"Judas had the decency to hang himself in shame of his betrayal, but I thought you needed help."
"Where she walks, no flowers bloom
He’s the one she sees right through
She’s the absinthe on his lips
The splinter in his fingertips.”
"But how could he do without her?
And how could live without her?”
"To you, I don’t lack in conviction.
I hope you remember that…”
a twist on the number game
send me a number between 1-1000 and my muse will say how they feel about your muse
without anyone knowing who you are
"Hm. I am familiar with its portrayal. The sounds
produced by an orchestra are imaginary…Better
reflections of what reality ought to be like.
Snowflakes are metallic silver bells, but in reality,
the sound of snow is as cold and silent as an
indifferent lover. A real cuckoo does not have
a melodic voice. It is loud and demanding and
obscene…But still holder of an unconventional
beauty. Are you fond of cuckoos?”
"I’m fond of birds, all birds…
The cuckoo is a vicious one that lays
its eggs in other bird’s nests so its kind may survive, yet the two note
Is famous and adored.
I wonder about you, sometimes, Mister Budge…
Why a man of your temperament is in here?
You don’t lack in sophistication. “
‘ i can’t create anything in here.
not in here. little aaron wright
was art. i made him into something
' There are other mediums, Mister Epstein.
I suggest that you extend your imagination a little father.
Would you mind telling me about Aaron Wright?
Why you created with him? ‘
"I’m afraid I haven’t had the
pleasure of ever meeting one.”
Their call is a favorite among classical composers.
I hoped that you would’ve been familiar, Mister Budge.
♟ Foma followed with ease. Long legs were an effective mode of transportation, as always—a few times, he actually had to pause so he would not walk alongside the other man. The speed and length of his stride was something he often had trouble controlling without having to stop many times just to stay at a favorable distance. But his pauses also served a double purpose. When he had to stop, he watched the patients. He saw how raw human emotion and madness manifested, watched it contort, and marveled at it like a car wreck.
♟ In the back of his head, he wondered if they came here mad or if they were driven to this extreme by isolation. He knew that mental health institutions like this one weren’t necessarily designed to cure. Containment was the real objective. Protecting society from the monsters in men’s heads. Foma nearly laughed. What lies within these peoples’ heads is no monster—it is weakness. To call madness a monster was to imply that it was uncontrollable and frightening, like noises in the night or the beast beneath the bed. He imagined Chilton shining a flashlight under his bed and shuddering at a menacing piece of lint that could have passed for a wild mess of hair, like that of a patient he now passed who spat near his shoes.
♟ "Staring is the least of my concerns,” he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. His eyes went forward now, and they did not wander again. Being nearly spat on made observation something distasteful, now. Such disrespect made everyone this man’s madness touched vile and unworthy of his attention. This orderly included.
♟ But he had to acknowledge him nonetheless. Especially since he could feel his eyes on him, more often than not, and as they paused at the stairwell he brought his heels together like a soldier, spidery fingers winding together behind his back and then slipping down his forearms to hold the crooks of each elbow. He stared down Matthew with the clear intention of establishing something without words: Don’t annoy me, and I won’t get ugly.
♟ His head slowly tilted to one side, then to the other, contemplating something and rolling it on his tongue before he spoke. “Do you believe that this place is functional?” There was spit on his shoes. He saw it in the light, and his filter went clean out the window. Goodbye, civility; hello, insults. He felt them rising up his throat like bile and knew better than to try and contain them.
♟ Dull eyes turned away and looked back down the hall. To where the pathetic creatures still were, and would be for the rest of their lives. His expression returned to absolute deadpan, but his hands took on a life of their own, one remaining at his back and the other sweeping outward, spidery fingers gesturing first to the hall, and then to Matthew. "Or are you just here to make it look pretty? Because if so—" And here, he brought his hand to settle against his own jaw, two fingers grazing his bottom lip. “—you’re not doing a very good job.”
Staring is the least of my concerns.
Is he so sure? To allow someone to look, to allow all the ways they could visualize your being, it meant control. There was power in someone’s gaze, hell—Vsevold used it himself. Matthew tilted his chin upwards, hands lightly gripping the stair’s railing. He refused to be rattled, instead there’s a gleam to his visage, body language.
A chance for a hunt, Matthew wished he had seen the signs sooner. He grinned, a sharp smile that leaked out an edge of his madness, what was already there aching to burst out. The moment he stepped up. The moment he looked Garret Vsevold in the eye, and edged closer and closer into another predator’s territory, the excitement all too real and personal…<s
Come at me. Wouldn’t you like to try?
He breathed, eyeing Foma’s feet, an air of amusement coloring his features. “Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane does what it’s meant to do.” Humans liked zoos. Matthew doesn’t see how this was much different. “I’m a better keeper than most.” He paused, shrugging. His eyes darted up to the camera in the room. He wouldn’t elaborate more until they were somewhere safe. Chilton was watching— Matthew wouldn’t risk his job on this vulture.
He took the insult lightly. It isn’t as if he heard worse from the patients exempt there was room for a bit of fun. Matthew took his chances wherever he could get them.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to look pretty. Looking for a date, Mister Vsevold?” His green eyes widened innocently, oh how he hoped this man was homophobic, that would be exciting. He switched in and out of his lisp, yet his voice never left its softness. “If that’s it— our files are contained down there.”
Matthew turned away before the other man had a chance to answer, swiftly moving a few steps down. He opened the door into the control room and held it out for the agent to follow.
It was the best invitation he could give.
“In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.”
What the other killers in Hannibal can tell us about Hannibal Lecter - I’ve always thought that, with Hannibal being the devil, all other evils are partly caused, honed or in his honour. Every killer presents a facet of Hannibal’s personality or desires into play one by one.