Inexorable Loss
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Thomas Harris (whom I absolutely adore). This work is not being used for any profit.
"What now?"
Questioning dark blue eyes locked onto mine. Dear, Starling, always so direct - so unafraid. Even now, as she huddles in the corner of this room, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths, I feel myself pulled towards her. With pale skin nearly caked in dirt and her face spattered with her own burgundy blood, my beautiful Starling still radiates that life I crave.
"Perhaps you would like to sit on something more comfortable. . ." I slowly motion my hand towards a distasteful leather chair nearby. "I can't imagine this cheap carpet providing you with anything more than an infection for your wounds."
She continues to gaze into my eyes. I allow a faint grin to reach my lips. Ex-Special Agent Starling will never truly be rid of this Bureau-instilled caution.
My muscles tense as she rises her weakened body from the floor. She stands erect before me, her very being trembling with the sheer effort of it. Clumps of wet hair desperately clutch at her cheeks. Her right arm is held close to her body at an odd angle. Slowly - proudly- my Starling stumbles toward the chair next to her. She winces in obvious pain as she collapses into the empty seat.
"Clarice. . ." I slip next to her. "Small, wounded Clarice."
She flinches as I place my hands onto her injured shoulder. A last struggle. She arches her back in attempt to push herself away from me. Am I loathsome to point where you not allow me to even touch you, Starling? She fights me still as I increase my pressure on her shoulder. A guttural scream. My hear wrenches inside my chest. This will end. I feel bone grind underneath my hands as I push with the needed amount of strength. She is kicking now, her good arm reaching towards me, scratching me. I am greeted with a thick pop and all is still. I release her shoulder and step in front of the chair. He eyes are closed and lightly fluttering. Passed out. My hand finds its way to her soft darkened cheek. My knees bend and I am kneeling.
"Pleasant dreams, my girl," I whisper, my head resting upon her lap.
I have set the wing of my broken Starling. And all will be well.