My Dearest Clarice,
I imagine you've scoffed and turned your nose up at the very thought of any part or thought of yours belonging to me, such a horrible man according to your profession, but you and I are both well aware of the truth behind that simple word, Clarice. It's a horrible truth that you try so eagerly and unconvincingly to hide me from the depths of your brain- I'll always be there. You see, I know that you think of me often. Even if the thought is negative, you want me again. You want the roles to be switched and you want to be asking the questions. You despise that I so easily picked my way through your past and personality, that I so carelessly captured everything that you are and want to be over such a short time period. I understand, Clarice. How have you been keeping of late? Have you apprehended any other criminals? I haven't read about any other brave souls who have tried to cross you and your undoubting wit. I'm sure you've changed now- time ages us all, and some worse than others. Do you think time and it's unfailing, impending doom have been kind to you, Clarice? I don't believe that you've lost your ambition, either, have you Special Agent Starling? Would you prefer if I called you that instead? You've earned that title now, undoubtedly following your heroics in killing the last one, Buffalo Bill. Our poor little Billy never stood a chance against you, did he?
As for the two of us- again, a term you do not wish to accompany yourself with when it comes to myself- my longing and desiderate want to know you on a more personal level still maintains itself within me. Why do you evade me so, Clarice? I've been there before you the whole time; you have the means and tools necessary to find and capture me and yet, here I am, alone and out of prison. I believe you're not trying very hard to find me now. You must have cast me from your mind, at least by means of your profession. Personally, you must think about me often. I'm sure you divulge into your mind's eye and recall upon the memories of our sessions and all of the times we spoke- always through the glass. Have you ever imagined, or even wondered, perhaps, what it would have been like to physically interact? I think about it often. Have you, by chance, begun to embrace your past and your roots, so to speak? More specifically, your accent and the tendencies that those of West Virginian culture statistically seem to possess. I remember distinctly how you tried to hide behind it- your voice was always so gentle, so tender. You were afraid of judgement and therefore never spoke too terribly loud. You couldn't allow yourself to be vulnerable to possible verbal harassment from those around you. And oh, how terrible of a time it must have been to have been looked down upon at the FBI Training Agency for your gender. Women have always been discriminated against and belittled- men have always been the more superior gender, according to society's considerably skewed and flawed outlook on the way our lives are to be led.
Have you found someone who you can relate to, Clarice? You once confessed to me that thinking of sexual relations with another man did not interest you, but what about the physical act of sexual compassion? That might hold much more power and beauty to you than just the thought, Clarice. Have you found a man who can match you on an intelligence or wit level? Someone, perhaps, that surpasses you in those factors, but shies away from your superiority in other aspects of a relationship? Balance is always a good thing to have when confiding so personally in another creature- wouldn't you agree, Clarice?
I think about you often. Isn't it funny, how the human mind works? A few simple meetings, barely 20 minutes worth of talking to another person and yet, they cling to them and their memory. They cling to the effect that the person has on your brain and your heart- they cling to the decadent hope that should you ever meet or speak again, the feeling will remain. Have people back at the Bureau chided upon you- teased you about the way you've obsessed over me since our very first meeting? Maybe Jack Crawford makes a snide remark to you, indirectly of course, during passing occasions in the hallway. Out of jealousy, that is. Do you still think that ol' Jacky wants you? I do. I think the poor man yearns for affection from a little Southern belle like yourself, Clarice. I wonder if you've given in to him and his not-so-subtle advances toward you.
Ah yes, and what about Florence, Clarice? Have you been able to get away from this country, and visit other, much more beautiful places in our world? I remember the look of admiration in your eyes when you looked about my painting- the Duomo, seen from the Belvedere. I imagine your job has kept you busy, far too busy for petty vacations, I take it. And your Protestant nature must always maintain itself, which makes you thoroughly speak like a graphic novel hero- "The world's criminals aren't taking a vacation, why should I?" and the like, I suppose? That fits you, Clarice. Always the hero, never much caring for the villain. Never caring to know their backstory or why exactly they do what it is that they do. Is it because regardless of knowing, you will never truly understand, for you lack the mental capacity, Clarice? I don't think that's very true. I think that you, yourself, yearn for saving. You've gotten yourself in far too deep far too early into your career and since you've done all the things that weathered and retired Agents took years to accomplish, where else is there to go for you, little Clarice? Perhaps you hold on to the false hope that you shall continue to blossom into the world's most admired FBI Agent.
I'm sorry to cut things so short, Clarice, but I really must be going now. I'm cooking a special meal for myself tonight, you understand. I do hope you're well, and that those lambs have stopped waking you up every other night with their screams and desperate cries for help. Don't bother with a trace on this letter, Clarice- you'll never find me now. Until next time...
Ta-ta,
H.