to men in all things) who really fully respected her opinions and mind was her professor at university. Her studies were mainly focused in the study of the criminal mind, but her recent classes for this semester included anatomy.
She was the only woman in her class, and the youngest. She had graduated from high school in America at the age of sixteen and left for London during the age of teenage rebellion. Leather jackets and pedal pushers were all the rage back home. Teenagers necked in the back of cars at the local drive-ins that played "Rebel Without A Cause". But here in post-war Europe, it seemed everything had stayed the same. Half-demolished buildings still stood on street corners. Homeless men and women still begged for food for their children and told horror stories of war.
She came from a stable home with loving parents and two older bothers that would die for her. Your standard home with a dog and a cat. Her father owned a farm down in Mississippi and her mother was a local school nurse. Her brothers had married and left home, while taking over some of the land on the farm. She was the only one who had decided to go to college. Her father was proud, but her mother was less than thrilled.
Lillian had never been one for the girly things always dressing in her brothers' clothes, and sometimes the occasional tutu or church dress. But mostly she was a nice mix of tomboy and lady. She remembered sneaking off with her brothers to the movies at night to watch Wolfman and Dracula, while her brothers held hands with their current squeezes and made awkward fumbles with buttons. But she never did pay attention to that. No. She was always focused on the movies. Her favorite had always been Dracula. The thought of such a refined, wealthy man with such dark fantasies and fetishes had fascinated her.
She supposed that's what made her fascinated with criminals. She was only eleven when the body of Elizabeth Short was discovered. Her mother had tried to block those things out, but Lillian always somehow managed to find out about them. She remembered the newspapers when she would run to the local drug store to buy bubble gum. She remembered the beautiful face and lovely dark hair of Elizabeth Short. It was kind of twisted, you see. And it made Lillian ponder the depth and darkness of the human psyche.
Despite the soft delicacy of Lillian, she had a side that only the scum knew of. No real, quality men would look at fetish photography in those magazines. Only the perverted, shaky hands would fumble to the back of the display case for those magazines. Those were the people that knew. Part of her was ashamed of her secret life, but the other part was defensive. The only jobs available to women these days were secretarial. Not that she couldn't do that, but the height of sexual harassment and rape was a lot higher than the media would have mothers and fathers to believe. No, she was not about to have to sit through grueling hours of pretending to be sweet and charming to someone who only had disgusting thoughts in his mind while he drove home to go fuck his wife, as his children slept unknowingly in the next room.
No. This paid the bills and made more money than any of that could. Besides, there was no sexual harassment on the job sites. Benjamin, the photographer, was definitely not interested. His lover, Johannes, was far more appealling to him than any woman ever could be. The photographer and the stylist - what a pair they were! To see them together, despite any pre-conceived notions, made one smile and question one's own happiness and honesty to oneself.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the bright lights of university came into her eyesight. Her feet moved a little faster, a little peppier, with a little more a skip. Her mouth curved into a smile. This was her realm. This was the real her. No matter how much she tried to deny her innocence and her sweetness with her realism, it all came down to her being an intelligent, fun-loving, kind-hearted woman. She loved music, good food, and laughter. She did not love the stockings or garter gelts, the black wig, nor the corsets or chains. There was no emotional attachment to them. They were just pieces of someone who was not the true Lillian. They are just pieces of financial stability and a guarantee at finishing college and not having to go back home.
The schoolgirl in her ran up the stone steps to the large building, between the columns and through the heavy doors being held by a young student. She breathed a thank you and ran towards the elevator, knowing her slow walk had made her late to her anatomy class. She did not want to miss this. There would be a guest speaker this evening and from what she had read from his books and articles from medical magazines, she had been anticipating this for a month.
She knew he was from Maryland and was currently at Johns Hopkins University. From his manuscripts, she would have assumed he was around the age of forty. She had always imagined him with graying hair, neatly trimmed, sipping wine and dressed in the best of business suits, cloaked in the classic white jacket.
She brushed her fingers through her falling finger waves as she pushed her way through a crowd of young, giggling girls and towards her classroom. She glanced back at the girls who were whispering and glancing towards the exact classroom she was walking into. She was so intent on studying the young, giggling girls that she didn't see the person she was about to collide into.
The impact was soft, but startled her. Her heart jumped into her throat and she almost fell backwards. Pulling her out of her thoughts was like waking a sleepwalker. The physical reactions of being brought out of her mind sometimes brought on bruises when she would jump quickly and sometimes bonk her head or hit her leg on a chair. But this time a hand steadied her as her books tumbled to the floor.
"Oh!" She exclaimed, watching her textbooks and notes fall to the ground. A second hand accompanied the first and gripped her waist to assure she was not going to tumble down onto the floor. She flipped her head up quickly, her hair slinging back over her shoulder and passing under his nose. The obvious scent of vanilla filled his nostrils and he inhaled on instinct.
Her blue eyes met his green ones. She sucked in a breath as she studied the face of the body she had collided with. Now she knew what all the giggling was about. His eyes pierced hers as they studied the other. She stared at his eyes, trying to figure out which color was more prominent – the blue or the green. She found her voice in the midst of her embarrassment and quickly removed her hands from his shoulders to stoop down and begin gathering her books.
"I'm so terribly sorry. I'm so embarrassed. Sometimes I just get distracted, you know, and don't watch where I'm going…" She rambled and concentrated on getting her things together so she could quickly reserve a seat in the classroom. She felt the young man stoop down beside her and pick up a few of her books. His hand rested on her criminal psychology textbook and she glanced at him studying the cover. She looked at him and realized she did not recognize him from any of her classes.
'He must be visiting just for the lecture' she thought to herself. She continued to study his face. His well-chiseled jawbone and his full lips pouted as he skimmed his eyes over the book. She chewed on her bottom lip and looked away quickly when his eyes met hers. The left side of his mouth turned up in a small smile as he handed her the textbook and they both stood up.
"You should be more careful, m'lady." He stated with a smirk. She glanced up and smiled, for it was not a malicious smirk, but more one of amusement.
"I was just distracted. But thank you for saving me from a few bruises…and also for helping me with my books." She said.
"You're very welcome." He smiled a genuine smile. She liked his smile.
"Well, I'd best be getting a seat before all the good ones are taken. Thank you again." She turned her back and hurried into the classroom to avoid any sort of awkward giggling or blushing moment that might come out of her childish moment back there that was so gruesomely displayed.
She took a seat in the third row and settled herself with a notebook and pen in front of her. She removed her sweater and began scribbling nonsense on the blank paper. Her mind went back to the young man at the door and her pen stopped all movement. Her mouth twisted into a face of contemplation as she tried to place his accent. It seemed almost faded with time. He couldn't have been older than 25, which led her to believe he was most likely a student from another local university.
Her head jerked up from her notebook as her professor clapped his hands together.
"Everyone, everyone! I'd like to have your attention please!" The loud voices settled down as her professor smiled. "Good evening! Thank you all for coming. You have made an excellent choice towards your advancement in understanding the human body by coming here for this lecture. I'd like you to welcome, all the way from John Hopkins University, Dr. Hannibal Lecter!"