Note:

I began this story with a simple question: how does Clarice Starling manage her rage?

For a long time, I struggled with finding the answer. I returned to what Thomas Harris had written. The precise moment I realized Clarice was struggling to understand too was during one rather small occurrence in the novel Silence of the Lambs. It begins with her investigating Raspail's storage unit, following Hannibal Lecter's suggestion of a Valentine's Day gift. She certainly finds the Valentines, as well as a ghastly head in a jar. Then she finds herself unzipping the fly of the hard mannequin beside her to find a "dildo of polished, inlaid wood. Good sized one, too. Starling wondered if she was depraved."

Clarice is harassed by a media crew outside, and asks them, politely at first, not to disturb anything inside. A cameraman persists, which sends her "over the edge." She's quite content to force the rusty, heavy storage door down until it almost crushes him in order to prove her point.

I found all of this terribly amusing. And absurdly accurate to how trains of thought can sometimes crash in our own minds, without logic or precise destination. Probably arriving late, as well, and resulting in-

Anger. Ruthlessness. The need for social-acceptance. Sexual frustration. A steady gun hand-her right, more than her left. For all of Clarice's charm, intelligence, wit, and affable personality, it was obvious that something was not quite right with her. Since Harris kindly provides us with the 'why' eventually, I decided to just...adjust it. And figure out what exactly 'it' was as a result, and what it would make Clarice Starling do. I realized I could only find out the answer to my original question by writing it myself. Keeping all of this in mind, I considered another question, the right one this time:

What if Clarice Starling doesn't manage her rage?

In the vaunted halls of Behavioural Science, located on the bottom floor of the Academy building at Quantico, no one mentioned the name Clarice Starling without their eyes darkening in pain like the spaces left behind by burned out stars.

The younger trainees were studious, clean, and as blank as the sheets of paper they huddled over. They murmured in low voices. Words of caution dulled their ambition; she'd had ambition too, hadn't she? She had once been just like them, ravenous, fearless, eager. Had she felt just as bored and lonely? Did her dreams also hang by a thread that could have been cut by the higher-ups at any moment? It was difficult to be sure, so it was best to be careful and work, work, work. Without question.

Such a merciless philosophy could only have been supported by Jack Crawford, the Agent-In-Charge of Behavioural Science. He was a tall, gaunt man with beady brown eyes peering suspiciously behind thick framed glasses. His chair creaked when he leaned back. Moving added more creases to his long-unironed grey, corduroy suit. The harsh light overhead threw parts of his cramped office into shadow. The baby-blue walls were like those in the hallway except they peeled a bit more; the stale air was rather exhausting; and the yellowed portable air conditioner cowering in the corner emitted more cold than was really necessary. Yet Crawford could not stop sweating.

He shoved aside some stacks of unwanted bureau supplies, which were gratified by the mirth of a bagel, and sipped what could be referred to as coffee, which was little more than weakly flavoured, lukewarm water.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was not impressed.

"Thank you for coming on such short notice." Crawford said. "Starling finally sent Avery, our regular psychiatrist, away in tears yesterday. His resignation landed on my desk earlier this morning."

It was irritating for Dr. Lecter to know that earlier the very same morning, he had been strolling through a fresh produce market in downtown Baltimore. His enjoyment of the aromas was short lived, for he had realized that his leisurely plans for the rest of the Sunday were suddenly cancelled by Crawford's phone call.

"The drive was quite lengthy." Dr. Lecter stated. His voice was clipped and cool, his composure well under control, and the gleam in his eyes could have been from the angle of the light instead of the glee he felt watching Crawford squirm. "I wonder, why this sudden urgency? You mentioned that Special Agent Starling has already been in custody for quite some time."

Crawford winced at her title, as if he had scraped the delicate skin of his long, bony fingers on a rusty nail. "It'll be a year by the end of February. Feels longer. Hell, it seems like the vultures at those papers like The Tattler can't quit hanging around the asylum for an 'exclusive' interview." He turned and rummaged through the heavy filing cabinets behind him. Eventually, he slammed a thick file on the desk. Sheets of paper protruded from the sides.

"I'm sure you can understand how delicate the situation is, Dr. Lecter."

"Certainly."

Crawford leaned forward on his elbows. "We need a psychological profile on Clarice Starling. What she did..." He paused. His skin seemed to crawl. "It can't happen again. We can't risk any more psychos passing through this Academy."

"You're quite right of course." Dr. Lecter replied smoothly. The gleam in his eyes intensified. "We don't want a repeat of what happened to Will Graham, now do we?"

Dr. Lecter pursed his lips when Crawford pretended not to hear and slid the file towards him.

"This is her dossier. She simply refuses to cooperate, so if anything will help you break her, this is it." Crawford exhaled slowly. "I expect regular reporting on your progress. I want the first report faxed to me on Wednesday by oh-eight hundred hours."

"It would have saved me time had you simply mailed the dossier, or even faxed poor Avery's preliminary assessment." Dr. Lecter said dryly. He rose to his feet and adjusted the deep red tie nestled between the lapels of his black suit. "Please don't tell me that I drove five hours just for this Mr. Crawford."

A flush crept up Crawford's collar and behind his ears. He cleared his throat. "Well, not quite. Before you hit the road back to Baltimore, I uh, wanted you to talk to Special Agent Ardelia Mapp. She was Starling's roommate. She's the black girl with braids, you can't miss her. Last I saw her, she was outside the cafeteria."

Dr. Lecter promptly took his leave with Agent Starling's file tucked under his right arm. The elevator carried him back to the well lit surface, filled with bustling secretaries, interns, and Special Agents. Many shot him curious looks, most swerved out of his steady way. He wrinkled his nose when the myriad of smells from the cafeteria reached him. It was a relief that nothing appealed to his appetite. Glancing outside the window, he saw a young woman sitting on a metal bench. Ms. Mapp was as unmistakable as Crawford had described. Her dark hair was long and braided, she wrapped it around her left forefinger repeatedly. She wore a pale yellow jumper to accommodate the cold weather, and it stood out wonderfully against her skin. Dr. Lecter wondered if she was proud or wary to know that it set her apart from her peers.

He waded through the noise and the sweat and the suffocation of the crowd, opened the door to a small patch of gnarled, thin trees surrounded by hedges, and approached her.

"Hello, Special Agent Mapp. I'm Dr. Hannibal Lecter."

"Thank God!"

Ms. Mapp shot to her feet and for a moment seemed to contemplate hugging him. To his relief, she refrained, but the gladness in her voice was evident.

"I've been wanting to talk to you ever since Crawford locked Clarice up. He finally caved had somethin' to do with that other psychiatrist getting the hell out of dodge."

"I can't say I blame him, Ms. Mapp."

She smiled crookedly. "Yeah, Clarice can drive someone crazy if she wants to, trust me."

"With all due respect, many would say that Special Agent Starling has been, if I may use your words, 'driven crazy.'"

"Aint for me to say. It's for you, isn't it? Because you're going to save Clarice?"

Dr. Lecter considered her evenly. She did not appear, at first glance, to be naive. Her stance was guarded and firm, her words ringing with honesty, and thus confidence. He knew he did not lack the proper skill for the task at hand. Perhaps Ms. Mapp knew it too. Or rather, she believed it. Ah yes, she was being hopeful. Her question was born out of the need for assurance.

"You have my word that I will do everything in my power to help Agent Starling."

Ms. Mapp nodded. "You'd better. She was a damn good roommate, and an even better friend. Saved my ass a coupla times."

"Have you been to see her recently?"

"Just once. For her birthday, on the twenty third of December. I-"

Dr. Lecter carefully lowered himself on the bench beside Ms. Mapp when her legs suddenly failed her. His expression gave nothing away as he listened to her trembling voice.

"I know what she did. Everyone does. It probably aint right. But I know the Clarice that stayed up all night helping me study for exams, even when she was dog tired. I know the Clarice that taught me how to really use a gun, girl was a champ with the pistol. I know the Clarice that always offered smiles and help to everyone. I never saw her cry. Wish I did."

Ms. Mapp brushed her nose with her sleeve angrily. "It aint right that I graduated and moved on, and Clarice graduated and got locked up. Crawford's a snake. He promised her a place in Behavioural Science right after she was done. She's got four stone walls and nothin', now. He screwed her over just like Judas n' Jesus."

Dr. Lecter pondered this silently. Then he said: "I have not yet had the chance to read her case file. Would you be so kind as to tell me why you wanted to speak with me so adamantly?"

Ms. Mapp took a deep breath. The ground was easier to look at. "'Cause when I went to see Clarice, I couldn't figure her out anymore. I just can't-I can't believe that the same person could..."

Dr. Lecter felt a pang of annoyance at the prolonged delay of information, but counseled himself to wait until Ms. Mapp gulped more air into her lungs and continued.

"The Director of the Justice Department, Paul Krendler, was a real awful piece of work. He liked to grope his secretary while he was on the phone talkin' sweet to his wife. I saw him do it. Well one day he decided he liked Clarice." Ms. Mapp frowned and shifted uncomfortably. "She didn't care for him. Told him so, too many times, and came back distraught to let me know he was at it again. I'd had it half in my mind to straighten him out myself, not just for Clarice, for all the other girls too, but-"

Ms. Mapp shuddered and her eyes grew distant. "Krendler crossed the line. He kept beating down Clarice for so long, I thought even she gave up. He demanded a date after one of her assignments. I was out that evening so she took him back to our place. This was while all the other stuff with her was going on, y'know, and-" She closed her eyes tightly. Forced the words out. "When I came back, I found Clarice sitting at the dinner table holding a bloody knife, her shirt all splattered with blood, and-and the top of Krendler's head was cut clean off. His brain was leaking onto the table. A piece was left on her plate, too. Fried or something. I don't remember, I try not to, but I just-I can't believe the Clarice I know would do that." she choked out finally.

When she managed to look at Dr. Lecter again, she saw that he sat very stiffly. The strangest half-smile was on his lips, along with something raw and strong in his eyes. She was reminded of the way wolves bear down on a bleeding deer, the way masks can hide private amusement by presenting a somber, familiar face. She felt absurd.

"You've been very kind indeed, Ms. Mapp." he was saying as stood up again. His fingers were brushing the cover of Clarice's case file in a circular motion. "No doubt it is difficult for you to consider Clarice as a killer. But wouldn't you say that her actions warranted her punishment?"

"Uh...I guess."

"And you consider her your friend. Do you think she still considers you her friend?"

Ms. Mapp inhaled sharply and took too long to answer. "I-I don't know."

"Could it be, Ms. Mapp, that you are no longer willing to be Agent Starling's friend because the truth does not agree with you?"

"I don't agree with it."

The long drive back to Baltimore was an excellent opportunity for Dr. Lecter to reflect on the morning he had passed. His Jaguar purred on the road that wound through the flat, pretty, empty fields reaped of their worth. Agent Starling was contained between pages on the leather seat beside him. When he pulled over to stretch his legs, he studied a photograph of her face. Shoulder length, thick titian-coloured hair; a soft, round face; coral red, full lips; and piercing blue eyes that stared at him with an expression of intensity just shy of full bloom. It was strange, yet beautiful. Unexpected, Dr. Lecter thought. His mind worked quickly to find the proper word, and he smiled at the choice: selcouth. Truly, that was a word reserved to connote unfamiliar exquisiteness, to describe the extraordinary.

Upon returning home, his mood was light, although he was physically weary. He hummed jovially while preparing sushi, inhaling deeply of the fresh and spicy scents that filled the kitchen. He perused Starling's file in between delicate sips of hot tea. Her service record was impeccable, except for the incidents that had led to her incarceration, of course. The first occurred while she had been investigating the storage unit of one Benjamin Raspail; a cameraman from the media crew preying outside had been a bit too aggressive in questioning Starling, a bit too insistent on crawling underneath the storage door to investigate for himself where he was clearly not permitted. So she had promptly crushed the man's chest with the storage door, claiming that she hadn't been able to hold it up long enough because she lacked the strength of a man, naturally.

The second and third incidents happened simultaneously on the FBI's shooting range. Starling was a sure shot, and her aim had found two male Agents that were, in her own statement, "obscuring her view." A wound in the neck here, a wound in the stomach there. All lead to bleeding out in the hospital. The investigation had dragged on for quite some time.

Then there was the incident with Paul Krendler.

Dr. Lecter set aside the case file. He remained quite still while his thoughts ordered themselves separately from his emotions. A dark scowl gathered on his face. Starling shared a disconcerting amount of similarities with his previous patient, Will Graham. His service record had been exemplary; indeed, he had been the keenest hound to ever run in Jack Crawford's pack. But he had a lovely wife and young daughter, and his frail temperament hadn't been able to sustain the weight of two loyalties. Such unrelenting stress gnawed at him day after day, the inevitable choice between his family and his duty to the FBI. In the end, he hadn't even been left in his right mind to be able to choose.

A sense of foreboding found and held him until harsh morning light filtered through the heavy curtains. He was still sitting upright, awake, tense, sustained by Starling's intrigue and finally meeting her in a few short hours. By the time he arrived at the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane, fine rain pattered on the roof, slithered down the grimy windows, and clung heavily to his thinning, neatly slicked hair and navy blue suit. Dr. Lecter was admitted into Frederick Chilton's office and told to wait, a request he tolerated out of simple courtesy.

He read the plaque on Chilton's desk, which declared him Director; he smirked at the M.D. diploma hanging on the wall, which looked decidedly questionable in its authenticity; and he adjusted and re-adjusted his grip on his briefcase every time his eyes noticed the appalling shade of sickly green used to adorn the lampshades, the curtains, and the patience was nearing its end when Chilton burst into the room with a sleazy swagger and a terrible checkered suit.

"Nobody knows what the hell they're doing here!" He walked past Dr. Lecter and sank into the chair, putting his feet up on the desk. "So, you're Hannibal Lecter."

"M.D., at your service." Dr. Lecter said with an icy smile.

"Great. Crawford informed me that you wanted to see Clarice Sterling."

"I believe it is Starling, Doctor Chilton."

Chilton waved a hand dismissively. "It doesn't make a difference. Half of 'em can't even remember their names anyway. I sure as shit won't do it for them. It's not my job." he mumbled as he stood up.

"What exactly is your job then?"

"To get you to Starling." he snapped, glaring at Dr. Lecter and opening the door.

The asylum had the same feeling and presence as the thick sorrow and listlessness that belonged to wasteland burials. Unmarked, nameless stretches of hard earth; the monolithic sky pressing low; useless, illogical items and smells; and hopelessness. The end of the world. Buried alive up to your bloodshot eyes with whatever was left of you. Usually, not much. Not anything worth remembering once your screams were suffocated.

A sheen of sweat had settled on Dr. Lecter's skin. He was a fit man, perhaps a bit vain, but mostly meticulous about his health. Wiping his brow had nothing to do with extreme physical exertion and everything to do with the banal cameras and bureaucrats and office cubicles and old air and Chilton's droning voice.

"I keep her separately from all the others." he was saying as they were buzzed through a series of iron security doors. "Crawford thinks it's for her well being."

The cold stone walls echoed with their footsteps. Chilton opened a heavy black door. A metal staircase gleamed in the pale lights overhead. They trudged upwards.

"Crawford's clever, using you." he remarked.

"What do you mean?" Dr. Lecter asked, his nostrils flaring.

"You're a sleek, well groomed, well respected middle-aged man." Chilton huffed a breath. "I suspect that ought to remind Starling of her late father. You know how it is with those compone country gals."

Dr. Lecter had a deliciously satisfying vision of sinking his teeth into Chilton's neck, basking in the warm blood that would flow from the ruptured jugular vein. Such an insult could not be tolerated, but the vision was all too brief.

"Alright, here are the rules: do not approach her cage, do not attempt to pass her anything, or accept whatever she may pass you, and do not tell her anything personal." Chilton said, ticking his fingers off one by one. He offered a simpering smile. "Don't know why you would, anyway. But they make me say that. In case you get tempted, the orderly will haul your ass out, understand?"

"Oh, yes."

Chilton nodded curtly, spun on his heel, and walked away. Dr. Lecter squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on his briefcase before pushing the door open. It thudded shut behind him and the sound reverberated through the large, high ceilinged room. There were no windows. It was deep and wide, yet eerily walked over tentatively to a tall, well built, black man wearing a plain white uniform and sitting innocuously behind a splintering desk.

"Hullo," he said pleasantly, "I'm Barney."

They shook hands with a firm grip. Barney jerked his chin towards the cage. "She's expecting your company. Please stick to the rules, and I won't actually have to do my job. I've set up a chair for you."

"Thank you, Barney."

"I'll be minding my own business now, you go on."

Dr. Lecter nodded solemnly and slowly approached the cage. A single lamp spilled light from between the bars. Its glow shifted across the polished hardwood floor that creaked beneath his heel. He drew nearer and saw the long shadows cast by a rickety nightstand, a curtain protecting the privacy of anyone seated on the toilet behind it, a small heap of books, and a thin cot. Clarice Starling was seated on it with her left leg elegantly crossed at her right knee and her hands folded together. She wore an ill-fitting, faded blue prisoner's jumpsuit. She managed a smile when Dr. Lecter stood by the chair.

"Good mornin'."

"Special Agent Starling, my name is Hannibal Lecter. I've come to speak with you, if you will indulge me."

Her smile turned into a frown and she narrowed her eyes. He found himself disappointed at the sight, an unexpected twinge sharp somewhere in his chest. The soft drawl in her voice lengthened and coated some words with dry dust, whiskey, smoke, and a down-to-earth self assurance.

"Did Crawford tell you to keep calling me that?"

"No. But I hold you to higher standards than he does, Agent Starling." Dr. Lecter insisted.

She bristled. "No 'Agent Starling.' The FBI doesn't want me anymore. So cut the shit, Doctor."

He nodded. "As you wish, Miss Starling."

Starling rolled her eyes, stood up and leaned against the cage. Her hands ceaselessly ran up and down the bars. The smooth motion seemed to keep her calm.

"I suppose you want to get all inside my head, like Avery."

"Not quite." Dr. Lecter raised an eyebrow. "While I believe I'm a rather more qualified psychiatrist than he is, your mind is your own. All I can offer you is my company. Barney told me you get quite...lonely."

At the mention of his name, Starling's face brightened. Her eyes twinkled. "Right. Well please sit down, Doctor."

He complied, setting the briefcase across his thighs and clicking it open. "I will have to make some notes during our conversations, Miss Starling, or Jackie Boy will be terribly upset."

"He never did know how to control that temper of his. Takes time an' patience." Starling giggled.

Dr. Lecter smiled. "I agree. Now please tell me how that temper of yours caused you to crush a man's chest with a storage door."

"It wasn't my temper."

"Then why did you do it?"

She shrugged.

Dr. Lecter scrawled a note and quickly glanced at the file before him. "Your service record is impressive, except for these incidents. Surely you must have an explanation for them."

Stretching out an arm between the bars, she asked, "Will you let me read what they've said about me?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Please?"

Dr. Lecter ran his tongue over his bottom lip. It glistened in the light. "It doesn't matter what they say. It matters what you have to say for yourself."

Her fingers twitched for a moment before she slowly retracted her hand. "He was harassing me. Demanding me to let him into that damn storage unit. I obviously couldn't do that because the FBI was investigating Raspail's disappearance. He wouldn't listen! I tried to warn him."

The scribbling of the pen offered a counterpoint melody to her strained voice. "He just dismissed me. He didn't care. He didn't listen. Now he's dead, and you're listening."

Dr. Lecter stared at Clarice Starling. She was sitting on the cot again, bathed in light. "Miss Starling, do you wish you had done anything differently?"

She twirled a bit of her hair thoughtfully. "I wish I'd slammed the door down even harder. But my arms were too tired."

"So you do have some regrets, then."

"Sometimes I think about how everyone that I ever ended up meeting-Ardelia, Crawford, Mrs. Tracy, my landlady, John Brigham, my pistol instructor-they're all responsible for getting me here just as much as I am. Sometimes I wish life hadn't happened this way, an' I mean it."

In his peripheral vision, Dr. Lecter saw Barney beckoning him. "For that to be true, think of how many people need never have been born." he answered quickly, closing her file.

"Or how many need to die."

Dr. Lecter tilted his head slightly to the right. Here was a mind that was spinning so loudly out of control, he could hear the whining of it in the air, feel the almost palpable disturbances of thoughts. If he could taste her mind, he would surely find traces of a bittersweet residue on his tongue that no amount of wine could wash away. It would be a strangely familiar taste. Yes, Miss Starling's mind was also selcouth. But could he even slow its rotation, much less ease it into stillness? Could he construct a profile that gave the FBI the answers they wanted?

Gathering his briefcase, glancing at Starling with a note of wistfulness, Dr. Lecter was amused by the thought that although he did not lack the proper skill, he did find himself suddenly lacking the motivation.