Hannibal Rising

Mischa, we take comfort in knowing there is no God. That you are not enslaved in a Heaven, made to kiss God's ass forever. What you have is better than Paradise. You have blessed oblivion. I miss you every day."

The swan spread her wings and stood her ground over her mate even though the tank was wider than her wings, its engine loud as her wild heart.

Hannibal Lecter could always read, or it seemed that way to Nanny.

Hannibal took Mischa’s baby bracelet off her wrist, dipped it in the suds and blew bubbles for her through the bracelet

No,” Mischa said. “Anniba sing ‘Das Mannlein’!”

Hannibal traced the letter in Mischa’s palm—she was approaching three years old and he despaired of her ever learning to read. “‘M’ for Mischa!” he said. She ran among the birds laughing and they flew up around her, circling the towers, lighting in the belfry.

Sternohyoid omohyoid thyrohyoid/juuuguular, ahhhhhmen.

“Mischa, we take comfort in knowing there is no God. That you are not enslaved in a Heaven, made to kiss God’s ass forever. What you have is better than Paradise. You have blessed oblivion. I miss you every day.”

He dined alone and he was not lonely.

"The little boy Hannibal died in 1945 out there in the snow trying to save his sister. His heart died with Mischa. What is he now? There's not a word for it yet. For lack of a better word, we'll call him a monster."