The world is a rather painful place to come crashing back in to, as Clarice discovered. Her head was throbbing back behind her left earlobe as she rolled her head slightly to the side. She blinked a few times, trying to force the spinning room into focus. Her arms and legs felt rather stiff and she tried to bend her elbow to release the tension in her right hand. The roughness of the nylon rope that held her wrist bit onto the soft flesh. She rolled her head right, eyeing the rope, then to the left, seeing the procedure repeated. Managing to lift her head up slightly, she glimpsed the ropes that bound her ankles similarly at the bottom edge of her vision.
A thump of footsteps on the stairs brings her head in that direction. She listens to the heavy footfalls, vainly struggling against her unwelcome bonds. Starling knows all too well that if she cannot free herself, that she is almost certainly committed to her death. A death that would come at the hands of the serial killer she was chasing. The image of Graham's severed head underneath the packing peanuts rose unbidden in her mind. One of her worst fears was true, that she was a sacrifice in Darryl Conrad's becoming.
The footsteps are coming closer, and her breathing and pulse rate climb. Hear she is tied, defenseless, unable to protect herself or escape from her tormentor. Clarice Starling was unsure of how to deal with the realization she was coming to. That she, was indeed, a lamb. A lamb being led to the slaughter, too frightened to save herself, too afraid to do anything but let the death come. Clarice Starling closes her eyes as the door to the bedroom swings open, letting light from the hall fall across her bed. She has no savior, no one to carry her from the slaughter. She has failed herself, has failed to save the lambs, and their screams, and her own, rings in her ears.
*****
Darryl Conrad steps through the door way, shadow crossing the stream of light that is emitted from the open door. He pauses to carefully close the door behind him, and he can feel her eyes upon him. He is patient, containing the writhing beast within him. He watches as Clarice squeezes her eyes tightly shut, a tiny moan escaping her lips as she does so. He can feel her fear as it pulses through her veins. It is almost a living thing in itself. He saunters over to the bed, settling lightly on the edge and looking at his prize.
"Clariiiice." he draws the name out, watching as she shivers but otherwise does not react. He grabs her chin roughly and turns her face to his. Her eyes open, and he finds himself smiling at the sight of them. "Lesson number one, you will look at me when I speak to you."
Clarice nods imperceptibly. He smiles at her, and her eyes focus on his hand as it slips from behind his back. They grow wide and the glint of metal reflects in her pupils. The deboning knife looks wicked in the dim light of the bedroom. He parted with the chef's knife while he was downstairs in the kitchen. He slowly raises it to stroke her cheek with it, amused as her eyes remain focused on it.
He feels the quickening of her breath as she feels the cold steel on her face. The breath then hitches in her throat as he draws the sharp blade down her cheek. A light scratch, nothing more than to cause her to bleed. Her reaction causes his own controlled breathing to quicken, and he struggles momentarily to retain the Order. He lays his left hand on her chest, feeling her tremble under the silk blouse she wears. The deboning knife slides down the silk, and the purring scheme of the cut fabric is music to him. He carefully parts the blouse, gaze flicking from her face to the pale chest and lace bra he has revealed. Beautiful. Perfectly fitting for the Dragon.
*****