{ whopraysoverus: }
"It is rather….messed up.’ Honestly Hannibal had not been all too shocked when it was revealed the man in the chair across from him had been a serial killer. He was both unresponsive and yet always very communicative. Two sides of the same coin and Hannibal had loved getting that peek into a brain so undeveloped as that man’s had been. But in the end the murders had been uninspired. It had been sexual and those sort of crimes were tactless and without interest. So he goaded him onward down the dazed path of killing. Do more of what you feel instead of what you want.
A smile crept on his lips as he thought of why it could be. Why it would be a man would hang his victims up with wire merely because it was a sexual preference to watch as they attempted to wiggle their way out, blood spraying and fear filling their glassy eyes. “I suppose some men are more accustomed to working out their sexual interests in a much more disturbing way.” The smile has faded but it still lingers in his eyes. “I wonder if he has stopped.”
He had heard that thought. Had heard it from none other than Freddie Lounds herself and it resonated with the same humor as it had then. He knew that some careers were marked and stained with mental illness and instability but he hardly believed in it. There were some careers that marked themselves because it was so much easier to exercise the desires that were more prone to violence.
"That would be an interesting revelation would it not? Perhaps the insanity of others you have interviewed might have infiltrated your head and made it so that you are no longer a ‘normal’ man and merely a psychopath. Would you enjoy that or resent it?"
➨ Michael thought he could keep himself together. He really did. But vanity was one of his greatest downfalls, and as he wrote he found his ego set suddenly aflame. Hannibal couldn't possibly be talking about his work, then. What Michael did wasn't sexual at all. It was murder, plain and simple. Wiring up and building and turning the dead into mannequins, a mirror image of what he'd done to Bletchley all those years ago. The idea that he could be seen as a sexual deviant for his own acts made him want to throw up. "I'd never find that sort of shit sexy." His scowl was bitter and sudden, insult written in the wrinkles on his forehead and between his furrowed brows.
➨ He caught himself a moment later. "B-but then again, I'm normal." His expression returned to interest, curious and wary, as he scratched out 'success' in short, sharp lines. The movement could not be done discreetly, so he didn't bother hiding it. "I sure as hell hope he has. Or else he's got a wallear for the electric chair." He laughed. It was thin, though. The electric chair was a fear of his, something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up--it was this fear that drove him to kill all those people. To pass the blame onto someone else, to paint a picture of someone as far from him as possible so he wouldn't be punished. So he wouldn't be killed. He bloodied his hands to protect himself.
➨ Or at least, that's how he saw it. He almost wondered if Dr. Lecter would view it the same way. Would a man as learned as Hannibal be able to see the brilliance in his logic?
➨ "I'm not a fucking psychopath." The anger rises sudden and sharp, and he forgets that he's not supposed to be defensive. The mere idea that insanity has contaminated him is a frightening one, and he refuses to believe it even with his murderous habit. "I'm perfectly fucking sane. You could test me." His fingers pressed sharply into his notepad and he swallowed with difficulty as the metal rings that held it together bit into his skin. Once more, he remembered to reign himself in a little too late. Michael took a deep breath. "I think... uh." His brows knit together. He pretended to be looking for words. "I think that being crazy is the worst thing someone can be." And his shoulders rose, then fell into a shrug. He leaned back in his seat to get a little comfortable, pretending he wasn't set on edge. It didn't look very convincing. "So I suppose I'd resent it."
