A/N: Clarice Starling, Hannibal Lecter, and everything else related to The Silence of The Lambs is belonging to Thomas Harris, not me.
I've always wanted to write a SOTL fanfic, but I could never think of something unique to write about the subject. This particular topic is extremely trivial, but it's something that I have wondered about for some while. It's the kind of thing that randomly jumps into your head when you're trying to go to sleep and keeps you up all night thinking about it.
Ardelia Mapp finished her paperback novel and tossed it on the floor beside her bed. She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, glancing at the clock for a split second. Nearly 0100. She shifted her eyes to her roommate, expecting her to be asleep. To her surprise, Clarice Starling's eyes were open, staring at the wall.
"How did it end?" It took Ardelia a few seconds to realize that Clarice was asking her about her book. She jumped a little at the question, fishing up an answer.
"Oh, it was pretty much the way I thought it would be. They caught the bad guy."
"That's good. I wish it always happened that way in the real world." A tired sigh cut through her thick accent. Clarice rolled over in her bed, her back to Ardelia. Ardelia got up and turned off the lights, crawling back under her covers. She wasn't tired, though. She forced herself to try and get some sleep but sleep wouldn't come to her. After a few minutes, she addressed her roommate in a low voice, hoping she wasn't already asleep.
"Clarice?"
"Yeah?"
"I have a question."
"Let's hear it."
"What's your middle name?"
Clarice M. Starling pondered for a few minutes. Her thoughts swam through her head like fish in a pond. They were so close, but she couldn't reach out and grab one of them. At last, she gave up. "I don't remember. I'm too tired. I'll tell you in the morning." With that, her breathing became deep and distant.
Ardelia sighed and rolled over, trying to forget about the question. But the question lingered in her mind, making it impossible for her to fall asleep. Why did she want to know? It didn't matter. It wasn't important. But she still wanted to know this trivial detail. Well, she would just have to wait until tomorrow, when Clarice woke up. She would tell her then. And if not, Ardelia would just forget about it. What's in a name, anyway?
Clarice could feel herself drifting off. Ardelia's question had permeated her mind, and now it drifted around, just beyond her grasp. In her mind's eye, she could see the letter M eternally floating down, like a feather caught on a gentle breeze. It brushed her shoulder, and then flew off as if beckoning her to follow. She chased after it in a trance, like a swimmer silently stalking a fish as it gently made its way through its watery home, unaware that it was being followed. Clarice's feathery thoughts led to unconsciousness. To a dream world, filled with visions so vivid she thought they must be true, despite the fact that most of them were surreal and absurd.
Luscious fields sprawling out in all directions, wildflowers blooming, creating a sea of color. Clarice as a child, perhaps five or six, wearing a blue dress and matching bow in her hair. A lamb in her lap, Clarice petting it lovingly. Mary had a little lamb; so did Clarice. Mary with an M. The M blew like a flower petal on the breeze of her mind, sweeping her someplace else.
Spells and incantations echoing through an imaginary world. Magicians and Mages and all kinds of Magic abounded. The M swirled around their heads in magic dust, shooting off into the distance. Clarice followed it eagerly, knowing that it would eventually bring her to the answer.
Gunshots ringing through her ears. Darkness everywhere, broken up by the bursts of light from her shots. A dull pain in her cheek, hardly noticeable. A few minutes later, the lights were on again. A man was on the floor, blood steadily flowing from a gunshot wound in his chest. Clarice had killed him. Did this make her a hero or a murderer? Murderer with a capital M. She felt exhilarated, relieved. She also felt a little sick. The room went dark again, and she knew that the M was taking her somewhere else. A shiver crept down her spine, and she immediately knew where she was.
The corridor was dark and damp. A hallway in Hell. Clarice could hear her footsteps echoing down the hall, the sound bouncing off the steel bars of cells. She tried to will herself to stop. But the footsteps kept going, and Clarice slowly made her way down the hall. Closer and closer to the end of it, where she knew he waited for her.
She could hear Sammie shouting at the top of his lungs; he had come up with a new poem, it seemed. "JESA DON'T WAN ME. THAT MAKES ME VERY SAD. JESA DON'T WAN ME. CUZ I'M BAD BAD BAD."
"Isn't it sad, though? Now he's given up hope. He used to have such ambition. He used to think that he could be saved." His voice rang in her ear, echoing with memories. Clarice had finally made her way down that row of cells. Now she stood in front on the last one, looking into those infamous maroon eyes that had haunted her ever since she had seen them. She could not help but look at him, although she tried not to.
He looked back at her with his maroon eyes, revealing his small white teeth in a polite smile. Slowly, he walked up to the barrier that separated them, touching it gently with his six-fingered hand. "I know why you've come, Clarice."
"Why?" Clarice's voice came out as a whisper. She vaguely noted that Sammie had stopped chanting his poem. Her gaze was unblinking, staring right at the Doctor, unafraid.
"You want to know the answers," Dr. Lecter replied. "But you're missing something, Clarice. You know all the answers already."
"I don't understand," Clarice whispered, unable to speak louder.
"Memory, Clarice. The answer is there. I'm sure your daddy told you before he died."
Clarice could hear the sound of an iron gate slamming, and the prison faded out of view. She was leaving this world, going to another. In an instant, she knew what he had meant. She remembered.
"Daddy?" Clarice was young then, perhaps five or six. Her father had looked at her affectionately, a smile spreading across his kind face.
"What is it, sugar-pie?"
"What's my middle name?"
"It's M. You know that, darling."
"Yeah, but what's it stand for?"
"Why, it can be anything you want it to be, Clarice. It's your name, Yours alone. You're a lucky little girl, to have a name that could be anything you want it to be. Clarice, your middle name is whatever you want it to be; whatever you want to be. It's something that you have to find out for yourself. Your middle name is your true name. The name that truly represents who you are. You could be a Mother or a Mentor. What do you want it to be, Clarice?"
Clarice woke up in a disheveled state. The covers had been thrown every which way, and her oversized shirt she used as a nightgown had become twisted. Ardelia Mapp laughed as she stood over her. "Have a rough night, Clarice?"
"It's M," Clarice stated, exhaling deeply. "Just M."
"What are you talking about?" Ardelia had already forgotten. She eyed Clarice curiously, waiting for an explanation.
"My middle name," Clarice replied with a smile, adjusting her nightgown. "I remember now. It's just an M. It doesn't stand for anything. It's just an M."
But it was so much more than just an M. It was whatever she wanted it to be. It could be Mary or Magic or Murder or Mystery… It had endless possibility. It was her true identity. Clarice still didn't know exactly what it stood for. Perhaps she never will. It will always be an M. A myriad of things. A plethora of names and words described her; she could never pick just one. So, for now, it was just an M. Just another Mystery.