It's cold, about mid-autumn. People scurry about in the courtyards of Jefferson Community College. Everyone is in a hurry, except one girl. She sits on a stone wall separating a building and a hedge. Her strawberry blonde hair drifts in the breeze while her pale blue eyes scan the crowd of people walking by. Her frame is small and frail. Her skin is a creamy color flecked with small freckles. She glances at her cheap imitation Rolex and collects her books. She waves a few times to assorted acquaintances on her way through the courtyard, until she enters one of the college's larger buildings. Students line the walls near the classrooms, waiting to be let inside, while others take the opportunity for a make-out session.
The young girl stops at a lecture room. The number reads 104. The class is Italian Art and Sculpture. She opens the door and is immediately faced by rows of seats, accompanied by tables, escalating downward. She walks further down and takes a seat next to a girl with stringy dark hair and dirty fingernails. The professor is nowhere to be found...yet. The girl takes in the sights around the large room. The walls are painted a light gray color. The carpet is hard and old, a few stains adorning it, more than likely from spilled sodas. There is nothing on the drab gray walls, except a dry erase board on the northern wall. The tables are dark, with maroon seats. The very first row of seats is devoted to the professor's belongings. There are posters of the famous Palazzo Vecchio in Italy, among other things.
At last they hear the click of the double doors opening. Almost in unison, the students turn their heads to look. Their professor is entering. He's a man of medium height, his hair thinning to the point of baldness. He wears a black silk suit with a gray tie. His expression is blank, conveying nothing. His face, much fuller than the rest of his body, looks like it has been through one plastic surgery, maybe two. He walks slowly down to the front of the classroom with stealth. It seems he is not even trying. His cold eyes scan the young faces, and linger on our strawberry blonde girl. She shifts in her seat nervously, just as the other students around her do, as his lips form a sneer.
The mysterious professor reaches the front of the room, turns on his heels and faces the students, his hands clasped behind his back. His lips contort into something that scarcely passes as a smile, but it's obvious that this man rarely smiles, if ever. The students are silent. This man before them holds a power, almost as if they are in the palm of his hand. He's not offensive and certainly not ill mannered. He seems studious enough, even likable. But still, the students can't help but be a little apprehensive.
"Good afternoon. I am Dr. Rhoades," Then, the slightest hint of a smirk. "Your professor."
********************************************************************************************
It's dark now. The crescent moon casts an ominous glow over the hood of a lone `97 Honda Prelude. The road is deserted and no one hears the loud music generating from the car. Suddenly, the Honda slows it's pace and the young girl dips down to pick up her black 5100 Nokia series phone, which has fallen to the floor from speeding too fast while making turns. She brushes her shoulder length hair aside as she brings the phone to her ear, very capable of driving the vehicle with one hand.
"Yes, this is Hannah," The strawberry blonde girl answers. "Yes, I'll be there tomorrow. Thank you Sir."
She hangs up.
********************************************************************************************
In a small apartment in Arlington, West Virginia, Clarice Starling sits in her worn wing chair, a glass of brandy in one hand. She stares at a blank wall and thinks. Pigeons, mainly deep rollers are on her mind, along with a certain individual...Lecter. Her mind has always been on him it seems. One would think she'd rather be with him than just thinking about him, but Starling never does things the easy way.
Her memory banks drift back sixteen years ago. She remembers bits and pieces of the certain incident. The stench of pigs, the sharp pain of a bullet piercing her chest, and someone picking her up ever so tenderly and rescuing her. Her benefactor, she would learn later, was none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter. She remembers the night she woke up, dressed in a sleek black dress. That night changed her life in more than one. Looking down now, and placing the glass of brandy on a nearby table, she pushes the neck of her blue cotton shirt down, gently running her fingers over the scar, while reminiscing.
The front door bursts open, and Hannah rushes in. Her book bag is on, yet she still carries an armful of books. She looks like she's in a massive hurry, rushing passed Starling with only a "Hello Mother" yelled over her shoulder. Then there is a slamming of her bedroom door, and the thud of her books hitting the floor.
Starling sighs and picks her drink back up. Her daughter, Hannah, is extremely smart. She graduated high school early at sixteen and is attending college. But, they were never very close and Starling often wondered why. She tried, like any good mother would, to get through to her, but nothing seemed to work. Perhaps, subconsciously, the strange events of her birth prevented her from warming up to her mother. She pushes the thoughts of Lecter and Hannah out of her mind and drifts off to a dreamless sleep.
********************************************************************************************
Hannah lays in bed after saying hello to her mother and stares at the ceiling. Just as her mother, she lays there thinking. Strange, but often thought about questions run through her mind. All her life, her friends had fathers, but she didn't. She envies the little girls she sees spending time with their fathers. She resents the fact that she never had one. Who is he?...she thinks. Her mother never mentions him. It is as if were the Virgin Mary. After a while, Hannah stops asking her mother about the mysterious man who is her father.
She rolls over on her side and stares at the Blink 182 poster adorning the yellow wall. She blinks her pale blue eyes slowly and still thinks. Did she get her extraordinary artistic talent from him? What about her intelligence, or even her flaring temper? She sighs, still unable to answer those ever-present questions. Perhaps, some day, she'll find him. And if she does, she'll receive the bombshell of a lifetime...
The young girl stops at a lecture room. The number reads 104. The class is Italian Art and Sculpture. She opens the door and is immediately faced by rows of seats, accompanied by tables, escalating downward. She walks further down and takes a seat next to a girl with stringy dark hair and dirty fingernails. The professor is nowhere to be found...yet. The girl takes in the sights around the large room. The walls are painted a light gray color. The carpet is hard and old, a few stains adorning it, more than likely from spilled sodas. There is nothing on the drab gray walls, except a dry erase board on the northern wall. The tables are dark, with maroon seats. The very first row of seats is devoted to the professor's belongings. There are posters of the famous Palazzo Vecchio in Italy, among other things.
At last they hear the click of the double doors opening. Almost in unison, the students turn their heads to look. Their professor is entering. He's a man of medium height, his hair thinning to the point of baldness. He wears a black silk suit with a gray tie. His expression is blank, conveying nothing. His face, much fuller than the rest of his body, looks like it has been through one plastic surgery, maybe two. He walks slowly down to the front of the classroom with stealth. It seems he is not even trying. His cold eyes scan the young faces, and linger on our strawberry blonde girl. She shifts in her seat nervously, just as the other students around her do, as his lips form a sneer.
The mysterious professor reaches the front of the room, turns on his heels and faces the students, his hands clasped behind his back. His lips contort into something that scarcely passes as a smile, but it's obvious that this man rarely smiles, if ever. The students are silent. This man before them holds a power, almost as if they are in the palm of his hand. He's not offensive and certainly not ill mannered. He seems studious enough, even likable. But still, the students can't help but be a little apprehensive.
"Good afternoon. I am Dr. Rhoades," Then, the slightest hint of a smirk. "Your professor."
********************************************************************************************
It's dark now. The crescent moon casts an ominous glow over the hood of a lone `97 Honda Prelude. The road is deserted and no one hears the loud music generating from the car. Suddenly, the Honda slows it's pace and the young girl dips down to pick up her black 5100 Nokia series phone, which has fallen to the floor from speeding too fast while making turns. She brushes her shoulder length hair aside as she brings the phone to her ear, very capable of driving the vehicle with one hand.
"Yes, this is Hannah," The strawberry blonde girl answers. "Yes, I'll be there tomorrow. Thank you Sir."
She hangs up.
********************************************************************************************
In a small apartment in Arlington, West Virginia, Clarice Starling sits in her worn wing chair, a glass of brandy in one hand. She stares at a blank wall and thinks. Pigeons, mainly deep rollers are on her mind, along with a certain individual...Lecter. Her mind has always been on him it seems. One would think she'd rather be with him than just thinking about him, but Starling never does things the easy way.
Her memory banks drift back sixteen years ago. She remembers bits and pieces of the certain incident. The stench of pigs, the sharp pain of a bullet piercing her chest, and someone picking her up ever so tenderly and rescuing her. Her benefactor, she would learn later, was none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter. She remembers the night she woke up, dressed in a sleek black dress. That night changed her life in more than one. Looking down now, and placing the glass of brandy on a nearby table, she pushes the neck of her blue cotton shirt down, gently running her fingers over the scar, while reminiscing.
The front door bursts open, and Hannah rushes in. Her book bag is on, yet she still carries an armful of books. She looks like she's in a massive hurry, rushing passed Starling with only a "Hello Mother" yelled over her shoulder. Then there is a slamming of her bedroom door, and the thud of her books hitting the floor.
Starling sighs and picks her drink back up. Her daughter, Hannah, is extremely smart. She graduated high school early at sixteen and is attending college. But, they were never very close and Starling often wondered why. She tried, like any good mother would, to get through to her, but nothing seemed to work. Perhaps, subconsciously, the strange events of her birth prevented her from warming up to her mother. She pushes the thoughts of Lecter and Hannah out of her mind and drifts off to a dreamless sleep.
********************************************************************************************
Hannah lays in bed after saying hello to her mother and stares at the ceiling. Just as her mother, she lays there thinking. Strange, but often thought about questions run through her mind. All her life, her friends had fathers, but she didn't. She envies the little girls she sees spending time with their fathers. She resents the fact that she never had one. Who is he?...she thinks. Her mother never mentions him. It is as if were the Virgin Mary. After a while, Hannah stops asking her mother about the mysterious man who is her father.
She rolls over on her side and stares at the Blink 182 poster adorning the yellow wall. She blinks her pale blue eyes slowly and still thinks. Did she get her extraordinary artistic talent from him? What about her intelligence, or even her flaring temper? She sighs, still unable to answer those ever-present questions. Perhaps, some day, she'll find him. And if she does, she'll receive the bombshell of a lifetime...