My friend Martha is always telling me how she has plenty of bad days. If she had been anyone other than my best friend I would have sharply cut her off years ago, but since she means so much to me I pretend to listen and understand.
Myself, I am a pretty optimistic and level headed person, or I was until the 22nd May 2013. Why was that day so disconcerting and traumatic someone as unknowledgeable as you may ask dear reader? Well it was the day I discovered that my husband, Hannibal Lecter was a cannibalistic serial killer.
A serial killer I can imagine you gasping in disbelief! How dreadful! I can assure you thoughts similar to these but with many more swear words swarmed in my head as I let Jack Crawford and Will Graham inside our home. I didn't view Will Graham as much of a threat (mainly because I was an inch taller than his small 5'9 height) but Jack Crawford was rather imposing with his flashing eyes and funny hat.
Well before I delve into the most renowned aspect of my years, perhaps I should introduce myself formally, after all it is only polite.
My name is Elizabeth Isabella Mary Fitzbourne. I am a Scottish countess who was born and raised in the highlands. I was a very precocious child and graduated early on and obtained a degree in law at Cambridge University. However at nineteen, I was being pressured to marry an American steel magnate who in my opinion was rather vulgar and uncouth. Luckily that fell through and I was married to Count Hannibal Lecter. Though arranged, I was also reverently in love with him and believed him to possess similar feelings. At twenty-two I had a daughter named Anastasia and three years later I had a son called John. I was happy with my law firm and family and deeply enjoyed living in Baltimore. Well I was until now.
When they left I staggered off the couch and into the kitchen for a glass of vodka. Such news was downright painful to take and I felt nauseous with disgust and revulsion. I put my head in my hands and cried, glad the children were asleep and unable to hear me. I had about three glasses of straight vodka and considered taking some pills before deciding against it. I didn't think having an overdose would solve anything at this point. So I decided to write down everything in a journal like I used to do as a child. I find such things more therapeutic then talking as he used to insist we do. It must be a Lithuanian psychiatrist thing, as we British are against such things.
I do hope you will continue reading my story. I want people to know my side of the story instead of Freddie Lounds or Jack Crawford's version. I try to aspire to a stoic Jackie Kennedy, but I long to be able to express my thoughts and feelings instead of bottling them up.
Elizabeth Fitzbourne