Disclaimer: These characters are not my own.
The loud buzz of motor engines filled the usually still air. Its habitual calmness now withered away with the speed of vehicles, sending the air tossing and turning about in the open skies. The putt putt of cars engines was joined in a sickly waltz with loud radios and CD players. The music scrambling from car to car as volumes were lowered and raised in sequence. Snow fell from its soft pillows onto the cold earth, graying the sky and smothering the last warmth felt on this day. Clarice Starling of the F.B.I. now lay, wrapped in several very chilly, plastic tarps in the trunk of her captor's 68 Ford Galaxie.
She had stressfully given up, weak with exhaustion and pain. She now lay unconscious, her breath steady and showing in chilly puffs. They drove for hours upon hours seemingly with no end. Finally 18 hours later the car stopped with a sudden thud. Clarice remained asleep her face now drained of its color, her light freckles now deep round dots against a white canvas.
He slowly twisted the key in the ignition with sweet triumph, turning off the car which held his prize. He had captured her. After a year of looking he had found her and captured her. Like a rare bird finally caged and at his mercy. He quickly removed himself from the orange front seat, keys in hand and jogged to the trunk, shoving the key in its hole with shaky hands. The Trunk's lid drew up with a loud creak sending chills down his spine. "Clarice…" he whispered as he began to pull away the tarps as if he was a small child opening a present on Christmas day. As her thin figure was revealed butterfly's swarmed into his stomach in bouts and waves.
"You are so peaceful when you sleep Clarice." Just as he said these few words she began to stir, her teeth clenching and eyes squinting. He knelt down and lightly caressed her pale cheek with his frosty hands. "Perhaps I have spoken to soon; I have forgotten about your lambs my dear Shepherd." He reached around her back, feeling her soft skin and her hard shoulder blades on his arms, his left arm holding her upper back, is right holding her legs at the bend of her knee's. He picked her up carefully as though she was a broken child. Her arms and legs dangling limp, her head resting on his toned upper arm.
Hannibal stood admiring a brilliant painting that was hung before him. He stood staring into the equally extraordinary eyes of a painting; it was of a small child holding a dripping heart in its hands, resting in the heart as though it was a cage was a tiny lamb. The child's dress was magnificent. It was painted to be a stone blue silk. The child's eyes were of a dark green ominous color; in each were bright flecks of gold; probably made up of gold leaf or another form of slim gold perfect for paintings... The outer rings of the eyes were bright orange in color. Its silk robe was twisted around its round child's body and stopped at its feet. Its long brown locks swept down its round, softened cheeks. Behind the child stood and angel, its skin dark and its eyes wide and kind. Its hands rested on the child unsteady shoulders as a single tear slipped from the angel's eyes. The angels auburn hair streamed up into the air as though the wind was blowing. It wings were in great detail, its feathers grey black and white. The red and blue veins showed through out he wings, for the sun's glow lightly penetrated the feathers security and illuminated the front view of the wings.
The painting was entitled " L'agnello degli angeli."
"The lamb of Angels."
A/N: ok I hit a bump the size of Europe that just happened to be writers block. I don't need a certain amount of reviews but if you think I should change this chapter or any other please inform me.