It was another evening, falling into the category of many, on which Clarice had chosen to go running. The weather was her favorite. The skies were grey, and the air was damp and held a hint of rain. She sprinted down the trails, filling her lungs blissfully with the cool fall air.
Now Clarice was returning home. As her Mustang pulled into her driveway, the sight of her darkened and empty house made something inside her sink. She hated this; having to come back to a neglected and lonely house that could hardly be called a home. It only served to emphasize the hollow, gnawing feeling of emptiness inside of her.
She tossed her keys onto the table in the front hall and un-strapped her gun holster. The incessant, blinking red light on her answering machine demanded that she check her messages; the first one was from Ardelia, who was living in upstate New York with her husband and wanted Clarice to call her so they could "catch up" on things. In all honesty, Clarice felt guilty for neglecting their friendship. The two old roommates had not spoken in almost a year. Yet Clarice envied her for her success at the Bureau, and now for her successful marriage as well. She saw everyone moving forward and advancing in life, while she was left behind.
The second call came from Pearsall, saying that he needed some information about one of the reports he'd left for her that morning and that she should call him when she got a chance.
"So what am I now, the God-damned office girl?" She said it out loud but was quickly requited with a flashback, as Paul Krendler's voice echoed through her head.
"Come around campaign headquarters. You could be a office girl! Can you type and file? Can you take dictation?"
The memory made her shudder, and she shoved it away from her thoughts and locked it up in the back of her mind, where she kept hidden all of her memories from that night. She walked into the kitchen, dismayed at the thought of food. She was far from being in the mood to eat. She opened the fridge and found it to be next to empty. "Fuck it," she said, and headed upstairs towards her bedroom.
Entering her bathroom, she stripped herself of her clothes and climbed into the shower, turning on the steaming water to full blast. Pushing unwanted thoughts from her mind, she focused on scrubbing herself clean, so vigorously to the point that her skin turned a deep red.
Clarice got out, toweled herself dry, and threw on her bathrobe. Glancing out the window, she realized that it was now well late into the night and the sky had gone completely dark. The man in the moon stood out so vividly that it seemed as if it was watching her, or maybe even judging. She recalled the things her father had told her as a child. One night, they had laid out in the field behind their house on a blanket, and the two of them had stayed up late into the night to look at the stars and watch them move across the sky, as the night grew late. Her father pointed out the constellations and told her about how the man in the moon was real, and that he lived in the moon and watched over everyone every night as they slept. They had talked and laughed all night, and Clarice remembered feeling very special that he'd allowed her to stay up so late. The memory felt sentimental and fragile, and she tucked the lingering image of her father away in a safe, hidden place, hoping that she would never forget it.
She left the bathroom and opened the door, only to find her bedroom to be lit in soft candlelight. A single white rose lay on the down comforter of her bed, and the candles cast wandering shadows across the walls. Normally, Clarice's bedroom was a bit boring…dull, even. The walls were a cream color, the bed comforter was lavender, and the dressers and nightstand were the typical, tan-colored wood that is used to make up most cheap and characterless bedroom furniture. But with the candles and the rose, and some other familiar scent that Clarice identified at once (L'Air du Temps…?) the room had become almost dreamlike and romantic. She immediately tried to think of where her gun was, but her heart sank when she remembered she'd left it lying on the table in the front hall, in plain view for whoever was in her home... even though she had no doubts as to who it was.
She began to edge down the stairs, hoping she could soundlessly make it to the phone on the table in the hall, and her gun if it had not yet been taken. Upon reaching the table, however, she found the Colt .40 to be missing, and the phone line to be cut dead. Just as she was placing the receiver back on the hook, strong arms came from behind her and lifted her, backing her up against the wall and knocking the phone and table to the floor where they fell with a loud crash. And when she was spun around and forced to look up, Clarice found herself face to face with Dr. Hannibal Lecter himself. A rush of adrenaline came over her, yet she found that she could not stand without the support of the wall behind her.
"Good evening, Clarice. Are we ordering for take-out, or are we perhaps making a social call to your friends at the Bureau?"
Even in the darkness, the maroon in Lecter's eyes swam through the blackness, and all she could manage to say was, "Dr. Lecter."
"If you were planning to call the Bureau, then I regret to inform you that all phone lines in the house have been severed." His eyes glittered now, and the thrill of the game was reflected in the swirling darkness of his eyes.
"What are you doing here, Doctor?"
"Ah, such a warm welcome. I must commend you for your hospitality skills Clarice, they are truly first rate." He was pleased with the flustered effect that his proximity was having on her. "I've come to pay you a visit, to look in on your health and see how you are. Although I knew you would never abandon your loyalties to the Bureau, hence the seizure of firearms, I had hoped that at least for a short time we might be able to sit down and have a simple discussion, and you could tell me a bit about your current situation at the Bureau. Would that be at all possible? It would be rather unfortunate if I had to use force," he hissed, using his strength to crush her further against the wall.
"You've never been afraid to before, what stops you now?" She glared back at him.
He relented and lessened his hold on her, leaning back to look at her. "You should know by now that I have no intention of harming you. However, in the event that I need to make some sort of sacrifice to keep my freedom, I cannot make any promises. Now, is it safe to let you go, or are you going to try to attack me again with another candlestick?" He said, recalling her method of assault at the lake house. His eyes glinted with amusement.
"I won't if you won't."
"No attacking anyone on my part, you have my word." He held up his hands in mock innocence.
"I took the liberty of preparing a meal for us, since you have little to no food in your house. I must insist that you do try to take better care of yourself, my dear." He led her into the kitchen, where a pot was steaming on the stove and something was cooking in the oven. "And Pop-Tarts, Clarice? I'm appalled, really." His eyes twinkled as he watched her become agitated.
"Well, I would do more shopping, if I had the time," she said, begrudgingly.
"So I take it that the Bureau is running you ragged, so to speak? A lot of paper pushing and long hours, Clarice? And tell me, how does that suit you?"
"So is that why you're here? To sit back and gloat in the glory of my downfall? Even if my station at the Bureau has been demoted, do not make the mistake of thinking that I've given up on my duties."
"Oh Clarice, don't think that I don't know just how great of a danger you are to me. I fully understand that, given the chance, you would instantaneously hand me over to your precious F-B-I at any moment if it meant they'd restore you to your previous status." He took the time and made a point to enunciate each letter. "But I must say, I felt that the abrupt and rather unfortunate conclusion to our recent dinner was less than satisfactory. Not to worry, Clarice, my injury has been taken care of is healing just fine, I assure you." He had noticed her eyeing the scar that left a faint line running between his thumb and the rest of his left hand, as he moved about the kitchen while preparing their meal.
Clarice swallowed and watched his movements. She didn't even want to guess how the Doctor seemed to know exactly where everything was stored in her kitchen; he acted as if the cupboards were as familiar to him as his own. He moved about as gracefully as a cat, never missing a beat, and Clarice became transfixed while watching him. However, red flags went up in the back of her head, and she tried to predict what was being cooked on the stove and in the oven. "Doctor, what are you making?"
The doctor glanced at her, amused. "Nothing that you would deem un-edible, I promise you." He prepared the food for them and set the plates on the table: Couscous mixed with tomatoes, pine nuts, and pesto, and oven-roasted chicken with glazed onions and peppers. He poured two glasses of Chateaû d'Yquem and then joined her at the table.
Clarice, not having eaten since her granola bar that morning, was starving and ate the food quickly; inevitably, she found it to be delicious. Halfway through the meal she realized that the Doctor had not touched his plate, and was content to sit back in his chair with his wine and simply watch her. She slowly set her fork down and fidgeted self-consciously. "I haven't eaten much of anything today."
"I aim to please, Clarice. I'm glad to see you enjoying your meal." He continued to gaze at her from across the table, and Clarice wondered for how long he had been in D.C., watching her.
"It seems as of late that the Bureau has been giving you a rather difficult time. Any thoughts as to why?"
"Well, clearly your escape didn't help me all that much. They all despise me, and I've never done anything to deserve it. The only reason they can't stand me is because of you. And now you've come back to watch and enjoy my suffering? Do you really have nothing better to do than find amusement in the pain of others?" Her eyes accused him, as she pushed her plate away, showing her disgust.
"Perhaps your life would ameliorate itself, Clarice, if you handed in your final resignation forms."
"And you would love that, wouldn't you? Driving the final nail into my coffin, and you would stand by and watch it all happen."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Tell me, do you truly believe that I find such a measure of happiness in your suffering? Quite frankly, my dear, as of late I find your life to be quite tedious. The same games of bureaucracy at the office and a lack of a social life doesn't make for a very interesting subject. It's tiresome, Clarice."
"Alright, well then if I'm so boring to you, then what was your purpose of coming here? To analyze me some more? Or have you just come to remind me that my career is ending?"
She was aggravating him, and she knew it. His eyes flashed as he stood from his chair and began circling the table towards her. "I think that perhaps you've mistaken my meaning, Clarice."
Clarice's heart was racing as she stood and began backing up into the wall. "Well then, please set me straight and tell me why you're here, Doctor. You did always love to point out where I made a mistake," she bit back at him.
Amazed that she was continuing to challenge him, he grabbed her by her shoulders and shoved her back to the wall, leaning in so close to her that she could feel every breath that he exhaled. "Clarice, if you refuse to save yourself from the wolves, you will waste away to nothing in that faithless agency. Your very essence and strength, they will dwindle and rot away in that basement office, until your very drive and determination will fade away forever. Do you understand this, Clarice?" He almost shook her with his intensity, as he searched her face for recognition.
"So, what do you care? Since when did my welfare ever interest you?" She spat back at him.
He retaliated by pushing her further against the wall, as he hissed into her ear. "You're welfare interests me far more than I think you know." He leaned back and looked penetratingly into her eyes. "And I refuse to leave you here for the FBI to smother you, Clarice. It simply will not happen. I'm going to help you escape them, whether you want to or not. I'm going to make you see yourself for all that you are. Now, little Starling, you will run with me."
Lost in his words and the swirling pinwheels of his eyes, Clarice barely felt the sting of the needle as it pierced her arm.
Moments later, Special Agent Clarice Starling was carried out the backdoor of her own home by Dr. Hannibal Lecter. No one noticed as a black Jaguar revved its engine and sped out of her street that evening and into the darkness of the October night.