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.