…but in the night, the darkness breathes…
all of me
If life were but a fairy tale, thought Clarice as she stepped from the Mustang and stood momentarily in the rapidly darkening night. The moon, full and round, was slipping in and out of a curtain of clouds. Angry thunderheads were barely visible in the near distance and the coming storm was tangible in the air. She stood there, looking at the impending storm, lightning dancing across the starlit skies. There would be no rainbows in the darkness of the night.
If only life were a fairy tale, there'd be a rainbow to greet her when the tumult had passed, a prince at her side to protect her in the meantime. She would have a clear concept of right and wrong, an innocent air to guide her through the world. And everything would turn out fine.
We grow accustomed to these tales of perfect life from the first late night murmurings from our mothers when we begin our life outside the womb. Her voice carrying us off on soft waves, and later, when we begin to understand her words, her voice carrying us into storied realms. There is always a prince or handsome knight to slay the dragons and rescue the princesses in fairy tales. There is always a damsel in distress, who, unlike many reality-based damsels, is actually in need of rescuing. There are no hidden agendas, no tabloids ruining reputations. There's only truth, light, and innocence.
It is the innocence we find we miss most. We take it for granted until we become embittered once we discover the world awaiting us is not the one foretold to us. We still yearn for the handsome prince to ride up to us on his white stallion, sweep us off our feet and ride off together into the sunset. There would always be someone there to protect us from life's storms.
There'd be no doubt in the feelings one woman felt for one man.
Clarice scowled as she dropped her well-worn purse to the floor as that thought crept into her head. Dr. Lecter was no knight in shining armor. He was a sociopath, a killer; a manipulative bastard who had used her as a means to an end. Her mood had seriously gone awry during the drive home from Quantico. No longer did she envision saccharin-sweet rainbows and blue skies. She had no more illusions about what he really was, no more blind acceptance. But she wavered on the believability of his promise to her.
She crossed the kitchen, feeling the crunch of spilt sugar under the soles of her shoes. Delia would have killed her for leaving the spill there this morning, but fortunately Delia was on vacation. Someday Clarice would travel, spend days basking in the sun on some beach with her lover by her side. She snorted in derision as her pessimistic attitude blew the thought away. Right. With familiarity of routine, Clarice removed the tumbler and the bottle of Jack Daniels from the cabinet. Both were set on the counter briefly, as her course was reversed and she went to the fridge. A can of Coke was removed, set in the tumbler on the counter, and hefted. The can and glass in one hand, the Jack in the other.
She set her load on the coffee table as a strong gust of wind rattled the windows. There was a storm coming, and she planed to meet it head-on. Her heels were kicked off, sent flying across the living room. She heard one clatter in the dining room, but paid no mind as she tugged on the pop-top of the Coke. Moments later she was lifting her nightly drink to her lips, listening to the wind whip around her house.
She looked into the brown liquid a moment, eyeing the carbonated bubbles as they rose. The same question continued to chase itself round in her mind, just as it had when she had first received the latter two weeks ago. A courteous letter, inquires as to her health and life. How was work going, Clarice? No problems catching criminals, I trust. It was as if he were tormenting her with the fact that he alone had escaped her justice so far. No, not almost; he was. Pure and simple. He saw her as a plaything. Nothing more than a mouse on a string that the hungry cat would bat at before it finally settled down for its meal.
A sip of the Jack and Coke. If he did come back, breaking his promise, would he still find the world more interesting with her in it? Or would he end his fascination with her and dispatch with her life with no more than a blink of the eye? She shivered at the thought of dying at his hands, seeing her blood pour forth from wounds he had inflicted. There was something much more frightening than death which he could offer her.
She had never forgotten the spark that had jumped between them in Memphis. The absolute thrill of his touch, even the slightest of touches. She felt herself flush at the memory. How could someone so inherently evil spawn such a reaction in her? Clarice stifled a yawn and shifted position on the couch. God, today had been too long. She blamed her exhaustion on the alcohol and how many hours of overtime she had been putting in. She took another sip of the drink, closing her eyes. No, it wasn't as if she loved him or anything.
*~*~*~*
The night enfolds him as carefully and tenderly as the warmth of a summer's day. Pitch clings to him, flowing out behind him like a cloak. Lightning illuminates briefly his slim silhouette. It is the only light that pierces his presence, as he takes great care to avoid the pools of awkward amber light spilled by the mercury vapor street lamps. The storm is approaching.
Wind swirls the dirt and leaves from the gutters around his silent feet. He is but a ghost making passage here. Time is of no essence to him. He has waited half a lifetime for her, and he is gladly prepared to wait another lifetime and a half if she demands it. She is but his goddess.
Another crack from the approaching storm, a freshening wind has arisen, carrying the foretelling of rain on it. His gait remains the same, unhurried, calm, but with a purpose. He seems to move at the speed of the approaching storm, with the same intent and barely contained ferocity as the snaky lightning dancing through the clouds above him. Yet another flash reveals his eyes to the night, red, pupils large and black, red sparks pinwheeling in towards the center of the abyss. The eyes of a monster are these eyes.
His destination is near, and he considers it, approaching the short concrete driveway, taking in the small but immaculate yard, the worn mailbox and the oil stain on the concrete with one long, roving glance. There are no lights on in the house, not even a porch light burning in the night. The first fat raindrops fall as he approaches the door. Within moments, as the perimeters of the storm encroach overhead, he is inside. All motion ceases, he barely breathes for the thrill of stepping inside here.
With one deep breath he is assured. She is here, now all that remains is whether she will accept him or not. Slow steps through the darkened hallway, following his instinct, great red eyes burning into the night. Thunder shakes the house, rattling the windows in the frame but stilling as its reverberations reach the strong foundation and cease their tremors. Silent steps pass across the linoleum as he approaches the living room where she awaits.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter pauses as he comes into the room, looking down on the distasteful scene. His goddess lies prone on the couch, head tossed back over one arm of the couch, fingers trailing on the carpet inches from a spilt tumbler. His nostrils flare as he scents the air, her essence mingled with the remnants of the Jack Daniels and Coke that have long seeped into the carpet fibers. She does not stir as he crosses the threshold, silence as he crosses the carpeted realm.
Elegant as ever, he drops into an old La-Z-Boy recliner catty corner to the couch she occupies. Settled here, he watches her.
*~*~*~*