Here we go, folks. Chappie two. ANYTHING to avoid the cheese grater of doom, eh, Spam? Glad to see my Partner in Crime's alive and well!! I'll have restock the secret panel – er….I mean…SACRED CAMEL soon. :] Big thankie to all those who reviewed!! And for the folks over at LL – remember, it isn't over until the fat lady sings. Oh and the Italian in this chappie is courtesy of Smarterchild so forgive me if there are any mistakes. I'm not a foreign language whiz. -- M
Clarice stood up. Somehow she'd fallen to her knees. A chill went though her. "OK, Clarice," she reasoned privately, "What's so special about a boy with maroon eyes? Just a boy with maroon eyes…Holy shit, Clarice…Sometimes little boys with maroon eyes grow up to be cannibalistic serial killers." She shivered and shook her head.
"No. No, no, no. Just my imagination." She muttered to the fountain. She took a deep breath, yet the vision of the mother's deep red eyes glistening up at her son would not escape her for the time being. "Next I'll be seeing white rabbits holding pocket watches in the garden."
The garden. She walked to the archway leading to the large plot of land. Dead, wilted vines covered the garden side of the house. She smiled a rather far off smile, and laid her hand on the arch. "Half an arch won't stand, Clarice." Her smile faded.
She walked into the garden, a tree stood, in the center of it. Clarice couldn't tell what kind. A bench sat by its trunk. She approached it and sat down. BAM. Another jolt.
Afternoon in the garden. The bright sun was warm on the face of the little boy. Clarice looked around her. Summer time now, no longer cold and harsh and icy. There were four figures, all sitting down at the patio table. Clarice watched closely. The woman, the mother who Clarice had witnessed drowning in the fountain, sat cross-legged at the table, was holding the small girl in her lap, and looked curiously alive. An older man, smiling down at the woman and his daughter. He looked strong and lithe, and the resemblance between him and the boy was uncanny. His eyes were intensely blue, and Clarice thought he looked handsome indeed. He turned to speak to the little boy.
"Hannibal, la volontà del grande piano arive questi pomeriggio, ed io spera di insegnarla che. Giocare voi gradisca imparare?"
Clarice shivered as the man spoke the name, Hannibal.
"Sì, papa," the boy said, smiling and revealing small white teeth.
The man smiled. Clarice wondered what they were saying. Something about a grand piano?
A servant came into the garden, though the archway, carrying a tray of tea. She served them, without interrupting idle conversation, was thanked, nodded in respect and left the family the way she had come. Such iron discipline seemed not to bother her in the least.
A large dog barked and entered the garden from the field beyond the house. The young Hannibal, still holding his teacup, stood up suddenly, as if afraid the dog would frighten the little girl. He let go of the cup, without notice, and the teacup shattered on the patio's stone ground in a hundred pieces. The girl started to cry.
Clarice blinked. This was getting creepy. She shuddered, the shattering of the teacup still echoing though her ears. The young boy Hannibal had seemed intensely concerned about his sister. At first, this thought struck her as bizarre. She hadn't thought to check birth records to see if Hannibal Lecter ever had any siblings. Apparently, he had.
But what had happened to her? Clarice thought back to what she had seen done to his mother – and shuddered.
She stood, took a few steps, and another flash came with it.
The young Hannibal sitting and reading a book by the side of a metal tub the little girl was sitting in. She splashed him playfully. 'Watch it, kiddo,' Clarice thought, alarmed that she would make him angry, but the little boy did not seem to be. He smiled to himself, closed his book, and laughed. She placed her chubby hands on his cheeks and laughed at him. Clarice was oddly unsettled by this. He stood up, and leaned over and kissed his sister's head.
It was not entirely alien to Clarice that Hannibal could show compassion, and not her realistic idea that Hannibal Lecter was simply born a monster that unsettled her now. It was unsettling to realize that he had once been like her: Clarice Starling was an older sister, and she knew what it was like to protect her siblings, share that kind of bond. It was the sort of idea that made her want to sit down.
Unfortunately, at the moment she didn't have time to compare herself to him, she had a job to do; collect information of Hannibal Lecter's childhood home. She took out her note pad and scribbled, "sister" and "check birth records".
Snow had started falling again. She exited the garden though the archway, and glanced back at the garden only once, warding off her internal boogiemen with her make-shift crucifix made out of twigs.
She crossed the front to the stone steps and climbed them easily. The door was locked, but because the glass on it was broken, she reached though, careful not to cut herself and unlocked it – just a deadbolt. The door creaked as she opened it and she stepped inside. She rubbed her hands together, glad to be inside out of the cold, and still, the house was freezing. What she saw amazed her.
The foyer of the house was beautiful; the wallpaper was light green with rose prints on it, though most of it was peeled off. Clarice was wary of the floor: it was wood and it could be rotted and could cave in. There was a large circular staircase lead to the second story of the house. A few banisters on the railing had been kicked out, or had rotted. The furniture, which was a sheer shame, was almost all broken. A piano was quite literally the only whole thing in the room. It was beautiful, and sat next to the staircase. Wood and other rotted material covered the floor.
Clarice made her way to the piano. Several keys were missing. She glanced out the window. Noon, she supposed. She pressed several of the keys and they still worked although, somewhat slow, perhaps from disuse. Lovely notes came from out the piano. Clarice scowled. She never had any musical ability in her life.
Another flash. Oh boy, Clarice thought.
The young Hannibal Lecter sat at the piano, eyes closed, hands gliding across the keys. How old would he be? Clarice thought. 5 or 6. It was 'Goldberg Variations' and he played it well. He was smiling proudly, and Clarice was sure he was lost in the music. He looked intense as a child, even, Clarice observed, and felt like something out of 'A Christmas Carol', like the Ghost from Christmas Past. The little girl toddled up behind him on the piano bench. He stopped playing and turned, without having to look to see if she was there first. He picked her up and sat her on the bench next to him.
"Ciao, Mischa." He took her star shaped hands in his six-fingered ones and aligned his fingers on hers. He put his right arm around her and guided her fingers on the piano. Music poured out of instrument. Clarice observed how delicate he was around her. Had anyone else interrupted him on the piano today, he might have removed his or her sweetbreads and enjoyed it with a nice bottle of Bâtard-Montrachet.
A loud noise from outside, and Clarice saw the boy visibly stiffen and perk, as if sensing danger.
Please Review. -- Morbid