Do you hear the Lambs screaming, Clarice?

On the couch with Dr. Hannibal Lecter — your therapy served medium rare

Image from L’AQUART

Your 7 p.m. appointment with Dr. Hannibal Lecter at Baltimore State Hospital is confirmed. Ever thought what it would be like if your psychiatrist was Dr Lecter? No Clarice, no fictional gloss — just you, on his couch, as his patient.

The real shit.

Insomnia has taken over, feeding me with sleepless nights and jittery days. I wished an Allianz or Berkshire Hathaway insurance card were in my wallet. But there is none — no option for a second choice. I confirmed my appointment and proceeded to Baltimore Hospital.

At the reception, Nurse Helga stands like a slab of granite — busty, broad-shouldered, and stern-faced. She doesn’t smile. Just jerks a thumb toward the cracked vinyl bench and says, in a Snow Queen voice, “Take seat. Your name will be called.”

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“Ms. Mary.”

My name is yelled by Nurse Hegla. No warmth. Just cold efficiency.

I rise and walk towards the consultation office; the frosted door creaks open. Dr. Hannibal Lecter is waiting.

With an eerie smile and piercing eyes, he doesn’t stand to greet me. Instead, he gestures calmly to the black leather couch with a gloved hand, “Please,” he says, his voice cultured like the Renaissance, “Lie down.

Let’s peel back the layers, shall we?”

I hesitate. The black leather couch looks too pristine. Too ready. Like bait, waiting for its victim.

Behind me, Lecter exhales — his breath settles on my skin. The session begins. And somehow, I already know…

I won’t be the same.

Photo by Taylor Deas-Melesh on Unsplash

What keeps you from sleep?

Lecters’ question sends a trigger, and I mumble off about restless night, tossing and turning in my bed, night sweats. He cuts me off abruptly:

“What triggers it?”

I hesitate, then begin to talk — about the relentless pressure at the stock firm, about David, my power-hungry boss. A Wall Street monster who thrives on fear, taunting his team about stock crashes. Calling them losers.

Lecter leans in — there’s a smile in his voice.

“Are you a loser?, Mary”

I flinch. Tears well up.

“I’m not,” I whisper. “I tried. I gave everything to make it in the stock market. I pushed to please David. My parents. They spent so much on my college education — they believed in me. I just… couldn’t cope. I quit. It’s been a year since I last had a job.”

“Would you like David to disappear”

I am startled by Lecter’s question — but then the anger rises.

I remember the degradation. David’s misogynistic sneers about my brain being shorter than my skirt.

The daily grind of trading, the constant yelling to “pump or dump”

The salary cuts. The endless late nights. The countless times I asked for a reference — never granted.

Yes, I wanted David to disappear. Six feet under would’ve been ideal.

As if reading my thoughts, Lecter offered a calm, unsettling reassurance:

“Your wishes may come true”

With that, he stood. “That’s all for now, Mary. Until next time.”

I rose, reluctantly. The clock read 8 p.m. He had messed my mind for an hour — unearthing rage, stirring old wounds. Instead of leaving calm, I walked out more restless than before. My insomnia was far from cured. If anything, it had being fueled.

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Baltimore Hospital hadn’t contacted me about my next appointment. I waited two weeks. Nothing.

On a quiet Sunday morning, I was grazing through the Weekend Daily, flipping through pages 8 to 10, hoping to find a job listing — anything. But I stopped at page 3. Something caught my eye. David’s photo. The print read:

David Stearn, 37, CEO of Alpha Stock Brokers, found dead in his penthouse at Glitz Towers, New York. Police are investigating the brutal murder. Several organs, including the liver and spleen, were missing. Authorities are urging anyone with information to come forward.

In shock, I spilled my coffee. As the drops hit the floor, they seemed to turn red. A pool of blood shimmered beneath my table.

And then I heard Lecter’s voice in my mind: “Your wishes may come true.”

Panicking, I grabbed my pill bottle and threw back a fistful of Xanax to steady myself. Hands trembling, I dialed Baltimore Hospital again.

“Please, put me through to the psychiatry department,” I said.

Nurse Helga answered. Her voice was unmistakably cold. “Lecter? Oh, he’s gone. Left the country. We’ll reschedule you.”

As I hung up, a quiet wave of satisfaction washed over me.

David is dead.

I walked to the fridge, looking for something — anything — to mark the occasion. As I shifted items around, I found two parcels wrapped in foil.

They were smooth. Neatly packed. Fresh. They looked disturbingly similar to the organs mentioned in the article.

Taped to one of them was a note:

Your wish came true. See you soon.