Good I-don't-know-what, dear readers, today I am going to give you the last
chapter of "Last Joy of the Lifetime". Thank you all for reviewing, for all
those kind words I've heard. It's time to return the characters I've
borrowed to the person who realy owes them. Thank you all again.
D/N the same.
A/N This chapter is rated R for some brutality. Please be aware.
Chapter 10. The Last Joy of the Lifetime.
Angie was asleep when he came back. Hannibal stood at the door of his daughter's bedroom to look at her. Now she and her baby were everything Hannibal had. How funny, he thought. Lady Fate took her life instead of mine, to show me no one can disguise her.
He felt no pain – only a strange emptiness. Hannibal thought he had to get some sleep before sun rises. Then somehow he had to explain Angie. That was the worst part.
She was walking. She never felt so weak – and never was so certain she can't stop walking. Going down the road – somewhere where she belonged. To Hannibal. Clarice was getting cold, but her lost memory was returning with this coolness of the night. Angie. Pregnant. Left alone in this world. Or... not alone. With her father.
Or she had been in hospital and they both settled nearby to be close to her. But how long had she been there? Suddenly she stopped and looked at her hair. Too long she thought. Fuck. Too long. She must have been there at least for several months.
Angie. If she was under Hannibal's supervision, everything was ok. He's a doctor, Clarice thought. Not an accoucheur, but he would have done a good job treating her to long walks, regular meal...
Meal. Meat. Human flesh. No, he couldn't have done this. Clarice shook her head in disbelief. If this girl had been courteous enough... But somehow she knew Angie wouldn't.
She could only pray that worst things she imagined didn't happen.
Hours of tiring walk – and she reached the house. Clarice felt no doubt who this house belonged to. It was all about style, Angie told her. She was small, but her high intelligence made some people shiver. Six years old girl came to her mother and said: "Mum, you shouldn't wear skirts, they visibly bind your moves." Later, when Angie grew up, she explained she needed only one look at the person to understand what makes his lifestyle, what type of things he or she loves. This time it was objective. Angie loved small houses, Hannibal loved Renaissanse. Angie loved trees, Hannibal loved water. And – was it her cursed Alpha-Romeo standing by the porch? Oh, of course. They didn't take off the sticker in the right corner of the back glass: "Speed limit 200 miles." That was a very special one she brought from her business trip to Las Vegas four years ago... Time was always passing so quickly!...
She entered the house through the kitchen window, which, to her surprise, was ajar. Those little doves are too careless, she thought. Gotta remind them that even a fugitive, Top Ten criminal, and his daughter might be robbed.
Clarice checked the leftovers from supper and didn't find any meat at all. Strange, she thought, Angie never was a vegetarian. And hated fava beans. She smiled at the thought. They would both be upstairs.
Living room – and the piano in it. How lecterish, she thought. She wondered if Angie told him she hated piano. And drawing. And obeying. One strong will against another – and they seemed to live here in a fragile peace, waiting for her to wake up.
Clarice quietly went up the stairs trying not to make a slight noise, however, without success. She hoped only that those two won't hear her moans involuntarily escaping from her mouth with every step. She felt like she was walking on blades, and only her iron will made her climb higher and higher going further ad further until she reached the open door to Angie's bedroom.
My sweet angel, she thought. When you were small I looked at you and saw him. When you started to speak I was hearing him almost in every word you said. I couldn't separate you and your father. Forgive me for this if you ever felt that.
Angie had her nightlight on. Maybe she fell asleep reading, Carice thought. She often did it when she was smaller. But now she ought to care 'bout the baby. Not good...
Clarice entered the room. Everything here was so familiar – in a certain period of time Angie made this four-wall human cage hers. The posters of her favourite actors fully showed her girlish nature, but the huge amount of the books and idioms in different languages hanging on the walls on huge sheets of paper showed another part of her nature. Clarice had no name for it, as she still didn't have the name for Hannibal Lecter. Hmm, that handwriting... They're co-operating. At least this is good.
Clarice intended to switch off the nightlight, but then she thought of her daughter, who was a light-sleeper. She definetly needs no shock right now. Let her sleep in peace.
Hey, what's that? She picked up a book from Angie's night-table. "Last Joy of the Lifetime". Short stories. Written by an author with the strange name she even couldn't pronounce. Pretty crazy, she thought. Angie was reading a lot, but she preferred reading to study, not for fun.
The story was very short. It was telling about a man who had a heart-attack twice and knew he couldn't survive. His friend gave him last hope – the address of a doctor who didn't count any disease to be mortal. The doctor was a woman, much older than the patient, she cured him by allowing him to do whatever he wanted – drink wine, eat good food, run – and providing him a company which he lacked in his family. It took him two years to get well completely. On his last encounter she gave him the amulet made of wood, so popular in the country they both living in. That very old wooden amoulet, she said, was given to me by a man, who helped me to survive after my husband's death. He said she was his Last Joy of the Lifetime. "And so are you for me," said the woman. Three more years passed until he remembered he should visit his doctor – but he was already too late. She died.
Right at the end of the story there was a sheet of paper, written all over with her daughter's handwriting. "Just like Mum and Dad. If he hadn't heard her voice, he would have been already dead. And now it's too late for him to visit her. Will she ever wake up? I think, no. It's an illusion we're both sharing, but one of us should take all the fault and set her free."
So I've been in coma, Clarice thought. How long? She looked at her daughter – and saw the scaring truth. About six months, maybe more. And they were patient for all that time. They care for me. A slight smile bore in the corner of her lip. And then she heard the scream.
He walked into his memory palace. It looked so glorious outside – but he was terrified by what he saw inside. Devastation. Scaring devastation, walls grew up till he became so little he couldn't reach the door-knobs. No, he thought. I'm the one controlling My own palace. By a supernatural forse he brought things back to normal. He obviously needed some rest.
He entered the room devoted to Florence. But something was wrong. He opened his favourite books, looked at the drawings, sights, listening to music, inhaling his favourite scents of the town – no use. Blank white papers, absolute silence.
Scared to death he ran to Clarice's room. To see her there. He wanted to see her at Chesapeake, in the kitchen, her hair stuck in the refrigerator. And he saw her. Calm down, he said - –nd she turned her face to him. There was no face at all. Just a piece of skin, covering the place where her beautiful eyes, stubborn chin, high cheekbones and sweet red lips should be. There weren't any.
Then she began transforming. And in a second he saw a little girl, logn black hair, maroon eyes, delicate features. Mischa, who was haunting him. He failed to protect her... "And you failed to protect Clarice," said the voice from the behind.
Angie. With the knife. "You're the Cannibal. You're the murdered. Maybe I should do it myself before you do it to me." And she hit herself with the knife right in the navel, killing both herself and the baby...
He couldn't stand it. He screamed.
And immediately felt soothing hands on his head. They put his head to the lap, as usual, stoking his hair, his face. "It's all right, I'm here, it's all right."
It was very much all right. But it wasn't Angie. Not her scent. It was a smell of strawberries, mixed with the scent of hospital and a fresh night... It couldn't be. But it was her voice, soothing him, her hands stroking his cheek, her lips finally touching his forehead, again after fourteen years... A miracle. An angel visited him before going to heaven.
"Stay with me," he asked and looked at her face with the greatest hope he could express. "Will you?"
"Sure," she answered. He rose and in one quick movement laid her on the bed beside him. Real or unreal – no matter. She will be mine till sunrise. Till she carefully flees to the place where all angels play. Till she leaves him alone again.
And sunrise found them naked, asleep, lying on the bed, embracing, their lips close, their breath united, their heartbeat at the same rhythm. Through all the pain and sorrows they both found the last joy of their, now shared, lifetime.
FIN.
D/N the same.
A/N This chapter is rated R for some brutality. Please be aware.
Chapter 10. The Last Joy of the Lifetime.
Angie was asleep when he came back. Hannibal stood at the door of his daughter's bedroom to look at her. Now she and her baby were everything Hannibal had. How funny, he thought. Lady Fate took her life instead of mine, to show me no one can disguise her.
He felt no pain – only a strange emptiness. Hannibal thought he had to get some sleep before sun rises. Then somehow he had to explain Angie. That was the worst part.
She was walking. She never felt so weak – and never was so certain she can't stop walking. Going down the road – somewhere where she belonged. To Hannibal. Clarice was getting cold, but her lost memory was returning with this coolness of the night. Angie. Pregnant. Left alone in this world. Or... not alone. With her father.
Or she had been in hospital and they both settled nearby to be close to her. But how long had she been there? Suddenly she stopped and looked at her hair. Too long she thought. Fuck. Too long. She must have been there at least for several months.
Angie. If she was under Hannibal's supervision, everything was ok. He's a doctor, Clarice thought. Not an accoucheur, but he would have done a good job treating her to long walks, regular meal...
Meal. Meat. Human flesh. No, he couldn't have done this. Clarice shook her head in disbelief. If this girl had been courteous enough... But somehow she knew Angie wouldn't.
She could only pray that worst things she imagined didn't happen.
Hours of tiring walk – and she reached the house. Clarice felt no doubt who this house belonged to. It was all about style, Angie told her. She was small, but her high intelligence made some people shiver. Six years old girl came to her mother and said: "Mum, you shouldn't wear skirts, they visibly bind your moves." Later, when Angie grew up, she explained she needed only one look at the person to understand what makes his lifestyle, what type of things he or she loves. This time it was objective. Angie loved small houses, Hannibal loved Renaissanse. Angie loved trees, Hannibal loved water. And – was it her cursed Alpha-Romeo standing by the porch? Oh, of course. They didn't take off the sticker in the right corner of the back glass: "Speed limit 200 miles." That was a very special one she brought from her business trip to Las Vegas four years ago... Time was always passing so quickly!...
She entered the house through the kitchen window, which, to her surprise, was ajar. Those little doves are too careless, she thought. Gotta remind them that even a fugitive, Top Ten criminal, and his daughter might be robbed.
Clarice checked the leftovers from supper and didn't find any meat at all. Strange, she thought, Angie never was a vegetarian. And hated fava beans. She smiled at the thought. They would both be upstairs.
Living room – and the piano in it. How lecterish, she thought. She wondered if Angie told him she hated piano. And drawing. And obeying. One strong will against another – and they seemed to live here in a fragile peace, waiting for her to wake up.
Clarice quietly went up the stairs trying not to make a slight noise, however, without success. She hoped only that those two won't hear her moans involuntarily escaping from her mouth with every step. She felt like she was walking on blades, and only her iron will made her climb higher and higher going further ad further until she reached the open door to Angie's bedroom.
My sweet angel, she thought. When you were small I looked at you and saw him. When you started to speak I was hearing him almost in every word you said. I couldn't separate you and your father. Forgive me for this if you ever felt that.
Angie had her nightlight on. Maybe she fell asleep reading, Carice thought. She often did it when she was smaller. But now she ought to care 'bout the baby. Not good...
Clarice entered the room. Everything here was so familiar – in a certain period of time Angie made this four-wall human cage hers. The posters of her favourite actors fully showed her girlish nature, but the huge amount of the books and idioms in different languages hanging on the walls on huge sheets of paper showed another part of her nature. Clarice had no name for it, as she still didn't have the name for Hannibal Lecter. Hmm, that handwriting... They're co-operating. At least this is good.
Clarice intended to switch off the nightlight, but then she thought of her daughter, who was a light-sleeper. She definetly needs no shock right now. Let her sleep in peace.
Hey, what's that? She picked up a book from Angie's night-table. "Last Joy of the Lifetime". Short stories. Written by an author with the strange name she even couldn't pronounce. Pretty crazy, she thought. Angie was reading a lot, but she preferred reading to study, not for fun.
The story was very short. It was telling about a man who had a heart-attack twice and knew he couldn't survive. His friend gave him last hope – the address of a doctor who didn't count any disease to be mortal. The doctor was a woman, much older than the patient, she cured him by allowing him to do whatever he wanted – drink wine, eat good food, run – and providing him a company which he lacked in his family. It took him two years to get well completely. On his last encounter she gave him the amulet made of wood, so popular in the country they both living in. That very old wooden amoulet, she said, was given to me by a man, who helped me to survive after my husband's death. He said she was his Last Joy of the Lifetime. "And so are you for me," said the woman. Three more years passed until he remembered he should visit his doctor – but he was already too late. She died.
Right at the end of the story there was a sheet of paper, written all over with her daughter's handwriting. "Just like Mum and Dad. If he hadn't heard her voice, he would have been already dead. And now it's too late for him to visit her. Will she ever wake up? I think, no. It's an illusion we're both sharing, but one of us should take all the fault and set her free."
So I've been in coma, Clarice thought. How long? She looked at her daughter – and saw the scaring truth. About six months, maybe more. And they were patient for all that time. They care for me. A slight smile bore in the corner of her lip. And then she heard the scream.
He walked into his memory palace. It looked so glorious outside – but he was terrified by what he saw inside. Devastation. Scaring devastation, walls grew up till he became so little he couldn't reach the door-knobs. No, he thought. I'm the one controlling My own palace. By a supernatural forse he brought things back to normal. He obviously needed some rest.
He entered the room devoted to Florence. But something was wrong. He opened his favourite books, looked at the drawings, sights, listening to music, inhaling his favourite scents of the town – no use. Blank white papers, absolute silence.
Scared to death he ran to Clarice's room. To see her there. He wanted to see her at Chesapeake, in the kitchen, her hair stuck in the refrigerator. And he saw her. Calm down, he said - –nd she turned her face to him. There was no face at all. Just a piece of skin, covering the place where her beautiful eyes, stubborn chin, high cheekbones and sweet red lips should be. There weren't any.
Then she began transforming. And in a second he saw a little girl, logn black hair, maroon eyes, delicate features. Mischa, who was haunting him. He failed to protect her... "And you failed to protect Clarice," said the voice from the behind.
Angie. With the knife. "You're the Cannibal. You're the murdered. Maybe I should do it myself before you do it to me." And she hit herself with the knife right in the navel, killing both herself and the baby...
He couldn't stand it. He screamed.
And immediately felt soothing hands on his head. They put his head to the lap, as usual, stoking his hair, his face. "It's all right, I'm here, it's all right."
It was very much all right. But it wasn't Angie. Not her scent. It was a smell of strawberries, mixed with the scent of hospital and a fresh night... It couldn't be. But it was her voice, soothing him, her hands stroking his cheek, her lips finally touching his forehead, again after fourteen years... A miracle. An angel visited him before going to heaven.
"Stay with me," he asked and looked at her face with the greatest hope he could express. "Will you?"
"Sure," she answered. He rose and in one quick movement laid her on the bed beside him. Real or unreal – no matter. She will be mine till sunrise. Till she carefully flees to the place where all angels play. Till she leaves him alone again.
And sunrise found them naked, asleep, lying on the bed, embracing, their lips close, their breath united, their heartbeat at the same rhythm. Through all the pain and sorrows they both found the last joy of their, now shared, lifetime.
FIN.