Disclaimer: Thomas Harris created them, I'm just borrowing them.

Author's Note: I got the inspiration for this after listening to the Better Than Ezra song Porcelain. This was written a while back, and I decided to go on and post it here. Hope y'all enjoy.


Porcelain

As I lay in bed next to her in the middle of the night, I often find myself considering her skin. It is a light bisque color, smooth and even like the finest porcelain. She sleeps nude now that she is with me, only wearing underwear on those nights when she is menstruating. And then, it is only dark-colored, high cut briefs that she chooses, stating she feels more secure in those than the bikinis and hipsters she normally wears during the days. Currently, she is near the middle of her cycle and is sleeping soundly beside me. It is a full moon tonight, and the shades are up, the room illuminated by the pale light which seems to make her fair skin glow where it strikes her. There are no unsightly scars to blemish that sweet flesh, just the gentle scattering of freckles—which I find quite charming and adorable on her. I tease her that she has been dappled with paint and have even gone so far as to call her Spot on occasion. She always laughs at this pet name and maintains that the only thing truly frightening about me is my atrocious sense of humor.

I look back down at her, lying on her side, body curled slightly towards mine. She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, though I know my opinion is biased greatly by the extent to which I am familiar with her mind and body. It is times such as this that I realize just how fragile she truly is. All her determination and fierce bravado are there to make up for the insecurities and doubts that plague her. I have worked extensively with her to rid these thoughts from her mind, but some still remain, despite my labors. At first, I thought I could recreate her, form her into my ideal of what she should be. It was not long before I discovered that no matter the efforts expended, her transformation would be solely in and of her own choosing. It seems in unlocking the doors of her mind, I have freed her until she is somewhat beyond my grasp. The woman who emerged from the depths of the trapped bird I first met is not at all what I had imagined when starting this particular venture. However, I must admit to being wholly pleased with the results.

It does irk me, though, that I cannot own her as I had wished. Nor is she completely predictable, managing to surprise me on numerous occasions. She frightens me at times with the way that she catches me off guard, her intensity and insight and passion exceeding all expectations. I feel that I was perhaps too thorough in my task of remaking her. There are moments when I discover myself near panic at the thought of any person breaking my boundaries as she does. In those instances, I have a sudden rushing desire to slice into her yielding flesh with my blade, put an end to the gaze with which she sears my soul. It is a need to remove the force of her intrusion into my mind, to turn on her, rip her open and see into her as fully as she sees into me. Somehow, she has surpassed me, and I worry that she will leave me eventually. It occurs to me at those times that if I killed her, she would finally be mine entirely—her last and best love.

Then I look at her, as I am looking at her now, and I am so entranced by her porcelain skin shining like a beacon—all light and beauty—that it eclipses my darkness.