Clarice Starling will never be quite certain if the fever dreams that hover just outside her field of vision were the shadows of actual events, or the deluded ramblings of a morphine drip. She will half-remember a weight settling onto the bed beside her, and a hand that runs gently through her hair. She can almost swear that as her eyes struggle to open, she can see a single maroon tear floating in midair before it splashes across the planes of her face. If the kiss she thinks she may have dreamed actually occurred, it is most definitely not a kiss hello, but rather an achingly painful kiss goodbye. As accustomed as she is to his voice in her head, the words she can barely remember seemed to emanate from outside her mind. "A perceived sacrifice, Clarice, is only a desire we are too afraid to give voice to." And whether or not he truly whispered these words into her ear, or she culled them from the obsidian depths of her murky unconscious, Clarice Starling will know them as the unflinching truth, come morning.
When the last of the sedative has fled her system, and consciousness laboriously fights to the surface, Clarice surveys the aftermath of their last encounter. The soft rays of early dawn fan out over the Berber carpet, heralding the start of a new day. There is a sourness in her mouth, and as she rises she finds a carafe of water and a lead crystal glass on her night stand. She pours herself some water, swishes it in her mouth, then spits it back into the glass, but the medicinal tang in the back of her throat doesn't abate. She surveys her wrinkled cocktail dress, and glances about the room. Silent.
She waits like that, sitting astride her bed, for nearly half an hour. Paralysis wraps it's icy fingers about her muscles, rooting her feet down to the floor. As every minute ticks by she holds her breath, hoping to hear a creak on the floorboards, see a shadow darken the doorway. Silent. She is alone.
When she finally finds her feet, it is in a shuffling, stumbling gate so entirely out of her character that she would like to blame the after effects of the morphine. She skirts the living room first, eyes flickering across the furniture and object d'art that populate the claustrophobic space. The kitchen next, as immaculate and impersonal as the last. She knows she is stalling, but continues to avoid the room at the end of the hall. When she runs out of rooms to check, she sighs and heads for Bonnie's room.
There is a part of her who can almost believe that he'll be seated there, waiting for her. But in her heart she knows he was gone before she woke. Afterwards, she will not be able to say whether or not that knowledge caused the tears to spring to her eyes before she saw Bonnie, or if the sight of the pale body enshrouded in velvet was the catalyst. She digs the heels of her hands violently into her eyes pressing down hard to staunch the tears, to silence the screams. And though she'll never admit it to another soul, there is a small, hidden part of her that envies the dead girl with a passion so fierce it scares and repulses her.
With painful effort she inches closer to the bed, looking at Bonnie out of the corner of her eye. She sinks to her side, kneeling on the floor. She has been meticulously cleaned, dressed in her silver gown, her face painted with subtle tones of gray and peach. Her injured wrist has been sewn neatly shut with black thread. Clarice can feel her shoulder itch at the familiarity of the stitching. In the open palm, a letter bearing her name in copperplate awaits her. She grasps the linen paper violently from the Bonnie's hand, sending bits of red sealing wax flying as she tears it open. That insidious voice springs to life in her mind with such force that she looks over her shoulder half expecting to see him there.
Dear Clarice,
Please forgive my early departure. As you must already presume, the states do not seem to be particularly auspicious for me at present and I felt the need to secure a flight without delay. I contemplated waking you before I left, but I suspect that sleep will not come easily to you in the coming weeks, and thought to give you one last night, uninterrupted.
Bonnie has been prepared for burial, and a suitable grave has been dug in the back yard. I would have liked to inter her myself, but I knew you'd only exhume the grave to ensure that I had not absconded with her to some foreign locale. I would be most grateful if you would see that she is laid to rest. I have taken her identification with me as a precaution. If it concerns you, know that our Bonnie is an orphan like yourself. No one will come looking for her, and no heartsick mother waits up at night for news of her missing little girl. Free yourself from any guilt that such supposed imaginings may have created in your breast.
You are no doubt troubled as you read this, and you do indeed have my sympathy, Clarice. I would venture however, that right now sympathy is the least of your desires. Do you blame yourself for Bonnie's death? Will you take up this new sense of culpability as your own, alongside lambs and colleagues who are no more? Truly, Clarice, it is not your burden to bear, though your moral matrix may tell you otherwise. What stings worse, Clarice, Bonnie's passing, or the fact that your perceived sacrifice was not sufficient to "save" her? You very well may see my refusal to accept your offer as a personal rejection of yourself. Please understand, Clarice, that I have not rejected you, but merely your terms. The distinction may not seem clear to you at present, my dear. Reflect on it, and you may grow in your understanding. I cannot imagine a more charmed life, Clarice, than one in which you flank my side, but the terms, as always, would be mine. Not particularly fair, perhaps, but very, very true. You have always known how to reach me. If you ever decide to abandon the burdens you heap upon yourself so unfairly, I would be most happy to help you learn to soar again, little starling. Or, if you'd prefer, I could always put you out of your misery. It is not something I would enjoy, if you can believe that, but it is something we both now know, I am capable of.
I remain yours, always,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.
When Clarice Starling find the strength to stand, she also finds that the tears have dried up and ceased to stain her cheeks. Looking down at Bonnie she is not surprised to see the peaceful smile that graces her lips. She can understand, now, what it is to wish for death. And yet, she still has work to do. Rest, if she will ever be granted such again, will have to come later.
Gathering Bonnie up in her arms, Clarice carries her out to the yard. Laying her in the ground, she folds her hands neatly at her breast, and whispers an uncomfortably Lutheran prayer. Reaching behind her own neck, Clarice unfastens her necklace, add-a-bead and tiger's eye, and tosses it into the ground. It seems a trifle, and yet, it is all she has to leave. Taking up the shovel, she sinks it into the dirt and begins to steadily cover the last traces of the girl. Hard work is no stranger to Clarice Starling, and though she finds some measure of comfort in the familiar aches of muscle exertion, she also finds a new groundswell of tears. They only abate when she smoothes the last of the dirt over Bonnie's hidden grave. It feels right to her, somehow, to kneel in the dirt and silently beg for forgiveness.
When it is finished, when she has returned inside the house and caught a glimpse of her dirt-streaked face in the mirror, when the absence of life in the house hits her like a wall of bricks at high speed, Clarice Starling crumples to her knees under the shower's hot water and sobs until her ribs ache. The dirt, and tears flee down the drain, and when she finds the last of her hope has fled with them, she turns off the water and crawls out of the tub. After drying herself and dressing, after making a pot of steaming black coffee and spiking it with a bottle of Jack's she finds stowed in a cabinet, Clarice Starling leaves the house and walks to the nearest payphone. And when she calls in to the bureau she has to bite the sides of her cheeks to keep from breaking into tears. She'll be back at work tomorrow. The stakeout was a total failure. Just another false sighting. When she looks for him, He's never there.
When the last of the sedative has fled her system, and consciousness laboriously fights to the surface, Clarice surveys the aftermath of their last encounter. The soft rays of early dawn fan out over the Berber carpet, heralding the start of a new day. There is a sourness in her mouth, and as she rises she finds a carafe of water and a lead crystal glass on her night stand. She pours herself some water, swishes it in her mouth, then spits it back into the glass, but the medicinal tang in the back of her throat doesn't abate. She surveys her wrinkled cocktail dress, and glances about the room. Silent.
She waits like that, sitting astride her bed, for nearly half an hour. Paralysis wraps it's icy fingers about her muscles, rooting her feet down to the floor. As every minute ticks by she holds her breath, hoping to hear a creak on the floorboards, see a shadow darken the doorway. Silent. She is alone.
When she finally finds her feet, it is in a shuffling, stumbling gate so entirely out of her character that she would like to blame the after effects of the morphine. She skirts the living room first, eyes flickering across the furniture and object d'art that populate the claustrophobic space. The kitchen next, as immaculate and impersonal as the last. She knows she is stalling, but continues to avoid the room at the end of the hall. When she runs out of rooms to check, she sighs and heads for Bonnie's room.
There is a part of her who can almost believe that he'll be seated there, waiting for her. But in her heart she knows he was gone before she woke. Afterwards, she will not be able to say whether or not that knowledge caused the tears to spring to her eyes before she saw Bonnie, or if the sight of the pale body enshrouded in velvet was the catalyst. She digs the heels of her hands violently into her eyes pressing down hard to staunch the tears, to silence the screams. And though she'll never admit it to another soul, there is a small, hidden part of her that envies the dead girl with a passion so fierce it scares and repulses her.
With painful effort she inches closer to the bed, looking at Bonnie out of the corner of her eye. She sinks to her side, kneeling on the floor. She has been meticulously cleaned, dressed in her silver gown, her face painted with subtle tones of gray and peach. Her injured wrist has been sewn neatly shut with black thread. Clarice can feel her shoulder itch at the familiarity of the stitching. In the open palm, a letter bearing her name in copperplate awaits her. She grasps the linen paper violently from the Bonnie's hand, sending bits of red sealing wax flying as she tears it open. That insidious voice springs to life in her mind with such force that she looks over her shoulder half expecting to see him there.
Dear Clarice,
Please forgive my early departure. As you must already presume, the states do not seem to be particularly auspicious for me at present and I felt the need to secure a flight without delay. I contemplated waking you before I left, but I suspect that sleep will not come easily to you in the coming weeks, and thought to give you one last night, uninterrupted.
Bonnie has been prepared for burial, and a suitable grave has been dug in the back yard. I would have liked to inter her myself, but I knew you'd only exhume the grave to ensure that I had not absconded with her to some foreign locale. I would be most grateful if you would see that she is laid to rest. I have taken her identification with me as a precaution. If it concerns you, know that our Bonnie is an orphan like yourself. No one will come looking for her, and no heartsick mother waits up at night for news of her missing little girl. Free yourself from any guilt that such supposed imaginings may have created in your breast.
You are no doubt troubled as you read this, and you do indeed have my sympathy, Clarice. I would venture however, that right now sympathy is the least of your desires. Do you blame yourself for Bonnie's death? Will you take up this new sense of culpability as your own, alongside lambs and colleagues who are no more? Truly, Clarice, it is not your burden to bear, though your moral matrix may tell you otherwise. What stings worse, Clarice, Bonnie's passing, or the fact that your perceived sacrifice was not sufficient to "save" her? You very well may see my refusal to accept your offer as a personal rejection of yourself. Please understand, Clarice, that I have not rejected you, but merely your terms. The distinction may not seem clear to you at present, my dear. Reflect on it, and you may grow in your understanding. I cannot imagine a more charmed life, Clarice, than one in which you flank my side, but the terms, as always, would be mine. Not particularly fair, perhaps, but very, very true. You have always known how to reach me. If you ever decide to abandon the burdens you heap upon yourself so unfairly, I would be most happy to help you learn to soar again, little starling. Or, if you'd prefer, I could always put you out of your misery. It is not something I would enjoy, if you can believe that, but it is something we both now know, I am capable of.
I remain yours, always,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.
When Clarice Starling find the strength to stand, she also finds that the tears have dried up and ceased to stain her cheeks. Looking down at Bonnie she is not surprised to see the peaceful smile that graces her lips. She can understand, now, what it is to wish for death. And yet, she still has work to do. Rest, if she will ever be granted such again, will have to come later.
Gathering Bonnie up in her arms, Clarice carries her out to the yard. Laying her in the ground, she folds her hands neatly at her breast, and whispers an uncomfortably Lutheran prayer. Reaching behind her own neck, Clarice unfastens her necklace, add-a-bead and tiger's eye, and tosses it into the ground. It seems a trifle, and yet, it is all she has to leave. Taking up the shovel, she sinks it into the dirt and begins to steadily cover the last traces of the girl. Hard work is no stranger to Clarice Starling, and though she finds some measure of comfort in the familiar aches of muscle exertion, she also finds a new groundswell of tears. They only abate when she smoothes the last of the dirt over Bonnie's hidden grave. It feels right to her, somehow, to kneel in the dirt and silently beg for forgiveness.
When it is finished, when she has returned inside the house and caught a glimpse of her dirt-streaked face in the mirror, when the absence of life in the house hits her like a wall of bricks at high speed, Clarice Starling crumples to her knees under the shower's hot water and sobs until her ribs ache. The dirt, and tears flee down the drain, and when she finds the last of her hope has fled with them, she turns off the water and crawls out of the tub. After drying herself and dressing, after making a pot of steaming black coffee and spiking it with a bottle of Jack's she finds stowed in a cabinet, Clarice Starling leaves the house and walks to the nearest payphone. And when she calls in to the bureau she has to bite the sides of her cheeks to keep from breaking into tears. She'll be back at work tomorrow. The stakeout was a total failure. Just another false sighting. When she looks for him, He's never there.