Monologue Of Hannibal

The cars on the highway were caught in a slow crawl, not unusual for any morning trip to work but Will could hear the wail of ambulance sirens in the distance and the flashing blue and red lights of police cars. Soon enough he passed by the barricades which blocked off a portion of the road. A crumpled car, rammed from the back and front, windscreen completely smashed, stood by the dented railings of the road. On the tar road, a body lay sprawled, face down in a pool of dark red and black, stained glass shards around it stuck in the lime-green and blue jacket which the victim wore. Will swallowed, the air in the car suddenly becoming clammy and the profiler looked away, continuing his daily routine.
In his office, Will had some time alone before classes began and unlocked his closet, retrieving a file from behind his stack of spare clothes, glasses and ties. He dumped said file onto his desk and sat down, taking a shaky sip of coffee out of his mug. The staff nurses who cleared Hannibal’s cell every month, would hand the killer’s sketches over to Alana. Consequently they came into Will’s custody and he had kept them all despite being told by his colleague to dispose of them for his mental stability.

Will could name them; The Wound Man, Will himself, an anatomical heart, Hannibal’s childhood institution. It was as if Hannibal was playing a game or creating a picture story and clearly meant for Will to notice this form of distant communication. Will never visited Hannibal, he had no reason to, whatever Hannibal wanted to know from him, he already did. From time to time Will would play spot the differences. The Wound Man’s posture or inflicted weapons would change, a figure would stand in one of the many windows of the school drawing and once the heart seemed palpated in an agonizing