After coming home from the bar, Starling had sat in the back yard gazing at the fence for a long time. She wasn't thinking about anything in particular, she just sat there, dazed. Ardelia's car pulled in to the driveway, and Starling noticed that twilight had passed, and she now sat in darkness. She hadn't noticed the sun setting. Ardelia called to her from her side of the duplex, but Starling remained silent, letting Ardelia think the kitchen was empty. Starling waited until Ardelia retreated to her room before she headed inside. The warmth of the house engulfed Starling as she stepped through the back door. The night air chilled to the bone, but it was only recognized due to the contrast with the house. She shivered, poured herself a drink and sat down at the kitchen table in the dark. Careful not to scrape her chair, Starling sat down; she could hear Delia moving about on her of the apartment.

She sat contemplatively in the kitchen, eyeballing the half glass of amber liquid positioned between her hands. What did it mean? She knew she would have nightmares again. The falling she could understand. That was dream psychology 101. Falling meant lack of control. But what did her father and John have to do with each other? The best she could do was that they wanted possession of her, and were fighting over her, pulling her in the right direction. The thought made her tired. Sick of people telling her how to live her life, she screamed at the imaginary forces in her head. Just leave me the hell alone! She drew a deep shuddering breath and looked at the whiskey in contempt. You too. Fuck off and leave me alone. The glass skidded gently across the table, coming to rest somewhere near the center. Its contents did not spill.

It was some time past 2:30 in the morning. Clarice Starling, after lying awake for hours, had finally fallen asleep. Her eyes were fluttering rapidly beneath her eyelids, as if tracking a particularly interesting table-tennis game, or watching an in depth argument between two people. Her body twitched, dancing spastically across the bed. After a short amount of time, she rolled onto her side and began to rock back and forth.

Clarice was sitting on her bunk bed, keen to discuss her arrangements to go to junior prom with her friend and roommate, Donna. Donna was a few years older than Clarice, and was good to bounce ideas around with. A little like an older sister, Clarice looked up to Donna, and sometimes, Donna looked out for Clarice. Clarice had been exchanging ideas about an upcoming formal with the girls from the class above her. They had been chatting about it all week; they were going to get the best dresses, the best shoes – one of the girls said that her mom would help them all with hair and makeup, while another girl said there was a new limousine company in town, and they might be able to all pitch in and hire one. Clarice had not known what a limousine was, but when the girls explained it to her, it seemed so glamorous! They headed downtown on the bus so they could watch the television at Sears; a few of the girls had televisions at home, however their parents frowned upon the gaggle of girls descending on the house, interrupting their viewing of Days of our Lives or Six Million Dollar Man. They could also get ideas for dresses. They did, of course, need to be at the height of fashion. Clarice had a wonderful day after school; chatting with friends, browsing through the department store. She was looking forward to the dance; it was going to be an exciting change of pace from the usual drudgery of school and the orphanage. It was going to be fun.

"Donna! Hey, Donna, wait!" Clarice saw Donna walk past the doorway towards the bathroom. Donna liked to bathe early – she said it prevented her using the showers after they became unsanitary.

"Hey Clarice. Everything ok?"

"Yeah." Clarice smiled shyly at Donna, who smiled back.

"You c'n come talk to me in the bathroom if you like – I wanna get the hot water before it runs out."

"OK."

Clarice allowed Donna the privacy of undressing and entering the shower before going into the bathroom and sitting down. Starling's excitement was barely contained. Donna poked her head around the shower curtain and asked what all the fuss was about.

"Junior Prom!" Clarice had been holding her breath just a little, and the words came in a rush.

"Not your year level." Donna ducked back behind the shower curtain and was working up a serious lather in her hair. Clarice pouted. "I c'n plan for next year."

"Yeah. You do that." Donna was uncharacteristically snarky. Clarice had never heard her like this before.

Starling knew that this was a dream.
In her mind, she willed herself to change the outcome; prevent it from becoming a nightmare.

"I will." Clarice was on the defensive now, no longer keen and eager to share her experience at Sears with her friend, somewhat unsure of her ability to be able to attend the social event. She asked warily, "Did you go to prom?"

Donna returned to shampooing her hair, however was now doing it in a disturbingly fierce manner, as if something incredibly offensive and stubborn was stuck to her scalp. "No."

"Why not?"

"Why do you think?" Her reply was much sharper now. She turned the shower off and wrapped her towel around herself, standing, dripping in the shower stall, facing Clarice. Clarice saw that a lot of Donna's hair was now missing. She peered around the girl and could see large clumps of hair blocking the drain.

All that missing hair looks sorta funny, doesn't it?

Clarice sat in silence, looking at her shoes. She knew why. "But all the other girls will be going." It was plaintive, almost whiny.

Pathetic. Don't listen to her.
Go on, enjoy yourself.
Don't let life pass you by.

"I won't tell you why. I'll just ask you some questions. Did your little friends make plans? What to wear? Who to go with?" Clarice nodded slowly. She didn't know if she wanted to hear this. "Did you look at dresses?" Another slow nod. "I hope you had a good look at how much they cost." A shake this time. "No? even if you did look, how would you pay for it?" A hesitant shrug. "How would you even pay for the tickets?"

"I could get my date to pay…" Clarice started, but was cut off. "No!" Donna closed the distance between them surprisingly fast, considering that all she had wrapped around her torso was the towel. "Don't you dare! Don't you ever!" She flung her hands up and was wildly gesticulating at Clarice, spraying droplets of water into Clarice's face. "If." Donna was almost hyperventilating, she was so worked up. "If some boy pays, then he owns you for the night! He's bought you! That makes you no better than a whore!"

No!
No it doesn't!
This is just kid stuff.
All for some fun.

Clarice was huddled over in the chair shaking. She looked up at Donna, whose chest was heaving deeply with self-righteous anger. The bald patches on Donna's head, caused by the violent scrubbing, began to weep pus. The scores that Donna's fingernails made in her scalp formed deep lines; these channels were glossy and red, as if filled with gelatinized blood. Clarice looked back at her toes and trembled. She reached up to wipe the water from her face, and her fingers smeared a mixture of scratchy and slimy material across her cheek. She looked down at her hands to see that instead of water, Donna had flicked a mixture of rotten flesh and fingernails at her. The sudden smell of decay pervaded her nostrils, and unexpectedly, while she was looking down, the source of the smell came to her; little lamb corpses were pawing at her with their babyish cloven feet, ripping the hooves off when they contacted her body, their accusatory empty eye sockets fixated on her face, tiny battered muzzles with mouths open, open for a bleating scream that never came.

Silent tears rolled down her face as she glanced back at the figure in front of her. A bloated grey corpse had replaced Donna. Her chest had been mutilated, and pale fatty tissue, marbled with blood vessels now sat where her breasts used to be. The corpse swayed unsteadily, watching her with a vacant gaze. Clarice suddenly jumped up and ran back down the hall to her shared room and threw herself onto her mattress. A swirling black abyss opened up under her bed, and Clarice's bunk began to cave into it. As the chaotic maelstrom became too much for her to bear, the angry, desolate dam of tears burst and sobs racked her small frame. "I'm not a whore. I just want to be like the other kids. I just want to be loved. I just want what the other kids have. Is that so much to ask?"

Get out.

Donna came into the room, a monstrosity, larger than life, teeth bared, ready to savage Clarice. "Jeez, I'm sorry Claire. But you know what the Rolling Stones said." The creature's voice seemed to come from underwater.

A garbled response from Clarice, muffled by the pillow.

"What?" The thing shuffled closer.

Clarice braced herself. Attacked from above, attacked from below. Maybe, this time, she would be crunched up then spat into the abyss. Maybe this time, she wouldn't wake up at all.

"Wake up."

Masculine. Whose voice was that?

"Wake up, NOW!"

Starling woke with a start, sitting bolt upright on her bed, breathing rapidly, almost to the point of hyperventilation. Whose voice was that? She replayed the dream in her mind, thinking about the incident it was based on. She had desperately wanted to go to Prom, but was unable to afford the niceties to go with it. Even some of the poorer girls in her class managed to go; their mothers had scrimped and saved for them, and sewed their dresses. Their outfits turned out quite nicely, and the girls looked beautiful that particular evening. Clarice hadn't even been able to scrape enough money together for the materials required. But whose voice was it at the end saving her from the dream she couldn't quite control? It had an odd metallic rasp, one that she couldn't place immediately. The voice seemed cold, but also contained a curiously comforting inflection. Where had she heard it before? A chill fell over her.

Memphis.

Tennessee.

"Thank you, Clarice."