10 years later..........
The moon is beginning to disappear and the sun is taking its
rightful place in the sky. The air outside is cool and calm, unusual for this
time of year in Buenos Aires. High above on a grand balcony I sit and wait.
Perched precariously on the edge of my seat, I observe as the darkness of
night is replaced by the brightness of dawn. One day ends and another
begins. The sun will continue to rise and wash away all remnants of the
night before. It's a repeat performance that I have observed many times in
the past and will continue to in the future. But the one I have shared these
observations with will not.
I knew this day would come. The inevitability of it seemed
certain. I had prepared myself for both the physical and emotional separation
that comes with losing the one you love. I should be used to this by now. The
loss and the pain that accompanies it. Everyone I've ever loved has met the
same tragic end. My mother, my father, Hannah, and now him. It may all be
coincidental but, if coincidences are just coincidences why do they feel so
contrived? Why does it seem as if fate is working against me? As if God is
determined to see me pay for a crime I'm unaware I've committed? Unless
my unforeseen crime (the one in which I'm paying for with his life) is the
fact that I saw beauty where others saw evil. That I allowed myself to
indulge in the finer things in life, with a man who took pleasure in doing
harm. If it is a crime to follow your heart, than I am indeed guilty. But I don't
feel as such.
How do you except the unexceptable? He's changed my life in
so many ways, whether my transformation was for the better is hard to say.
Yes, it is true I no longer feel the need to gain my dead father's approval. I
am no longer haunted by the demons of the past but now fear the demons
of my future. Not the future that was promised to me, one filled with moonlit
walks and expensive champagne,but one filled with heartache and sorrow. A
future I am not content to live, so I won't.
His body is still alive but his mind is deceased. I have left the
solitude of my balcony and retreated back indoors. The bright sunlight
becoming unbearable. Light has no place in my life anymore. Darkness has
come to consume my love and has robbed me of life in the process. For
without him the Clarice I have become, the Clarice I plan to remain, no
longer exists.
I lean slightly against the door frame, no longer feeling
comfortable in the bedroom we have shared for so many nights. My thoughts
betray me as my mind displays mental images of our first night here, the
night we made love. It used to be a beautiful room, fifteenth century artwork
decorated the walls, victorian style curtains hung loosely around the window
frames. The scent of newly picked flowers and fresh sea breeze air had once
clung to the walls. Now the room smelled of death.
I hesitantly enter the room, watching the slow rise and fall of his
chest as he fights to stay alive. He hasn't left the bed for almost a month
now. His condition becoming worse with each passing day. His inability to
perform the smallest of tasks infuriated him, but he never gave up trying.
Two weeks ago he lost all mobility in the left side of his body. I
had begged him to go to the hospital but he refused. He said he didn't need
doctors to confirm what he already knew to be true. He was dying.
I walked past the bed and the man who occupied it, stopping only
to rest my hand atop his forehead. My suspicions are confirmed as my cool
hand encounters the scorching hot skin above his head. He's getting worse.
Once I reach the confines of the bathroom I quickly shut the door
behind me. Unable to hold it in any longer I silently fall to the cold tile floor.
Tears I had refused to shed now cascade freely down my face in an endless
waterfall of emotions. Sobs originating from deep inside my chest sound
more like dry heaves once they leave my throat. I bring my knees up to my
chest and lay my head against the flat expanse of the bathroom door. I
remain like this for several minutes.
I eventually pull myself together, sniffling back tears and
frantically wiping my face. Crying is a sign of weakness (my father had once
said) and weakness is not to be tolerated. I pull myself from the floor, using
the doorknob for support, and begin walking towards the door at the other
end of the bathroom that leads to the private study. As I walk barefoot across
the tile floor I happen to glance at myself in the mirror and am surprised by
what I see.
I no longer recognize myself. The reflection in the mirror is of a
stranger, someone I am unfamiliar with. I am no longer Special Agent
Starling, that part of me has been dead for over a decade now. Clarice is
dead too, but her departure is much more recent. She died upon learning that
her other half would soon be deprived of air in his lungs. The person who
stared back at me was a nobody. An empty shell just waiting to be crushed. I
turn away from the mirror and head into the study.
The room was dark and empty. It has been this way for a long time
now. This is his room not mine. I have never been in here without him by
my side and I unconsciously turn to go ask his permission to enter. I stop as
realization dawns on me and the irony of the situation causes a single tear to
fall. I quickly wipe it away and walk towards the desk. The hardwood floor
creaks under my weight as if it knows I'm not supposed to be here.
A thick layer of dust covers the table and chair but I carelessly sit
down anyway. I feel like I'm operating on autopilot as I reach into the desk
drawer to retrieve a single sheet of paper. It feels crisp and new beneath
my finger tips, no doubt the finest most expensive paper in all of Buenos
Aires. I grab a black felt tip pen from the holder and begin to write my final
goodbye.
When I come to the end of my letter I am stumped as to how I
should sign it. Living in hiding all these years I have used many aliases. My
own name sounds false as I softly speak it out loud. I sometimes wonder
why we have names at all. It's not necessary, I'm sure there are other ways
we can identify each other. A name is a restriction, reminding you of who
you are and who you must remain. In the end I signed it Clarice.
I neatly fold the expensive paper and place it in my left pocket. I
get up from the chair and make my way across the room back towards the
bathroom. As I reach out for the door handle something catches my eye. A
crack in the blinds has allowed a single ray of light to seep into the room.
The light casts its glow on the contents of a half empty bottle of scotch
situated on a small table beside the window. I grab the bottle (finding the
weight of it in my hand more comforting than I should) and I renter the
bathroom.
I'm sure the tiles are still ice cold but I do not feel them. I don't
feel anything anymore. I open the medicine cabinet, not even bothering to
glance at the reflection in the mirror once again, and reach for the bottle of
sleeping pills. I have taken these pills many times before, when my insomnia
became too much to bare. But this time I need them to put me in a slumber I
will never awake from.
I take the pills and the scotch into the bedroom with me. He
hasn't moved from his place on the bed (not that I'd expected him to). At
first, I think he is already dead. The rise and fall of his chest is much less
evident than before. He doesn't have much time left.
I head over to my side of the bed, going through the steps of
my nightly routine as if it were any other night and not our last. Once I am
ready I sit on the bed and stare at him. Trying to memorize all of his features
in case we part ways before reuniting again in our next life. Yes, I believe in
reincarnation. The body can die but the soul never does. We are soul mates,
two halves of a whole. And we will meet again.
I lean over and place a chaste kiss on his lips. Lips that have
caused others pain and yet granted me with so much pleasure. I will miss his
lips, I will miss him. But we are only granted with so much time on this
earth and our time has come to an end.
I reach over to the night stand and retrieve the bottle of pills. I pour
myself a rather large glass of scotch and bring it to my lips. The smell
reminds me of him. He always had a glass before he went to bed, said it was
good for his heart. He had been wrong. There are about twenty pills left in
the bottle, I take them all. The scotch burns my throat as it washes down the
pills. When he first became ill I discovered there were a lot of answers to be
found at the bottom of a bottle. But now as I down my second glass it offers
me no relief. Relief will come soon, when darkness descends.
The room is beginning to spin and I'm having a difficult time
keeping my head up. I lay down beside him, my head tucked under his chin,
and whisper words I know he can't hear.
"I love you Hannibal Lecter." I say quietly. I realize that this
is the first time in the thirteen years we've been together that I've said his
name out loud. When we weren't referring to each other by our fake names,
I had always preferred to call him by his professional title. Dr. Lecter was
what I had called him when we first met in a dungeon in Baltimore.It showed
that I respected him and thought of him as more than an animal behind bars
as the others did. I guess it was just an old habit I never grew out of.
My vision is becoming more distorted with each passing second. I
can feel every beat of my heart as it pounds violently against my chest. I
notice that Dr. Lecter is no longer breathing. He now lays still beneath me. A
single tear falls down my face, but I do not attempt to wipe it away. I can feel
death just around the corner but I am not scared. Whatever happens now is
of my own making. I decided to end my life here tonight, and that thought
gives me strength. And I will need all the strength I can get to walk the path
that lies ahead. As I draw my last breath I smile a knowing smile because I
realize that I will not be walking this path alone.
5 days later............
Ardelia Mapp was bent over her computer screen, filling out
expense reports from her latest investigation, when there was an unexpected
knock at her door.
"Come on in, the door's open." She yelled, not bothering to look
up from her work. She was surprised when Deputy Director Kersh entered
her office. Judging by the look on his face something was wrong.
"What is it, sir?" Mapp asked, shutting off her monitor and
standing up to shake hands with her boss. He carelessly waved his hand in
the air, his way of saying that formality wasn't necessary.
"Have you been watching the news lately?" he asked. I shook
my head. "Well then, maybe you should sit back down." he said quietly as he
himself took a seat. I followed his lead and sat back down.
"What is it, sir?" I asked again. Wishing he would just tell me
already so I could get back to work. He lifted the left side of his suit jacket
away from his chest and retrieved a piece of paper from his inside pocket.
Expensive paper.
"Hannibal Lecter was found dead two days ago in a house in
Buenos Aires." he stated with no emotion in his voice. I said the first thing
that popped into my head.
"Clarice." It was more of a statement than a question. I had
searched for her months after she disappeared. Then I received her letter
informing me that she was fine and not to look for her. I couldn't understand
it but I accepted it and got on with my life.
"She was also found dead." He said, not able to look directly at
me. I was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. Then I asked the
only question I could come up with.
"How?"
"Self inflicted it appears. An empty bottle of sleeping pills were
found at the scene. Along with a nearly empty bottle of scotch." he said,
playing with the piece of paper he still held in his hands. I was silent again.
"She left you a note." he said as he placed the piece of paper
in front of me on my desk. He got up and left, mumbling something about
giving me some privacy. I stared blankly at the note, trying to decide
whether to read it or not. After what seemed like hours of deliberation, I
decided to read it. I carefully unfolded the letter.
Dear Ardelia,
I know what you must think of me, of the life I chose to live. I don't really know why I'm writing to you. I thought you'd think it rude of me to leave without saying goodbye. Although, receiving this letter has probably caused you pain but I assure you that was not my intention.
You were a good friend to me, Ardelia. And I will never forget you. I hope you kept the ring I sent you but I understand if you didn't.
I need to ask something of you. Something I hope you can find it in your heart to do, but again I'll understand if you don't.
There is a set of directions on the back of this letter. Follow them and they will lead you to a church in Buenos Aires. When you reach there ask for sister Reyes, she'll be expecting you.
I have a son, Ardelia. A beautiful baby boy who is now in need of a mother. I would have lived for him, would've raised him to be the kind of man I know he'll be. But I was dead, Ardelia. Way before I actually died. And I didn't want that kind of life for my son.
I know how you feel about the father of my child, how most people feel about him. But please don't let that influence your decision. My son is innocent, he doesn't deserve to pay for the crimes his father committed.
I know I'm asking a lot of you and I'm truly sorry. Please consider what I'm asking. There's no one else I'd rather have raising my child.
I must go now. He doesn't have much time left. Goodbye, Ardelia.
Clarice.
Without giving it a second thought, I picked up the phone and
booked a flight to Buenos Aires. I wasn't sure what I was doing but I knew I
had to do something. I wasn't able to help Clarice when she needed me, but
maybe I can help her now.
The moon is beginning to disappear and the sun is taking its
rightful place in the sky. The air outside is cool and calm, unusual for this
time of year in Buenos Aires. High above on a grand balcony I sit and wait.
Perched precariously on the edge of my seat, I observe as the darkness of
night is replaced by the brightness of dawn. One day ends and another
begins. The sun will continue to rise and wash away all remnants of the
night before. It's a repeat performance that I have observed many times in
the past and will continue to in the future. But the one I have shared these
observations with will not.
I knew this day would come. The inevitability of it seemed
certain. I had prepared myself for both the physical and emotional separation
that comes with losing the one you love. I should be used to this by now. The
loss and the pain that accompanies it. Everyone I've ever loved has met the
same tragic end. My mother, my father, Hannah, and now him. It may all be
coincidental but, if coincidences are just coincidences why do they feel so
contrived? Why does it seem as if fate is working against me? As if God is
determined to see me pay for a crime I'm unaware I've committed? Unless
my unforeseen crime (the one in which I'm paying for with his life) is the
fact that I saw beauty where others saw evil. That I allowed myself to
indulge in the finer things in life, with a man who took pleasure in doing
harm. If it is a crime to follow your heart, than I am indeed guilty. But I don't
feel as such.
How do you except the unexceptable? He's changed my life in
so many ways, whether my transformation was for the better is hard to say.
Yes, it is true I no longer feel the need to gain my dead father's approval. I
am no longer haunted by the demons of the past but now fear the demons
of my future. Not the future that was promised to me, one filled with moonlit
walks and expensive champagne,but one filled with heartache and sorrow. A
future I am not content to live, so I won't.
His body is still alive but his mind is deceased. I have left the
solitude of my balcony and retreated back indoors. The bright sunlight
becoming unbearable. Light has no place in my life anymore. Darkness has
come to consume my love and has robbed me of life in the process. For
without him the Clarice I have become, the Clarice I plan to remain, no
longer exists.
I lean slightly against the door frame, no longer feeling
comfortable in the bedroom we have shared for so many nights. My thoughts
betray me as my mind displays mental images of our first night here, the
night we made love. It used to be a beautiful room, fifteenth century artwork
decorated the walls, victorian style curtains hung loosely around the window
frames. The scent of newly picked flowers and fresh sea breeze air had once
clung to the walls. Now the room smelled of death.
I hesitantly enter the room, watching the slow rise and fall of his
chest as he fights to stay alive. He hasn't left the bed for almost a month
now. His condition becoming worse with each passing day. His inability to
perform the smallest of tasks infuriated him, but he never gave up trying.
Two weeks ago he lost all mobility in the left side of his body. I
had begged him to go to the hospital but he refused. He said he didn't need
doctors to confirm what he already knew to be true. He was dying.
I walked past the bed and the man who occupied it, stopping only
to rest my hand atop his forehead. My suspicions are confirmed as my cool
hand encounters the scorching hot skin above his head. He's getting worse.
Once I reach the confines of the bathroom I quickly shut the door
behind me. Unable to hold it in any longer I silently fall to the cold tile floor.
Tears I had refused to shed now cascade freely down my face in an endless
waterfall of emotions. Sobs originating from deep inside my chest sound
more like dry heaves once they leave my throat. I bring my knees up to my
chest and lay my head against the flat expanse of the bathroom door. I
remain like this for several minutes.
I eventually pull myself together, sniffling back tears and
frantically wiping my face. Crying is a sign of weakness (my father had once
said) and weakness is not to be tolerated. I pull myself from the floor, using
the doorknob for support, and begin walking towards the door at the other
end of the bathroom that leads to the private study. As I walk barefoot across
the tile floor I happen to glance at myself in the mirror and am surprised by
what I see.
I no longer recognize myself. The reflection in the mirror is of a
stranger, someone I am unfamiliar with. I am no longer Special Agent
Starling, that part of me has been dead for over a decade now. Clarice is
dead too, but her departure is much more recent. She died upon learning that
her other half would soon be deprived of air in his lungs. The person who
stared back at me was a nobody. An empty shell just waiting to be crushed. I
turn away from the mirror and head into the study.
The room was dark and empty. It has been this way for a long time
now. This is his room not mine. I have never been in here without him by
my side and I unconsciously turn to go ask his permission to enter. I stop as
realization dawns on me and the irony of the situation causes a single tear to
fall. I quickly wipe it away and walk towards the desk. The hardwood floor
creaks under my weight as if it knows I'm not supposed to be here.
A thick layer of dust covers the table and chair but I carelessly sit
down anyway. I feel like I'm operating on autopilot as I reach into the desk
drawer to retrieve a single sheet of paper. It feels crisp and new beneath
my finger tips, no doubt the finest most expensive paper in all of Buenos
Aires. I grab a black felt tip pen from the holder and begin to write my final
goodbye.
When I come to the end of my letter I am stumped as to how I
should sign it. Living in hiding all these years I have used many aliases. My
own name sounds false as I softly speak it out loud. I sometimes wonder
why we have names at all. It's not necessary, I'm sure there are other ways
we can identify each other. A name is a restriction, reminding you of who
you are and who you must remain. In the end I signed it Clarice.
I neatly fold the expensive paper and place it in my left pocket. I
get up from the chair and make my way across the room back towards the
bathroom. As I reach out for the door handle something catches my eye. A
crack in the blinds has allowed a single ray of light to seep into the room.
The light casts its glow on the contents of a half empty bottle of scotch
situated on a small table beside the window. I grab the bottle (finding the
weight of it in my hand more comforting than I should) and I renter the
bathroom.
I'm sure the tiles are still ice cold but I do not feel them. I don't
feel anything anymore. I open the medicine cabinet, not even bothering to
glance at the reflection in the mirror once again, and reach for the bottle of
sleeping pills. I have taken these pills many times before, when my insomnia
became too much to bare. But this time I need them to put me in a slumber I
will never awake from.
I take the pills and the scotch into the bedroom with me. He
hasn't moved from his place on the bed (not that I'd expected him to). At
first, I think he is already dead. The rise and fall of his chest is much less
evident than before. He doesn't have much time left.
I head over to my side of the bed, going through the steps of
my nightly routine as if it were any other night and not our last. Once I am
ready I sit on the bed and stare at him. Trying to memorize all of his features
in case we part ways before reuniting again in our next life. Yes, I believe in
reincarnation. The body can die but the soul never does. We are soul mates,
two halves of a whole. And we will meet again.
I lean over and place a chaste kiss on his lips. Lips that have
caused others pain and yet granted me with so much pleasure. I will miss his
lips, I will miss him. But we are only granted with so much time on this
earth and our time has come to an end.
I reach over to the night stand and retrieve the bottle of pills. I pour
myself a rather large glass of scotch and bring it to my lips. The smell
reminds me of him. He always had a glass before he went to bed, said it was
good for his heart. He had been wrong. There are about twenty pills left in
the bottle, I take them all. The scotch burns my throat as it washes down the
pills. When he first became ill I discovered there were a lot of answers to be
found at the bottom of a bottle. But now as I down my second glass it offers
me no relief. Relief will come soon, when darkness descends.
The room is beginning to spin and I'm having a difficult time
keeping my head up. I lay down beside him, my head tucked under his chin,
and whisper words I know he can't hear.
"I love you Hannibal Lecter." I say quietly. I realize that this
is the first time in the thirteen years we've been together that I've said his
name out loud. When we weren't referring to each other by our fake names,
I had always preferred to call him by his professional title. Dr. Lecter was
what I had called him when we first met in a dungeon in Baltimore.It showed
that I respected him and thought of him as more than an animal behind bars
as the others did. I guess it was just an old habit I never grew out of.
My vision is becoming more distorted with each passing second. I
can feel every beat of my heart as it pounds violently against my chest. I
notice that Dr. Lecter is no longer breathing. He now lays still beneath me. A
single tear falls down my face, but I do not attempt to wipe it away. I can feel
death just around the corner but I am not scared. Whatever happens now is
of my own making. I decided to end my life here tonight, and that thought
gives me strength. And I will need all the strength I can get to walk the path
that lies ahead. As I draw my last breath I smile a knowing smile because I
realize that I will not be walking this path alone.
5 days later............
Ardelia Mapp was bent over her computer screen, filling out
expense reports from her latest investigation, when there was an unexpected
knock at her door.
"Come on in, the door's open." She yelled, not bothering to look
up from her work. She was surprised when Deputy Director Kersh entered
her office. Judging by the look on his face something was wrong.
"What is it, sir?" Mapp asked, shutting off her monitor and
standing up to shake hands with her boss. He carelessly waved his hand in
the air, his way of saying that formality wasn't necessary.
"Have you been watching the news lately?" he asked. I shook
my head. "Well then, maybe you should sit back down." he said quietly as he
himself took a seat. I followed his lead and sat back down.
"What is it, sir?" I asked again. Wishing he would just tell me
already so I could get back to work. He lifted the left side of his suit jacket
away from his chest and retrieved a piece of paper from his inside pocket.
Expensive paper.
"Hannibal Lecter was found dead two days ago in a house in
Buenos Aires." he stated with no emotion in his voice. I said the first thing
that popped into my head.
"Clarice." It was more of a statement than a question. I had
searched for her months after she disappeared. Then I received her letter
informing me that she was fine and not to look for her. I couldn't understand
it but I accepted it and got on with my life.
"She was also found dead." He said, not able to look directly at
me. I was silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. Then I asked the
only question I could come up with.
"How?"
"Self inflicted it appears. An empty bottle of sleeping pills were
found at the scene. Along with a nearly empty bottle of scotch." he said,
playing with the piece of paper he still held in his hands. I was silent again.
"She left you a note." he said as he placed the piece of paper
in front of me on my desk. He got up and left, mumbling something about
giving me some privacy. I stared blankly at the note, trying to decide
whether to read it or not. After what seemed like hours of deliberation, I
decided to read it. I carefully unfolded the letter.
Dear Ardelia,
I know what you must think of me, of the life I chose to live. I don't really know why I'm writing to you. I thought you'd think it rude of me to leave without saying goodbye. Although, receiving this letter has probably caused you pain but I assure you that was not my intention.
You were a good friend to me, Ardelia. And I will never forget you. I hope you kept the ring I sent you but I understand if you didn't.
I need to ask something of you. Something I hope you can find it in your heart to do, but again I'll understand if you don't.
There is a set of directions on the back of this letter. Follow them and they will lead you to a church in Buenos Aires. When you reach there ask for sister Reyes, she'll be expecting you.
I have a son, Ardelia. A beautiful baby boy who is now in need of a mother. I would have lived for him, would've raised him to be the kind of man I know he'll be. But I was dead, Ardelia. Way before I actually died. And I didn't want that kind of life for my son.
I know how you feel about the father of my child, how most people feel about him. But please don't let that influence your decision. My son is innocent, he doesn't deserve to pay for the crimes his father committed.
I know I'm asking a lot of you and I'm truly sorry. Please consider what I'm asking. There's no one else I'd rather have raising my child.
I must go now. He doesn't have much time left. Goodbye, Ardelia.
Clarice.
Without giving it a second thought, I picked up the phone and
booked a flight to Buenos Aires. I wasn't sure what I was doing but I knew I
had to do something. I wasn't able to help Clarice when she needed me, but
maybe I can help her now.