Author's note- Based on an idea I had. It was only going to be about a chapter at first, but it grew and grew. Feedback would be loved. Please, it's not that hard to write a simple little note. I really want to know if this is any good. This should only be about a three-chapter thing, that will probably be finished over the weekend. I've just not had enough time. >_<
If I were a wing of the wind
Would I soar away from here
Would the sky kiss my plumes
And take me away
Would you call after me
Or let me fly
Knowing in your heart that
I could never stray far
And would come back to you
When my wings fatigued
And my heart in need
For home
ONE~ Nest
Her room is elegant in all respects. Ivory and pale blue decor, walls covered with charcoal sketches and prints of famous masterpieces, a closet with clothing that most young girls only dream of, and stacks of piano and vocal books that have been unused for sometime. She traipses through her room, barely even looking up and heads strait to the bathroom with its white and blue tiles to match her room's decor. Standing over the sink, she gently removes the green colored contact lenses, and squirts them cleaner, and puts them into their holding case, quite gently in fact, although she despises them most strongly. They conceal her, hide what she truly is. Although, she thinks with an amused smile, the world would be more horrified with what she truly is, than she is with the prospect of having to wear the idiotic contacts. She cleans out her eyes, and then looks at herself in the mirror, quite pleased with herself. Her eyes now flash maroon.
Returning to her room, she removes the itchy school uniform: the navy, pleated skirt, gray jacket, the crisp white shirt, and the navy scarf tied neatly in a bow at her neck. All these mark her as a sophomore at Montebello High School. She replaces these with a tan skirt slightly shorter than knee length, and a black tank top. Smiling, she takes a hand to the jeweled bird necklace she wears. She received it at school today, anonymously placed in her locker. It is a silver chain, with a tiny charm on the end: a silver bird with jeweled eyes and a beak of amber. A note had come with it, written on violet paper.
Never be afraid to fly.
-a friend
As the handwriting was one she had never seen before, she had no idea who the gift-giver was, or for that matter, how he had access to her locker. An admirer perhaps? Her father would hate it, but for now, she is intent on wearing it.
She walks back down the three flights, down the all, and into the drawing room. The house is quiet, too quiet, but something in her knows that she is not alone with the servants. She ignores the feeling however, for she has much to think about, and she intends to go about her pensiveness in her normal way. Yes, her mind is quite full today, much fuller than usual, with much more on it than the mysterious gift. The room is filled with fine art, impressionists and a few nudes, with the addition of several original sketches as well. At the center of the far wall, however, is a harpsichord, a beautiful instrument. This particular one is an incredibly elegant model, a true treasure. Her fingers begin to itch with anticipation as she approaches it.
Some of the stricter house rules that do not usually come up in a household applied to this particular instrument. It was not, under any circumstance, to be used for petty playing, no "heart and soul" or "chopsticks". It is a piece of art, a jewel, and should be treated accordingly. Then there was another rule that applied to her, saying that she was not to play it without the supervision of her father, but that one was unofficially discarded, having been broken too many times. She had indeed followed the rule for some time, until she realized that her father had wanted her to break it, and though he feigned ignorance, she knew that he knew, and he knew that she knew of his knowledge, and therefore there was equilibrium. As for the first rule, she had no desire to break it.
She visited the harpsichord often, as it provided her opportunity to think. There was nothing more stimulating for the mind, in her opinion, than to make beautiful music. And beautiful music she made. She was somewhat of a prodigy when it came to music, and her hands seemed to be naturally designed for piano and harpsichord playing. It was her great love, her first love. Music.
She sits down at the bench, stretching her fingers gently, and begins to play the Moonlit Sonata. As her mind wanders, her fingers never flinch, seeming to know the song as if they had minds of their own. Her playing is beautiful, perfect, and elegant, and she knows this is true. The sonata was her favorite thinking piece as it was calm and relaxing, letting her mind slowly unfold its questions and help it come to conclusions.
She began with the puzzle of the necklace, as that was the less pressing one. She looked handwriting on the note in her mind over and over. It was the one thing that proved the gift was not from her father, as she had expected when she first had opened the black box it had been contained in. It was a necklace of obvious style, of excellent taste, and beautiful craftsmanship. Not from Miguel, she smiled at the thought. Miguel had been trying to call her attentions, and seeing that he was an flea-brained idiot with the intellect of a single celled organism, she was certain the gift could not be from him. However, he was the only admiror she knew about. Perhaps her father disguised his handwriting? Perhaps....
THUNK!
To her horror, a single sound of something banging on the keyboard makes a earsplitting racket. She returns to reality, coming out of the world of her brain, and looks up to see a tiny, gray and white kitten perched atop of the harpsichord.
"Mischa!" she commands, "you do know better than that!"
The kitten mews haughtily in response.
"You may have been worshiped as a goddess in Egypt, but you do know that my mother is the only goddess in this house. Now please come down."
The kitten glares at her, licking its paw clean in a dignified manner. The girl glares back, her maroon eyes meeting the kitten's green. Neither backs off for a minute.
"Off, Mischa," commands the girl.
Seeing that the glaring approach did not work with her owner, the tiny kitten begins to purr and blink its eyes, posing in a cute manner.
The girl giggles as she picks the kitten up by the scruff of its neck, "Ay! Mischa, if you want the pleasure of my company sit on my lap, not on father's harpsichord. You know better than that. Now be good." She places Mischa on her lap; the kitten then curls up in a ball and falls asleep, and the girl continues to play. It is about now when she realizes that she is not alone.
She pretends not to notice, deciding to continue playing, trying to act as all was normal, trying to retreat back into her mind. But she knows it's futile. Her hands, though, never fumble, continuing to play as she tries to let her mind wander. At last, when she can take it no more, she calls out into the shadows.
"You're home early, father."
"Keep playing," he orders, from somewhere in the dancing drawing room shadows. She obeys; her fingers continue to dance, breathing life into each note. After a few seconds of silence, the girl grows impatient, and tries to coax her father out of the shadows yet again.
"Father, I know you're there, there's no reason to pretend I don't."
"Yes, but you are quite fascinating to watch when you play, Elizabeth," her father, none other than the famous Hannibal Lecter steps out of the shadows and sits beside his daughter.
"Am I?" Elizabeth has heard this too many times. She was born with the hands of a pianist or harpsichordist, and the result was something like watching wild creatures in their natural habitat.
"I do not need to tell you again, do I, my dear? It's a shame that all of the great composers have been dead for nearly hundreds of years," her father closes his eyes as if imagining his prodigy playing alongside Mozart.
Elizabeth has known for years now whom her father is. Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal the Cannibal, she knows the names, yet cares naught. Of course, when she learned of this, she was cold and distant for a few days, as was to be expected.
She had a side of her that was, well, rational in the Lecter sense. She realized that her father still was as he had been, and he was the man who had introduced her to literature and music and the other arts, who paid for her clothing, and food, who treated her kindly and with love and respect. The truth made this no different. So the upset feelings were fleeting, and she remained very much her father's daughter.
"Where did you get that necklace," his voice is sharp and commanding. Elizabeth blinks back into reality. She has been dreading this.
"I...found...it...."
"You would not be lying to me, Elizabeth," her father stares into her eyes, which match his own. Elizabeth briskly shakes her head. There were many things she'd dare, but lying to her father was not one of them. She had done so at the age of two, and her father, calm as always, had given her the "rudeness" lecture. He had not yelled, nor had admitted that he knew of her deceit, but rather explained how lying to someone such as he or her mother would be a "crime worse than murder" as neither would ever resort in lying to her. Lying had its place, but surely someone with her breeding would be above the petty lie. He had no tolerance for lying among members of his household. It would be so common, so rude, as he was not one to lie.
Elizabeth had broken down, and her mother thought perhaps the mental punishment had been too harsh for such a young girl. But Elizabeth bounced back, and never had lied to her father or mother since.
"No, father, you know that I would never lie to you. I found it." It was not a lie, for she did find it after all. She just didn't mention that the giver had meant for her to find it.
"Why do I think that is not the whole truth? Was it simply lying on the sidewalk? A diamond in the rough?"
"No..."
"Well then, was it in one of your classrooms?"
"No..."
"Someone left it for you to find didn't they?"
Silence.
"Didn't they, Elizabeth?"
"Well..."
"Didn't they Elizabeth," her father's voice grows sterner with each repetition.
"Y...yes, father. Someone left it in my locker,"
"Just left it there? No indication of their motives?"
Elizabeth looks at her father, knowing that he already is certain what her answer would be. "No, they left me a note. I've never seen the handwriting before in my life. When I saw it, I thought it had been from you or from mother."
"Interesting. Someone has exquisite taste. Too close to mine for comfort."
"You do not approve?"
"I do not like this, Elizabeth. I doubt any of the ruffians whom you call classmates would have thought of something utterly poetic."
"No, I suppose not."
"Wear it for now, but give me the note." He paused for a moment, sniffing the air, "Ah! Your mother's home."
"How can you..." but Elizabeth stops herself before answering the question. She knows better than to ask such questions. Her father always seems to know where her mother is.
She has not told her father the other puzzlement. Her mind turns to the backpack in her room and the "case file" for her civics class within.
***
They are sitting in the drawing room now, and it is after dinner. The family sips coffee and tea, eating some freshly baked biscotti (the cookies remind her father of Florence, where they plan to travel to over the summer) as twilight streams in through one of the windows. Clarise is curled up near her husband, and Mischa takes the liberty of Hannibal's company as way, as he seems to have an affinity for the tiny feline. Perhaps it was because of its name, which Elizabeth had thought of in honor of her father's long-dead sister, or perhaps it was because there was something cat-like about both Clarise and his daughter. As there is not enough room on the leather couch, Elizabeth consents to site on a leather chair nearby. She knows that now is the time to tell of her puzzling predicament.
"Well, in civics our teacher feels the best way to learn about the criminal justice system is to reenact famous trials. So far we've covered cases mostly famous ones, of course, but a few more simplistic. Remember, I was a witness in the O.J. Simpson trial. Well, this time the teacher assigned me to be the prosecuting attorney, but my position is nowhere near so easy. Let's just say Mrs. Copper chose a more...interesting trial."
"And that would be?" although her mother can guess by the tone of her daughter's voice.
"The trial of Hannibal Lecter."
Her father tries to keep his composure, but fails miserably. He laughs his maniacal laugh, which wakes Mischa, and she scrambles hurriedly to the safety of Elizabeth's lap, clinging to her owner fearfully with claws for a moment.
"I fail to see the humor in this," Elizabeth groans, as she strokes her kitten thoughtfully, "I have to stand up there and attempt to condemn my father to death in front of my entire class."
"They don't know that, do they my dear," her father mentions.
"Well..no...of course not."
He is grinning slyly now, "Quite amusing irony, isn't it? Well, I'd be happy to help. I know every single argument against me better than the attorneys who argued them!"
"Father..."
"Most amusing...most amusing...."
"But father, we're doing more than reenacting the trial, but adding the new crimes! I'm supposed to provide evidence on how you killed mother!"
Both Hannibal and Clarise have trouble containing their mirth.
"Sweet irony! How shall we say I had you, darling? Sautéed in butter sauce? No, no, that would never do. Something more sweet would be fitting, I'd have you for dessert, yes with honey, and berries and a lovely dessert wine." Clarise leans back into him seductively, and he smiles, but then Clarise regains her composure and feigns shock, "You know that most people would scream in terror hearing you say that. For that matter, who has meat for dessert?"
She laughs along with him.
"I'm I the only one who doesn't think this is funny?" Elizabeth is beginning to feel like the most mentally awake person in the room.
"It will be fun, I can assure you. Besides, if you were to decline, they would suspect something. But Elizabeth, does it not appeal to your sense of fun? Think of it as acting!"
"It is a bit awkward...isn't it?"
"Out of every student in the class they choose my daughter to prosecute me! Just of curiosity, do they have someone playing me?"
Elizabeth sighs, "Yes, but I do not think I'd better tell you much about him if you wish to avoid moving for a while."
Hannibal Lecter raises an eyebrow, "That bad?"
Elizabeth groans, "worse."
"Try me."
"His name is Miguel Tripe. He believes he's a genious when I've had more exciting conversations with an earthworm."
"Somehow, I don't think you've talked to earthworms. Kittens, now that's another story," Clarise laughs.
"Mischa's part of the family." As if in agreement, the kitten walks over to Clarise and purrs loudly.
Clarise sighs in defeat as she reaches down to scratch the cat behind the ears and under her chin, "I suppose so the way the two of you spoil her. The only cat in existence that I know of who gets a daily dose of caviar."
***
There is a man in the shadows with revenge in his eyes.
He stays in a hotel, and although it is very late, he is wide-awake. He probably has not slept in days. This mission...this crazy mission...it haunted him.
It was necessary. He knew that. He needed...deserved revenge. He needed what should have been his.
Some may call him crazy. He was prepared for that. But he would never rest until this mission was complete.
Never.
Ever.
***
Clarise has changed much since her disappearance from the real world. Calmer, and happier would be the best words to describe her. Sometimes she is not sure whom to love more, her husband or her daughter. And so she loves them both in a way she could never have fathomed.
She ponders these as she lies in bed at tonight. Usually she would be asleep by now, but Hannibal has told her about the bird necklace. And she wonders. Elizabeth does not think highly of the boys in her class, and in either case Clarise doubts any of them have enough money lying around to actually purchase it, if her daughter misjudged any of their characters. She is worried, more worried than she has been in a while. It was like at the beginnings of her glorious new life, when she would flinch constantly in the night thinking she heard a siren or something of the sort trying to take her away and awaken her from her glorious new dream-like existence. She couldn't help but get the feeling that someone had darker motives, perhaps someone from the past, or perhaps a new foe.
He had tried, of course, to calm these worries, but the lambs had started screaming again. That feeling of panic, that instability.
"They are screaming, aren't they?" the soft whisper comes soothingly into her ear. She squirms with the surprise; she had thought him asleep. And yet, even in slumber he always seemed to know exactly where she was and how she felt.
"Yes..." she whispers.
"Then I shall have to silence them." He leans over and kisses her deeply, and she is more than willing to return the kiss. It is one of compassion, at first, but that soon melts away to hunger.
His method is one of great accuracy. Soon her doubts vanish from her mind. Clarise floats on the air of dreams. She is his, and as long as this is so, all will be alright.
***
Soon night blends into dawn, which blends into day. The quad of Montebello High is dotted with the gray and navy of the uniforms. The boys' uniform is not too different from the girls': navy slacks, white shirt, gray jacket and navy tie. Elizabeth sits in the shade of the overhang by the classrooms, talking casually to her friend Trista.
Trista is an Asian girl, tiny in stature, but large in intellect, with a beautiful alto singing voice that makes Elizabeth jealous. They sit and eat their lunches; today they have brought a different variety of sushi each, and exchange pieces with each other.
"Can you believe I only have a B in civics? A B! It's because of the flu I had the a few weeks ago! So much work to make up! Can you believe?" Trista groans, although she knows that many students right now would kill for a B in the class in question, "Now this stupid trial thing. I hope she doesn't grade you down if you loose the trial." Trista is to play Dr. Lecter's defense lawyer in the trial simulation.
"What makes you think you'll loose?" Elizabeth shrugs and helps herself to one of Trista's spicy tuna rolls.
"Let's see, maybe because A) even if a panel of teachers act as the jury, they still will be bias because there is not a person in real life who believes he didn't do it, B) Miguel has decided not to help me at all, or even tell me his plans for the testimony, and C) You are my opponent."
Elizabeth smiles, "What would that have to do with anything? I thought it was a pretty even match."
"Don't flatter me! At least you have cooperative witnesses I spent the entire period listening to that little idiot ramble on and on. I guess it fits, the psychopath playing the psychopath."
Elizabeth knows not whether to be disgusted or amused. "Well, in that case, he'll be believable." She decides to go with amusement. The girls laugh, and Trista takes one of Elizabeth's smoked salmon pieces."
"Hello Liz!" Elizabeth cringes at the nickname as she turns around to face Miguel.
"Good afternoon," she grumbles.
"Hey, Liz, I was wondering, do you need any help on your trial work? My father's a policeman and so he has access to all this really cool stuff."
"I have better resources than your father could even imagine."
"Ah, comeon! You'd need to talk to the doctor himself to get better info than what I've got."
Elizabeth works hard to contain her urge to laugh at the irony.
"I've got a great house, and my dad keeps some ciggies 'round. He's always gone, and you never know what kind of 'goodies' he leaves around. We could have lots of fun," he winks, in attempt to be smooth, but this is ruined by his obvious lack of experience, and also his normal "good-boy" image. If he thinks that acting like some kind of jerk is going to get her to even give him half a wink, he is greatly mistaken.
"And furthermore, I do not know anyone named 'Liz' sitting here. The last time I checked we have a Trista, an ELIZABETH, and a dimwit."
Miguel snorts rudely as he laughs, not realizing that she was not laughing with him. "Aw, you're so funny! Hey! That's a really cool pen." He picks up the ordinary BIC pen that is on the bench. "I've been looking for one like this. Where did you get it?"
Elizabeth rolls her eyes at his desperation, "I believe you can find it at a stationary store. That's stationary. Not grocery. Not clothing. Not antique. But stationary."
She stands up to walk away, and Trista joins her. Annoyed at the rejection, he calls after the girls. "Hey Trista, about the dance next week..."
They are long gone.
Three hours later, she is in good spirits as she leaves school, but stops to check in her locker. So far, there have been no notes or gifts from her mysterious correspondent today, but something in her tells her to check again. Nothing.
Elizabeth likes to walk home, instead of being chauffeured. There is something thought provoking about it, and usually she walks along, in her own thoughts, uninterrupted.
But not today. Today a harsh, whispered tone tickles her ear, and she looks to the side from whence the voice came.
"Elizabeth."
She sees a man, sitting under a tree near the school, head hidden mostly under a hat. She can barely see his face, but she can tell that he is somewhat older than mother, perhaps about father's age or perhaps a little younger. If only she could see more of his face!
Part of her panics and wants to run. Part of her wants to yowl like her kitten, Mischa and vanish to safety or a private corner. But there is another part of her that is strangely intrigued with this stranger who seems to know her.
"Who are you?" she asks. Has she forgotten that curiosity killed the cat?
The man seems to smile, but it is hard to tell with the hat there. "I know your father," was all he replied with.
This seems suspicious, but Elizabeth is now overcome with wonder. Perhaps she'll investigate just a while longer and then leave at a safe distance. If he makes any attempt at anything, she knows that his sweetbreads will be served in a cream sauce reduction, or something to the degree.
"That does not answer my question," she says, "And I'd like to know how you know my name."
"I have my resources. Elizabeth, does your father ever hurt you? Does he ever hurt your mother?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't think I don't know. I see you're wearing the necklace. That's just a reminder, that if you ever need help, you have a place to fly away to."
Elizabeth is confused, and afraid at the same time. Sudden panic grips her and she runs, not looking back until she's a comfortable number of blocks away from the tree.
She knows she should tell her father as soon as possible, but something inside her says "no". Says "wait. Wait and see". What if the man was right? Was she living an illusion? True, she did know whom her father was, but what if he had been killing, without telling her and her mother, or something to the degree. Wouldn't this go against everything he'd ever taught her? She'd tell him, but later, after she had a clearer view on things. It wasn't lying if she simply forgot to mention it.
***
This vengeful man is quite pleased with himself. Ashamed that he must resort to such similar tactics as the doctor, but pleased at their effectiveness. It would take a little coaxing, yes, but he had no doubt that he was more than able to win.
His mission was one of mercy. He was the righteous one here. Just because he resorted to evil tactics meant nothing. His cause was one of justice and fairness.
Fairness.
Righteousness.
Truth.
***
"Father, was there ever a time that mother was afraid of you?"
She did not know where the words came from. Perhaps they came from deep within her, the thing that told her not to tell him about the mysterious man.
Her father raises an eyebrow. "What would you suspect the answer to that is, Elizabeth?"
"Well, I'd assume the answer would be yes..."
"Pray tell, why does this suddenly come up? Is it the trial?"
She doesn't want to lie. She can't lie. "I'm not sure what it is. I just suddenly thought of it." That was pretty much the truth.
Hannibal Lecter, of course, is not so easily fooled. He knows something is wrong, but decides not to press it. He will find out his own way soon enough.
***
The man is waiting for Elizabeth again when she leaves school the next day.
"Hello Elizabeth, did you have a good day at school?"
She is shocked at his familiar tone, but reminds herself of the plan. See what he is up to.
"Good as can be expected. Please sir, I believe you have the unfair advantage of knowing my name when I don't know yours."
"My name is....Drawcrof. James Drawcrof."