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“Come in, Will.”
If not by his patient’s initial expression, then by the subsequent sigh and accompanying pacing Hannibal knew that something had upset the man. Hannibal closed the door and took his seat, taking in all of Will’s body language. Clearly, something triggered him.
“What’s troubling you, Will?”
“I don’t know.” Will’s response came far too quick to be a truth, but the agitation he must was feeling seemed to be directed towards him now. His hand worked its way through his hair as he continued to walk back and forth along a section of the bookshelf.
“You don’t sound sure of that.” Hannibal rested his face on his hand and crossed his legs, waiting. A response never came, so he followed up with a question. “What are you feeling right now, in this room?”
“Angry.” A short pause preceded his other other responses. “Annoyed. Confused. Irritated. Disappointed.”
“Sad, even?” Hannibal offered a word that was rarely, if ever, spoken during their sessions.
“Yeah. I guess I am.” Will’s voice wavered and the pacing came to a halt. He remained there for a few moments before wandering back to his seat. Will approached cautiously, but sat down anyway. As soon as he did, though, he crossed one leg over the other and scooted as far back as he could in the chair. Naturally, he wanted to remain aloof from the conversation they would be having momentarily.
An object at the back of the room appeared to have caught Will’s interest. He refused to meet Hannibal’s eyes, instead glaring at said object as if it had personally wronged him.
Over the course of their work in the past few months, the topics discussed remained unchanging. In his patient’s mind, the only problem was the dissociation he was experiencing, and while this was a highly important issue that needed to be addressed, there were underlying causes that Will seemed determined to avoid.
While this admittal was no doubt painful for him, it breathed new life into his outlook. He never spoke of depression, grief, or any sort of sorrow. Instead, he focused on the more aggressive emotions, anger and irritation, and talked of only one other thing, his disconnect from his everyday life.
Due to his steadfast avoidance of traditionally passive emotions, common in many males, Hannibal could only assume that Will had deep-rooted insecurities about his sense of self as well as his sense of masculinity.
“Why are you sad?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Will countered quickly. Hannibal let the room shroud itself in silence so that Will would feel the need to fill it, which he did.
“Everything’s getting worse.”
A younger, less-experienced might have taken the bait and ask Will to define what “everything,” was: What do you mean by everything? However, Hannibal had played this game with him for far too long.
“I feel as though you are not telling me something.” Hannibal began and raised a hand to quiet the denial forming on Will’s lips. “We are at a standstill in your treatment. We’re not addressing the underlying issues you have and, until we do that, we will get nowhere.” Hannibal let his hand drop to his leg and gave Will the green light to speak.
“You won’t tell Jack?” Will eyed his doctor hesitantly.
“I will not tell Jack.” Hannibal confirmed.
"I won't ever be able to look the way I want to look." Hannibal watched Will's left hand encircle his right wrist. "It'll never happen and it hurts, God, it fucking hurts." His knuckles turned white. "I get so jealous of them. They get to have what I never will."
"What is it that you can't have?"
"If I can't have it, why should we talk about it?"
"Perhaps we can find a solution. Or, that not permitting, talking about it can help release these emotions that you keep hidden. Bottling up your feelings will only hurt you in the end."
"We're out of time." Will's eyes opened after he spoke. A quick glance from Hannibal to the clock showed that they had twenty more minutes left. Will rose from his seat, muttered a quick goodbye, and sped out of the room.
"Take care, Will."