At the last possible second, her hands fly up to her face, deflecting the steaming coffee from her eyes. A twitch of anger flares up in me, as I see the pink flesh of her hands stinging with the burn. Turning to Bonnie, she reflects her anger back at me. I cuff her smartly across the cheek. She raises her hand to her lips, and spits out a tooth.
"One more little stunt like that and I'll keep you chained to the radiator in the basement until the smell reminds me where I left you."
Clarice is starring at me in horror. I would have thought that so many years of study would have taught her what to expect. Perhaps her eternal optimist can be silenced after all.
"You may go to your room now, Bonnie, and reflect on your actions here tonight. I'll be in to discuss some matters with you later. Right now, Clarice and I have some catching up to do."
She turns and pads quietly across the carpet.
"Bonnie!"
She turns, and levels a steely-eyed glance at the woman who has addressed her.
"Bonnie, I know you're frightened and I know you're…"
With a chilled indifference that would be the envy of any blueblood, Bonnie turns and exits without hearing her out. Clarice trails off into silence.
Taking her by the elbow, I help Clarice to her feet, and walk her to the kitchen. She stumbles once in the thick carpet, but I keep her on her feet. In the kitchen, I turn on a stream of cool water, and gently guide her sore hands under the faucet. She stairs dumbly down at them. I place a finger under her chin, and turn her face towards mine, examining the delicate skin for any trace of a burn. There is a small speckling of red above her right eyebrow.
"The coffee seems to have marked you here…"
I stroke the burn softly with the side of my hand. She stairs at me mournfully, transfixed, the water bubbling softy over her hands and fleeing down the stain-less steel sink. I slide my thumb over her bottom lip, coaxing her mouth open. I think I would have had her down on the floor by now, writhing under me like a bitch in heat, if not for Bonnie. What an odd intersection. What a strange course of events has unfolded. As I stand there, nursing her wounds, stroking her lip, drinking deep of the tears that threaten to plummet from her eyes at any moment, I wonder if I wish things had been different. It is an exercise in futility. The clock never turns back, just as the pieces of the teacup in the dustbin never manage to knit back together. If one lamb stops screaming it is only because another takes its place.
"Why weren't you looking for me at the opera, Clarice?"
"Because when I look, you're never there."
Her answer is interesting. I shut off the faucet and produce a clean kitchen towel. I cradle her hands in the soft cotton and pat them dry.
"Why is she here, Dr. Lecter?"
"Little Bonnie is a classic example of Freud's death wish, albeit more conscious than most. She wants to die, Clarice."
"She's a confused girl."
"She's a mature woman who has taken very elaborate means to secure her final wishes."
"You can't just…Dr. Lecter, you're no mercy killer!"
As her agitation grows her voice rises, breaks.
"No, Clarice, nor have I ever claimed to be."
"Then why…why…"
"Isn't it obvious? A willing victim, Clarice. Can you comprehend the delicious possibilities that she presents?"
She shudders in revulsion.
"I can take my time, unhurried, languid. I can learn infinite new ways to make a body snap and crack. Have you ever heard a finger smashed in a garlic press before, Clarice? Have you ever wondered what the soft flesh of an inner arm smells like pressed against an electric range?"
Her shudders grow more pronounced and she jerks away from me. She vomits into the sink.
Her eyes snap up as she feels the syringe sink into the crook of her elbow. I had secreted it in my tuxedo in case Bonnie had become unmanageable during our night on the town. Panic grips her features as she digs her fingers into my sleeve, slides down to her knees before me. I sink down to protect her head as she falls. Lying on the floor, consciously quickly fleeting from her eyes, the last words she manages to whisper reach my ears.
"Stop…if you…"
Sliding my hands under her neck and knees, I lift her off the ground. The feeling of déjà vu is intense. No amount of stitches will be able to sew her up this time. This time she won't even have a scar to remind her that the past was real.
"One more little stunt like that and I'll keep you chained to the radiator in the basement until the smell reminds me where I left you."
Clarice is starring at me in horror. I would have thought that so many years of study would have taught her what to expect. Perhaps her eternal optimist can be silenced after all.
"You may go to your room now, Bonnie, and reflect on your actions here tonight. I'll be in to discuss some matters with you later. Right now, Clarice and I have some catching up to do."
She turns and pads quietly across the carpet.
"Bonnie!"
She turns, and levels a steely-eyed glance at the woman who has addressed her.
"Bonnie, I know you're frightened and I know you're…"
With a chilled indifference that would be the envy of any blueblood, Bonnie turns and exits without hearing her out. Clarice trails off into silence.
Taking her by the elbow, I help Clarice to her feet, and walk her to the kitchen. She stumbles once in the thick carpet, but I keep her on her feet. In the kitchen, I turn on a stream of cool water, and gently guide her sore hands under the faucet. She stairs dumbly down at them. I place a finger under her chin, and turn her face towards mine, examining the delicate skin for any trace of a burn. There is a small speckling of red above her right eyebrow.
"The coffee seems to have marked you here…"
I stroke the burn softly with the side of my hand. She stairs at me mournfully, transfixed, the water bubbling softy over her hands and fleeing down the stain-less steel sink. I slide my thumb over her bottom lip, coaxing her mouth open. I think I would have had her down on the floor by now, writhing under me like a bitch in heat, if not for Bonnie. What an odd intersection. What a strange course of events has unfolded. As I stand there, nursing her wounds, stroking her lip, drinking deep of the tears that threaten to plummet from her eyes at any moment, I wonder if I wish things had been different. It is an exercise in futility. The clock never turns back, just as the pieces of the teacup in the dustbin never manage to knit back together. If one lamb stops screaming it is only because another takes its place.
"Why weren't you looking for me at the opera, Clarice?"
"Because when I look, you're never there."
Her answer is interesting. I shut off the faucet and produce a clean kitchen towel. I cradle her hands in the soft cotton and pat them dry.
"Why is she here, Dr. Lecter?"
"Little Bonnie is a classic example of Freud's death wish, albeit more conscious than most. She wants to die, Clarice."
"She's a confused girl."
"She's a mature woman who has taken very elaborate means to secure her final wishes."
"You can't just…Dr. Lecter, you're no mercy killer!"
As her agitation grows her voice rises, breaks.
"No, Clarice, nor have I ever claimed to be."
"Then why…why…"
"Isn't it obvious? A willing victim, Clarice. Can you comprehend the delicious possibilities that she presents?"
She shudders in revulsion.
"I can take my time, unhurried, languid. I can learn infinite new ways to make a body snap and crack. Have you ever heard a finger smashed in a garlic press before, Clarice? Have you ever wondered what the soft flesh of an inner arm smells like pressed against an electric range?"
Her shudders grow more pronounced and she jerks away from me. She vomits into the sink.
Her eyes snap up as she feels the syringe sink into the crook of her elbow. I had secreted it in my tuxedo in case Bonnie had become unmanageable during our night on the town. Panic grips her features as she digs her fingers into my sleeve, slides down to her knees before me. I sink down to protect her head as she falls. Lying on the floor, consciously quickly fleeting from her eyes, the last words she manages to whisper reach my ears.
"Stop…if you…"
Sliding my hands under her neck and knees, I lift her off the ground. The feeling of déjà vu is intense. No amount of stitches will be able to sew her up this time. This time she won't even have a scar to remind her that the past was real.