You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to
To save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch it now
Here he comes…
The dark, cold corner of a bathroom, the bottoms of its walls stained green with mold. Clarice Starling sits, alone in the damp, swimming through her thoughts. Her back is to the wall, the side of her face - her ugly ear, her faux mouche meaning 'courage' - is pressed against the cool porcelain of the bathtub. It's not her bathtub; she is in Ardelia's side of the house, where it is cleaner and more peaceful. Sometimes she needs the comfort of being in the dwellings of someone else. It helps her escape herself.
Ardelia is spending the night with her fiancé, it's their anniversary. She tried to be sympathetic towards leaving Clarice home alone again, tried to convince her to go see a movie or invite a friend to get a milkshake. Like she was a teenager or something.
"Nah, I have laundry to do, anyway. I'll watch a movie or something later." It was an easier excuse than, "I don't have any friends to ask."
Clarice did do the laundry, and she did watch a movie. But alas, there were only so many things one could do to keep one's mind occupied, so she headed upstairs to take a shower, for lack of anything better to do.
She closed and locked the door, as always, and had almost started the water when she heard a voice in her head.
"Hello, Clarice."
God, couldn't her subconscious leave her alone for just one night? She shook her head, to remove the image of him, behind the Plexiglas, his eyes fixed on her like a tiger fixed on his prey. However, the damage was done. Suddenly, her mind was filled with frightening images of the monster, his voice, his condescending smirks…
His letters.
"Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head."
She had never fully understood the truth of those words until now. He was like a disease, infecting everything he touched. A plague that you could try and quarantine, only to have it leak through the cracks.
As she stepped into the stream of scalding water (she never could take a lukewarm shower, it always had to be painful), she found herself wondering where he was. Paris, probably, or Monaco, or somewhere equally elegant. He wouldn't deny himself his heart's desires, now that he was free.
His heart's desires… would he continue cannibalizing? Naturally, her reason stated, just because he is intelligent and… occasionally charming doesn't mean he isn't still a killer. She remembered the face of the nurse, an innocent woman just trying to do her job. Did he speak to that nurse in the same way he spoke to her? Did her name slip smoothly off his tongue, a deadly poison in disguise? Was she just a mouse caught in a trap, taken in by his charming exterior? Lured too close with a false sense of security.
Clarice Starling didn't fool herself. She knew that if given the chance, if he had a choice between killing her or courting her, most likely she would find herself on his dinner plate rather than at the other side of the dinner table.
And where did that thought about him courting her come from, anyway? She stepped out of the shower, grabbing for a rough, plain towel.
"They'll think we're in love."
His comment, in a sarcastic fake-southern drawl, was meant to set her off guard, and it had worked. Surely, though, he was just messing with her, right? For a brief hysterical moment while she methodically dried her hair, she imagined him pouring her a glass of Chateau d'Yquem, a nice vintage, and smiling at her lovingly, not at all the predatory smile of a killer. His eyes did not glow red, but rather reflected the candlelight, shining gold. Her insides quivered.
She wrapped herself in one of Ardelia's borrowed robes. It was thin, but it smelled deliciously of detergent. Starling opened the bathroom door and switched off the lights, feeling the rush of cool air against her skin.
She simply did not just imagine that.
She could feel the stroke of his finger on hers the moment she last saw him in person. Why was she not shuddering in disgust? She had never really thought about it before, but why didn't he scare her more? She must have somehow fallen for his tricks, must have been caught in the trap like a mouse.
"No, Clarice. Like a lamb."
She stopped in the middle of the hallway, on the way to her room. That's right. She was just a stupid lamb, bleating and running directly into the butcher's arms.
But maybe she was looking at things the wrong way. The Bureau, as much as she hated to admit it, was corrupt. She found that out the day Johnny Brigham died, the day that buffoon Krendler had first peeked down her blouse. She'd lost that child-like hope in the FBI to be the epitome of justice; that it would be something pure and good to which she could devote her life to. Something that would make her Daddy proud.
"You fall in love with the Bureau, but the Bureau doesn't fall in love with you."
But if she couldn't trust the Bureau, then who could she trust?
She made her way down to the kitchen, and poured herself a nice shot of whiskey to silence those pesky thoughts. As she gagged on the taste, a new thought came to her mind. She thought that it would be nice to hear the Doctor's opinion on this.
No, no it wouldn't, Clarice. God, are you an idiot? He's Hannibal the Cannibal, evil incarnate, the Monster!
Shut up, Clarice thought, and poured herself another shot of whiskey.
Are you seriously thinking that he has any good in him? He's killed people!
I've killed people. Another shot.
Yeah, but you had to. You had a good reason to!
What if he had a good reason to?
It doesn't work that way, and you know it. There are good people, and there are bad people. Hannibal is a bad person.
Dr. Lecter is a respected psychiatrist and a damned good doctor, and even if he is a killer, no one knows why he started. No one knows what he went through. Maybe that's what drove him to kill… maybe that could explain everything.
And that fixes it all, right?
No, but everyone's got at least a little good in them, that's what Daddy said.
Yeah, and now he's dead.
Clarice didn't bother with a shot glass this time. Straight from the bottle, like a moonshiner. She took the bottle with her as she crossed into Ardelia's side of the house. She looked around at the organized furniture, the magazines spread out on the coffee table, and she wanted to cry. Maybe it was the whiskey, but she really just wanted to forget everything that had ever happened to her and go to sleep.
She had killed a mother holding her baby. She hadn't even thought twice about it, she'd just gone and done it. She didn't know herself anymore.
The room starts to tilt, and she finds herself heading for the nearest bathroom, feeling the panic rising out of her stomach and into her throat. She wants to vomit everything up, and flush it away from her. But she just can't.
Her body, rather than heaves of nausea, turns to sobs. She curls on the floor, like an infant, and allows her tears to soak Ardelia's lavender bathroom mat. Her head hurts, and she can't think anymore.
When her sobs finally subside, it is very late - or very early, depending on your point of view - and she is still alone. She sits up, scoots her back against the tiled wall, and presses her face, hot from tears and drunkenness, against the cool tub. She's back in her thoughts again, but this time she's much calmer.
Hannibal Lecter listened to her, he understood, and he tried to help her in his own way. She'd never thought of him as anything but a caged beast before, but now she tried to imagine him as a kind and caring man she'd met. Her rational voice was too drunk to interrupt her.
He would smile at her, and bend down to kiss her extended fingers. Then he would listen to her with undivided attention, stopping occasionally to ask a question, or make a comment. He would take her to an expensive restaurant and make her laugh. He would buy her jewelry to wear to the opera. He would play Goldberg Variations for her while she lounged on a nearby sofa, watching the way his fingers glided over the keys.
He would treat her like a lady, like she deserved to be pampered. He would love her.
She was probably deluding herself, she thought, but what's the point? No man could ever treat her better - or worse - than Hannibal Lecter.
He doesn't look a thing like Jesus
But he talks like a gentleman
Like you imagined
When you were young…
Meanwhile, a solitary figure sat at an easel in Florence, Italy, affectionately painting a portrait of a certain FBI agent, her smile dazzling, a look of utter happiness on her face. His beautiful Clarice Starling; the forbidden fruit of his garden.
A long shuddering sigh breaks the silence, and he pauses to take a sip of wine. "Love is too young to know what conscience is, " he quoted aloud.
But more than you'll ever know…
A.N.
It's not the best, but, well, here it is.
Thank you for reading!
Leo the Lioness . Raven Black
"Love is too young to know what conscience is." - William Shakespeare
Lyrics - When You Were Young by the Killers