Laqueum [Latin for "noose"]
Author's notes: I know the spacing is wonky, but I can't figure out how to fix it. This is rated PG-13 simply because he's Hannibal Lecter's son and there may be violence later in the story. Thanks, and enjoy!
The tape recorder started. The young man was as jumpy as a marble in a can of spray paint as he held it. He cleared his throat.
The bars that separated him from his subject were extremely close together, so much so that not even the smallest man's hand could fit between them. This was done on purpose.
In front of him, the subject opened his eyes. He was seated in a bolted-down chair, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers steepled, head tilted just slightly upward like a newborn looking for the sun.
Even the eyes of the young boy betrayed how different from the world he was. His pupils were the deepest of blacks, seeming all seeing to the wary detective. The color of the irises, too, was astounding – a green like he'd never seen before, a far cry from the muted emerald of most 'green' eyes; rather, this one's eyes were so deep, so dark, so bottomless and so green that they appeared nearly black.
Clearing his throat again, the detective began his questioning,
"Carmine, I mean, Mr. Lecter, sir, I," he started, but was abruptly cut off by a voice that was slightly raspy from not being used, slightly accented from its owner having grown up speaking more than one language.
"No. Not you, me. What you want is from me. You're not here to do anything but spew questions at me. You think you're such a good detective. That's the reason they sent you here, isn't it? Let the esteemed 'detective of all detectives' interview the killer's son. I'll tell you the truth, my poor misguided gumshoe. You're here because they hate you. They're laughing at you right now. You are the unarmed gladiator in the lion's cage."
With that speech over, the boy sat back in his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles.
Again the detective cleared his throat and said shakily,
"Yes, well. I came to ask you a few things about," But again he was interrupted.
"About what? About my father, no doubt. What's it like being the son of a killer? What's it like having killed someone? What's it like to wake up every day and know you are a monster? That is what you were going to ask, isn't it? And how do you want me to answer? Would you have me make some intelligent quip about fava beans and a nice Chianti? Shall I recite Shakespeare in Latin, sing my mother's favorite song in Italian? Or would it please you to see me stand on this chair and flap my arms, crow towards the sun I can't see and haven't seen for two years, just so you and your cronies can prove to the world how truly insane I am?
"If that's what you want, I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed."
The detective was downright terrified at this point. He stared at the boy, aghast.
"No, Mr. Lecter, I'm doing a paper and I just wanted some information from you…" He trailed off.
The teenager in front of him leaned forward, his own intelligent eyes peering into those of the detective.
"Continue. What kind of information are you looking for, Officer? I can speak three languages, write in two of them, sing in all of them…I would have graduated high school at least a year ago. I skipped third grade. What information could you want that I do not possess?"
The detective inhaled slowly, then exhaled before asking his shaky-voiced question.
"I want to know about…your girlfriend."
In an instant, the boy had leapt up and was clinging to the bars of his 'cage,' staring into the detective's face.
"You want to know about who?" His raspy voice hissed. His green eyes had narrowed to mere pebbles of jade.
When the boy had moved, the detective had, in turn, leapt back. He began speaking, but his voice was barely a squeak. He cleared his throat and tried again.
"Your girlfriend…Michelle. I want to know about her."
But the boy had already turned away, his back towards the detective. His nimble
hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons in his wrists standing out. The
gumshoe had affected the boy by speaking that name. He could see the tension in
the boy's stance.
"But Michelle is dead." The boy spoke softly, in an even, smooth voice. "Why would you want to know about her? She's dead and gone, my friend. She matters to no one."
With a shaking hand, the detective made a scribbling note that the subject appeared eerily calm when speaking of his late girlfriend. The detective spoke again, in a voice one would use when speaking to mentally challenged kindergarteners.
"Yes, Michelle is dead, Mr. Lecter. Do you know what happened to her?"
The boy whipped around, his chestnut hair sliding over his shoulders and rebounding on his pale cheeks.
"Do not patronize me, detective." He growled in a voice several octaves lower than the one the detective had heard only moments ago. "I know what happened to Michelle Amanda Sullivan. I killed her."