If the sight of Bonnie groveling at my feet has a peer, then it is most assuredly the vision of Clarice tied to headboard of my bed. Still in the clutches of a shallow sleep, tendrils of black cording knotted about her wrists, she shifts slightly as I approach the bed. I had decided to allow her to remain clothed in her simple black frock. The end of the night will take its toll on her in a myriad of ways; I have no need to add her violated dignity to their number. At least not yet. There is a vague stirring in the pit of my stomach. And the word returns, swimming up in my mind. Violation. I'd love to strip her down and make her scream my name until she's hoarse.
I sit down on the bed beside her, and her eyes flutter with attempted exertion. I contemplate the injection of a stimulant, but decide against it. She'll be awake soon enough, and pumping sufficient adrenaline through her veins. In the ear-splitting silence of the room, I gaze down on her, tied to my bed, and it hits me like a blow to the ribs. I could keep her here for as long as I liked. I could take her with me around the globe, to a thousand different sunsets on a thousand different beaches. I could quite effectively keep her leashed to my whims for the rest of her life. I could make her a willing prisoner, caught up in the tangled web of her own moral matrix. And it would be so easy. All I would have to do is send Bonnie back out into the cold, cruel night. Poor confused Clarice. I can almost hear her voice plying at my ear.
"Let her go, Dr. Lecter. Let her go and I'll stay with you."
I could let her play beauty to my beast. Accept her noble sacrifice and hold her to her word with the gilded threads of her own courage and incorruptibility. In time, I think, I could even make her love me. And all I'd have to do is destroy the person she is trying to save. Condemn Bonnie to a slow, agonizing death at the hands of a thousand cruel strangers who would never finish her off for fear of losing their favored plaything. And the tragic irony would be that Clarice, in her darkest hours, when she grieved for the quiet respectability of her former life, would still find comfort in the fact that Bonnie still walked the earth because of her sacrifice. Bonnie, once more, would suffer for the wants and desires of those around her. If nothing else, she would at least know what to expect.
A gentle stirring at my side brings my attention back into sharp focus. Her eyes struggle open and find my gaze. She tugs softly at her wrists, but she knows without throwing her weight against them that they will hold. After all, I tied them.
"Good Evening, Clarice. Welcome back to the land of the living."
She seems lost for a moment, teetering on the edge of a nightmare and reality, searching for the truth of the last few hours.
"Where is she?"
"In her room. Quite untouched for now, I assure you. How do your hands feel?"
She tugs again, and makes fists with her slender fingers.
"Numb."
I run my fingertips over the top of her hand.
"They're warm still. You will let me know if they start to turn cold."
I look down on my Appalachian martyr, consciousness now firmly rooted in her bright, worried eyes. I could keep her like this forever. And all I'd have to do is destroy another human being in the guise of mercy.
"I'd like to see her, please. Talk to her."
She doesn't flinch as my fingertips brush the burn on the arch of her eyebrow.
"I don't think that's a good Idea, Special Agent Starling. Bonnie's aim may have improved by now."
"Why does she hate me?"
"Because you're threatening to take away the thing she wants more than anything else in the world."
There are tears in her eyes now, angry, threatening tears. I find that I am glad her hands are effectively immobilized.
"She can't want that. Nobody wants that."
"How arrogant of you, my dear, to presume to know what the whole world wants and needs."
"What did you do to her?"
"You're becoming repetitive, Clarice. I've merely extracted her case history by poking around the dark corners of her mind. I've lifted up a few dusty old sheets and peeked in a few moldy cupboards, but I've left everything exactly as I've found it."
"You've taken a vulnerable young girl and used her own sickness against her for your pleasure. It's monstrous."
"I've been called a monster Clarice, many times. But never by you."
Tears are streaming down her cheeks now, her rope bound hands clenched in angry fists. But there's more to it than just righteous anger. Swirling in those eyes I can see a whirlpool of fear and jealousy, anguish and resolve. She's almost there.
"Dr. Lecter, I of all people know that despite every atrocity you've committed you're a brilliant psychologist with an incredible power over the human mind. Use that power now. Use it to help her, and I'll…"
"And you'll what?"
"Be merciful Doctor, be merciful and I'll take her place."
I clasp my hand over her fist, it's skin waxy with cold. I work the knotting looser, allowing some blood to rush in and feed the hungry capillaries.
She tugs hard at her bindings, and I lay my splayed hand over her face.
"Shhh…if you struggle, you'll only end up further mired in your ropes."
I bend to her neck and run my tongue across her jugular. Goosebumps spring up in its wake. She tastes like sweat and fear. Delicious. Her shudder pleases me to no end. I can taste the faint rivulets of tears that have slid down her neck and pooled on her collarbone. I could stay like this for hours, feasting on just three inches of my caged starling. But I have other obligations for this evening.
"Your proposal is interesting, and I'll think on it at length Clarice."
That angry spark is back in her eyes. The vengeful look paints her features in the visage of a scorned woman. How delightful.
"What more do you want from me?"
And I can't resist. I shift my weight atop her, pinning her even further to the bed, holding her down with my weight, delighting in the shivers that this new development provokes in my captive. I capture her earlobe in m teeth and bite down until I taste weeping. I whisper coarsely in her ear.
"I want to know the taste of our commingled sweat, rippling in the pulsing hollow of your throat. I want to capture the glorious perfume of your musk dampening fine Egyptian cotton. I want to hear what my name sounds like when you climax."
She is shaking, in fear and longing, a potent cocktail of derision and desire.
"But none of those things, Clarice, as precious as they would be, is worth my freedom. A leopard can't change his spots, Clarice, even if he can learn to love a lamb."
She won't look at me as I recede from her, but I can smell such a conflicted array of scents. It's overpowering. It's almost too much.
I leave her there, tied to my bed. I must confess, it is hard to leave.
"And Clarice, I promise you I will be merciful tonight, but not, perhaps, in the ways you're expecting."
I sit down on the bed beside her, and her eyes flutter with attempted exertion. I contemplate the injection of a stimulant, but decide against it. She'll be awake soon enough, and pumping sufficient adrenaline through her veins. In the ear-splitting silence of the room, I gaze down on her, tied to my bed, and it hits me like a blow to the ribs. I could keep her here for as long as I liked. I could take her with me around the globe, to a thousand different sunsets on a thousand different beaches. I could quite effectively keep her leashed to my whims for the rest of her life. I could make her a willing prisoner, caught up in the tangled web of her own moral matrix. And it would be so easy. All I would have to do is send Bonnie back out into the cold, cruel night. Poor confused Clarice. I can almost hear her voice plying at my ear.
"Let her go, Dr. Lecter. Let her go and I'll stay with you."
I could let her play beauty to my beast. Accept her noble sacrifice and hold her to her word with the gilded threads of her own courage and incorruptibility. In time, I think, I could even make her love me. And all I'd have to do is destroy the person she is trying to save. Condemn Bonnie to a slow, agonizing death at the hands of a thousand cruel strangers who would never finish her off for fear of losing their favored plaything. And the tragic irony would be that Clarice, in her darkest hours, when she grieved for the quiet respectability of her former life, would still find comfort in the fact that Bonnie still walked the earth because of her sacrifice. Bonnie, once more, would suffer for the wants and desires of those around her. If nothing else, she would at least know what to expect.
A gentle stirring at my side brings my attention back into sharp focus. Her eyes struggle open and find my gaze. She tugs softly at her wrists, but she knows without throwing her weight against them that they will hold. After all, I tied them.
"Good Evening, Clarice. Welcome back to the land of the living."
She seems lost for a moment, teetering on the edge of a nightmare and reality, searching for the truth of the last few hours.
"Where is she?"
"In her room. Quite untouched for now, I assure you. How do your hands feel?"
She tugs again, and makes fists with her slender fingers.
"Numb."
I run my fingertips over the top of her hand.
"They're warm still. You will let me know if they start to turn cold."
I look down on my Appalachian martyr, consciousness now firmly rooted in her bright, worried eyes. I could keep her like this forever. And all I'd have to do is destroy another human being in the guise of mercy.
"I'd like to see her, please. Talk to her."
She doesn't flinch as my fingertips brush the burn on the arch of her eyebrow.
"I don't think that's a good Idea, Special Agent Starling. Bonnie's aim may have improved by now."
"Why does she hate me?"
"Because you're threatening to take away the thing she wants more than anything else in the world."
There are tears in her eyes now, angry, threatening tears. I find that I am glad her hands are effectively immobilized.
"She can't want that. Nobody wants that."
"How arrogant of you, my dear, to presume to know what the whole world wants and needs."
"What did you do to her?"
"You're becoming repetitive, Clarice. I've merely extracted her case history by poking around the dark corners of her mind. I've lifted up a few dusty old sheets and peeked in a few moldy cupboards, but I've left everything exactly as I've found it."
"You've taken a vulnerable young girl and used her own sickness against her for your pleasure. It's monstrous."
"I've been called a monster Clarice, many times. But never by you."
Tears are streaming down her cheeks now, her rope bound hands clenched in angry fists. But there's more to it than just righteous anger. Swirling in those eyes I can see a whirlpool of fear and jealousy, anguish and resolve. She's almost there.
"Dr. Lecter, I of all people know that despite every atrocity you've committed you're a brilliant psychologist with an incredible power over the human mind. Use that power now. Use it to help her, and I'll…"
"And you'll what?"
"Be merciful Doctor, be merciful and I'll take her place."
I clasp my hand over her fist, it's skin waxy with cold. I work the knotting looser, allowing some blood to rush in and feed the hungry capillaries.
She tugs hard at her bindings, and I lay my splayed hand over her face.
"Shhh…if you struggle, you'll only end up further mired in your ropes."
I bend to her neck and run my tongue across her jugular. Goosebumps spring up in its wake. She tastes like sweat and fear. Delicious. Her shudder pleases me to no end. I can taste the faint rivulets of tears that have slid down her neck and pooled on her collarbone. I could stay like this for hours, feasting on just three inches of my caged starling. But I have other obligations for this evening.
"Your proposal is interesting, and I'll think on it at length Clarice."
That angry spark is back in her eyes. The vengeful look paints her features in the visage of a scorned woman. How delightful.
"What more do you want from me?"
And I can't resist. I shift my weight atop her, pinning her even further to the bed, holding her down with my weight, delighting in the shivers that this new development provokes in my captive. I capture her earlobe in m teeth and bite down until I taste weeping. I whisper coarsely in her ear.
"I want to know the taste of our commingled sweat, rippling in the pulsing hollow of your throat. I want to capture the glorious perfume of your musk dampening fine Egyptian cotton. I want to hear what my name sounds like when you climax."
She is shaking, in fear and longing, a potent cocktail of derision and desire.
"But none of those things, Clarice, as precious as they would be, is worth my freedom. A leopard can't change his spots, Clarice, even if he can learn to love a lamb."
She won't look at me as I recede from her, but I can smell such a conflicted array of scents. It's overpowering. It's almost too much.
I leave her there, tied to my bed. I must confess, it is hard to leave.
"And Clarice, I promise you I will be merciful tonight, but not, perhaps, in the ways you're expecting."