Disclaimers: I do not own Will Graham or Hannibal Lector. Enjoy!
Will Graham was tired. He was losing the strength that he had once had. It had seeped through him into oblivion. It was a lost that hindered his livelihood forever. He wasn't the same man anymore. Not in the sense that his whole attitude drifted from his normal pursuit but by mere slight overgrowing and overbearing changes that has officially been intertwined inside his heart and soul.
He was alone now. The house that he lived in was empty. There were no sounds of delight or cries of hurt; nothing but the sheer sense of an endless session with silence, only to be interrupted by a shattering scream of glasses falling.
It has been awhile since that time when it all began. In truth he didn't know how long. All he did know was that the woman he had loved, Molly, and the son who had cared for were gone. They were somewhere off where he couldn't be and it hurt. He was divorced and without a son. To him everything was just 'peachy.'
He took a whiff of what's left of his Jack Daniels and stared at himself in front of his mirror. He stared coolly at his disfigurement and smiled distantly. It was something that couldn't be erased; something that couldn't be hidden. It would be there forever.
Then he started to laugh. He wasn't laughing because of any sort of humor but of the circumstances he is in and just for the heck of it. He laughed as he traced his scar that blanched his face; a wound that looked like Picasso drew it. It was not something he enjoyed looking at in these turbulent days but it was a reminder. That constant reminder on how he lost his life.
"'Em shit!" he cried as he turned and staggered toward his balcony. He slipped on a slipper and hit his face hard but that didn't stop him. His laughter increased by each moment in that drunken matter of his as he clumsily tries to stand up. It took a few deep breaths and minutes but he was standing again.
His smile faltered. His sight started to blur slightly. His heartbeat slowed. Fear instantly entered his mind. He took his bottle and tried to take a sip but came empty with just a mere drop of alcohol. He tries to shrug it off but then he started feel strange. He was about to go numb.
He was falling. His grip on reality was fading. He dropped the bottle. It crashed and the pieces scattered. He fell on his back. His eyes rolled back.
He was in a white and black world. He delved inside his deep consciousness into memorable faces and each of these faces that stirred his sanity closer to the probability of insane measures.
But one froze and did not leave. It lingered with a small absent from mirth but with interest kind of smile. The smile frightened him and yet was comforting in strange horrid way. It was the smile of the one Dr. Hannibal Lector.
"Good evening young William. You do not seem to be in a festive state."
Strange. Lector's face never moved. Am I not unconscious? Strange indeed.