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As the bullet makes contact, as he begins to slip out of consciousness and hangs dangerously close to the other side, he wonders if this is God's gift, or punishment.
He wonders how many organs must be removed, how many limbs sliced off, how much of his skin peeled away and bone crushed it will take for him to actually die.
Frederick Chilton, the human cockroach.
In his hospital bed, other than the police who surround him day and night and the endless stream of nurses and doctors, Will is the only one who visits him.
The humming and periodic beeping of the machines keeping him alive are only broken by Will's gentle voice every couple of days. He thinks the visits will become more sparse the longer he's stuck in here but they don't. Will doesn't give up. He ends each visit by leaning down out of police earshot, very close to Frederick's broken face and whispering, “I'll catch him. I will never give in.”
And then he's left alone again. Alone with the people keeping him alive and the people keeping him captive. But alone nonetheless.
As the weeks turn into months he learns how to use his body again. They strap him down as a precaution, but it's not like he can run anywhere with his legs as weak as a newborn deer and a feeding tube forced into his stomach.
From scratch they teach him how to chew, how to swallow, how to speak, and it is agony. They hold up a mirror to help but he won't look. He can't. This is not his face anymore. Hannibal is permanently etched into the scars and marks of the hollow cavern in his cheek. The killer's territory. His kiss.
They let Will feed him on his visits now that he is able to swallow, and it is both terribly degrading and yet a small comfort. He feels incompetent and useless but he knows that's not how Will sees him.
Will looks at him with a sort of softness, a clear lack of contempt, a silent pride for each time Frederick manages to swallow a mouthful of food, a strange and genuine care for him.
They talk. Talking with half a tongue is difficult but Will does his best to understand. They chat about the weather, how the dogs are and what's happening outside of the hospital, but never about Hannibal. The name becomes a taboo. It hangs in the air between them like a stale smell that will never go away, but they do their best to pretend it's not there. The scars scream his name but Will and Frederick choose not to hear.
All aside from the ritual goodbye, the prayer Will never fails to whisper in his ear before he leaves.
“I'll catch him.”
At last the time comes for him to leave the coffin of his hospital bed and he relies on his cane now more than ever before. Half a man he limps, escorted by an army of officers and a sea of flashing cameras and budding reporters, into the car that carries him to his own institution.
He is on the other side now, wrapped in orange and locked in one of the dark, dirty rooms he knew so well when this place was his.
He hears his own voice from outside the cell, taunting him, torturing, mocking, but it's nothing more than an echo in his head.
The new director can hardly stomach the site of him during their “therapy” sessions, and he wonders if it's his ruin of a face or if it's the crimes of the Chesapeake ripper reflecting back from it.
Will still visits, although he is allowed much less time now that Chilton is an official inmate. A half hour here and there, and every word passed between them is recorded. The ritual goodbye is now said silently, with a look in Will's eyes that Frederick can read but the cameras won't understand.
These days he finds himself thinking of Will more than the man who put him in the cell. He waits for his trial, he waits for his conviction, he waits for his execution and he waits for Will's visits.
Justice seems further and further away but Will never gives up hope and his determination is almost infectious.
When he closes his eyes, it is Will's voice that whispers in his mind.
“I'll catch him.”