Hannibal (i_consume) wrote in we_coexist, @ 2011-01-02 17:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | hannibal lecter, in arkham |
A Jacket Made of Canvas (Narrative)
They had learned quickly that Hannibal Lecter wasn't one to be trusted. They had learned quickly that despite the medications they gave him, he was still quite lucid. They had learned quickly that he didn't like his situation. They had learned quickly that he could be very violent.
At one point, Hannibal had bitten the hand of a doctor. Not a simple, easy bite, either. He had ripped off the flesh all the way to the bone. Devouring muscle and paralyzing a hand that had only been trying to make him more comfortable. An unknowing nurse who had not before worked with Hannibal was the next victim. She had bent over him from the opposite side of the bed he was strapped down to, and he had opened her neck with his teeth.
They tried many drugs, but they all wore off too quickly. He gave them a sense of paranoia when entering his room. When they wanted to work on him, when they wanted to help him get clean, they had to almost overdose him with medication and work very quickly. There were always four of them. They all had a task to complete so that they could focus only on what they were doing. Only the most trusted of doctors and nurses, only the most responsible, were allowed to work with Hannibal Lecter.
He was not allowed out of his room. He was not allowed visitors. He was not allowed any of the freedoms that other patients had. His room was lined heavily so that he could do no damage to himself, not that it seemed to them he would hurt himself. It was also so that he could not hurt those who were caring for him with body checks or quick movements. They had put him into the straight jacket early on, leery of letting him have access to his hands. The mouth guard had come only after the second biting incident, when they felt badly knowing they could have prevented the nurse's death if they'd done it right after the first.
Hannibal was also strapped down to the bed. A plain metal thing that was more autopsy table than bed. Tightly. They had brought in a second set of straps just to be sure. The young man seemed to possess an extraordinary strength. Nothing like some of the others that were in here, but far more than an average human. He was strapped down, and still he would thrash sometimes. He would appear calm and when he was approached, his whole body would tense like a cat, and he would try to attack. It scared the staff even with him so restrained.
All of his food was liquid, so they didn't have to take the mask off to feed him. When they cleaned him, they kept him strapped down. The jacket didn't come off. His lower half was the only thing exposed fully to the water. It disgusted him that he had to spend hours in filth because they had only given him a catheter and nothing to resolve other issues.
He was treated like an animal. Many of those who came to tend to him used earplugs or headphones if it wasn't something that needed the direction or assurance of others. They didn't want to hear him talk. His voice was too soothing, his words too convincing. Even in the haze of heavy medication, he could still weave a spell with that voice, almost getting his way a few times in the early days before they'd all learned.
When he was alone in the room, he was perfectly still. He was not there, it seemed to them. When he was alone, Hannibal retreated into his mind palace. He thought of River and wondered where she was. He viewed pictures of her, relived interactions with her. His whole life played before him. He visited the museum in his head and was quiet.