The usual applies; I own no one or nothing pertaining to this story.
Timeline: Six months after Chesapeake
The Ritual
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It was Friday night and Clarice Starling had just gotten home from work. It was 6:30pm, time to begin her weekend ritual. She wasn't consciously aware that it had been going on this long, up until about a month ago, but that didn't change anything, it still made her feel better, to a point anyway.
It started about two months after Chesapeake. Clarice would get home from work on a Friday, take a shower, order a pizza, fix a drink and sit down at her desk and begin to write. At first she just scribbled notes. Then she tried writing to people she knew, but that didn't cut it. Finally, she began writing a letter to Dr. Lecter. This calmed her nerves and relaxed her to the point that she usually fell asleep on the couch, in front of the fireplace.
Tonight was no different.
After finishing the pizza, Clarice took her drink over to the desk and started to write.
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Dear Dr. Lecter, or as I wish that I might be aloud to address you, Hannibal.
I realize that it is not you that is stopping me from calling you by your given name, but my own insecurities, my misplaced loyalties, for lack of a better word, my 'marriage' to the Bureau.
As I sit here, alone, in a dark house, I wonder what might have been, if only I had let my heart make the decision that night instead of my head.
I could claim that is was because of the drugs or due to the trauma of seeing a part of Paul Krendler that I didn't believe existed, but that would be a lie and we both know it.
I have never been 'in love' so I can't say for sure, but you stir something inside of me, deep down inside, where nothing has ever moved before. This terrifies me in the most basic of ways, which is usually the case when I feel I am not in control. At that point, I did the only thing that I could, I shut down. I retreated to the safest place possible, I turned to my instincts, my professional haven, my husband, the Bureau. Not the healthiest of relationships by any means, but one in which I seem to have a difficult time in removing myself from. Not that I wouldn't if the right opportunity presented itself, but a good hiding place is hard to find.
You see, without the Bureau and the infinite excuses it provides, I would have to take a look at myself, a long hard look and answer questions that are better left unasked.
As this is no surprise, most of this confusion is due to you and these strange feelings you've created inside me. I wish I had the courage to deal with them, but I do not.
So I continue on this path, not knowing where it will eventually lead. Will I someday have the strength to confront these feelings? I hope so, but for now I remain locked inside my own dungeon, pushing away all who might try and get close enough to unlock the cell door.
I say all, but I am well aware of the only person that has the key.
And to think, it was you asking me for the key, when you had it all along.
I wish things were different, or maybe in some masochistic way I don't, I still believe it never would have worked. Regardless, Hannibal Lecter, you have become a part of my life, for better or worse you are always there, like a bad habit and no matter what happens from now on, for the rest of my life, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Clarice
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Finishing the letter, Clarice grabbed her drink and sat down on the couch. She read the letter two or three more times before doing what she had done every Friday night for the last four months, she tossed the letter into the fireplace. Clarice stretched out on the couch, falling asleep as she watched the letter turn to ashes.
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