Thank you, again, for all of your support and reviews. (!) You're all so wonderful. (Especially for sticking with me through this despite my terrible updating skills!) I'm really sorry that it keeps taking so long, but the plot is still swinging from side to side in my mind and I want you guys to read a solid story. Not an impromptu one.

Much love.

June 7th, 1989. (The evening before the last day of school.)

A trembling hand reaches to turn on the water faucet as its owner coughs into her free arm, scalding water beginning to spew from the piping. The cotton pajamas, which are already soaking from panicked sweat, begin to clump together as each garment falls ungracefully onto the laminate floor. Well-manicured feet softly enter the shower but flinch when the water reaches them, having to wait a few moments for the body to adjust. The taut woman enters the shower and leans toward the water source, in desperate need to relax her tensed muscles.

The nightmare strikes Clarice at her most vulnerable moment in sleep, the time when she's too deep into the façade of her imagination to know real life from fantasy.

Men swearing, sunshine turning to darkness, empty meat packages sitting in a pile, and dead lambs whose screams were silenced lay lifeless and hopeless on the killing floor. Men are rejoicing as Clarice screams for help. Sweat pours down her pale, colorless forehead and her cries leave her breathless as she kneels next to the lambs.

One man, who's tall and phantom-like, merely watches as she cries for the lambs' revival. His maroon eyes, bright like fresh blood, stare into her soul and pierce it ruthlessly. He walks up to the lambs and pulls out a curved knife – which Clarice will later know as his harpy – and slits all of their throats with a grim smirk. As if forced to.

Blood spews everywhere. It soaks the woman's clothes and travels up her body until it suffocates her into a bloodied pool of death.

Clarice's cries, just like the lambs – never answered.

The shower feels so good as it rinses death's blood off of her shoulders. Shows her that she's alive, fully alive and…somewhat well. She attempts to breathe steadily, but to no avail. Minutes pass and the steam from the shower once more makes Clarice drowsy. Wet skin steps from the shower and presses against the wall for support. She dries herself off and walks to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Seconds, minutes, and hours pass and in what seems like no time, it's six am. Two hours before her class starts. The psychology and criminology major sighs at the clock and curls up in a fuzzy blanket on the couch, clutching the fabric close. She lets her eyelids close and decides to take a small nap before getting ready.

The bell rings and Clarice is already in class, looking just as pulled together as she would with even a full nights rest – which…doesn't say much.

Classes fly by without a hitch, but Professor – Doctor – Lecter acts differently. Nothing noticeable to a student who doesn't spend extra curricular time with forty three year old, but Starling senses something is amiss. He looks strangely fulfilled.

The twenty five year old moans in agony as he writhers against restraints. His chest heaves and breathing begins to hitch as his eyes search with a glimmer of hope through the dark. A smirk is plastered onto the forty three year old's lips. His eyes adjust to the darkness well and he senses fear on the other man's scent.

Adrenaline levels rise and he swiftly pulls out his harpy on one fluid move, his body mere inches from the victim. The victim who just recently murdered his wife and mother of his two children because he was under the influence. That one.

Cries echo through the shed and blood seeps from the young man's blue eyes. "Eyes who don't deserve to see his life or children again." Slits are made vertically through the man's eyes and screams of pure pain are echoed for what seems like miles. His body shakes with salty, oh so salty tears which seep into the slits in his blind eyes. Pleads are heard, but no mercy is given as warm blood leaks from his lifeless neck.

"Doctor Lecter? May I come in?" A hopeful Clarice Starling knocks rather sheepishly on her professor's door.

The Doctor chuckles silently and allows her to come in, telling her, per usual, to 'please, take a seat.'

Outwardly strong but internally frazzled Clarice explains her dream in vivid detail to the man, who appears to be the subject of her dream. His slicing of the lamb's throats particularly sticking out in her mind. She recalls the events animatedly which truly entertains the Professor.

The way her sapphire-like eyes nearly glaze when she remembers a negative event and the way her peachy lips tighten into a thin line when posed a thought provoking question from her professor captivates his attention. She, appearing so strong, so unbreakable on the outside, is so tortured by her memories. Her possible parallel. The thought is fascinating for someone like his self.

No, not her suffering. Doctor Lecter is no sadist when it comes to Clarice or any other woman, but he does know when someone has talent. Her past few dreams having paralleled his past few murders. Very engrossing, indeed. He sits back in his chair and nods as she talks, successfully covering a smirk.

As always, comments and reviews are wonderful. 3