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Siren Sweet & Harpy Shrill

copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter

Disclaimer:    These characters were created by Thomas Harris.  They are used herein without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect.  No infringement of copyright is intended, and no profit, of any kind, is made by the creator, maintainer or contributors to this site.

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There is a scream…No….Not a scream….Too long to be a scream…There is a…What? What?

My hand slams down on my alarm clock, silencing the incessant screech of its wake up call. Human beings were not meant to wake like this. We were meant to huddle together throughout the night, the sweet kiss of sunlight softly stroking our eyes open to greet another day. I contemplate hurling the clock across the room, but decline. No need to punish a poor defenseless clock, dutifully performing the function a pathological society constructed it for. No need to punish myself. I’m only performing the function I was trained for.

My eyes stray to the wall calander, another demarcation of a sick world. I should count my days in sunsets and dawnings, not a numbers on a grid. No kittens greet me, no mountains or classic cars, just days and numbers in rapid succession. I would not say that it suits my life, but rather reflects it back with all the impartial judgment of a mirror. My eyes are drawn to the only spec of color, a dim red circle looping around a two and nine. The twenty-ninth. Today. In my businesslike hand, a legend is scrawled: 1:30 Meeting Room 34A, Operation: Siren.

I walk down the hallway in my modest but well made suit, silently cursing the dilettante who decided to exercise his paltry wit in the naming of my current assignment. I reach the door and draw it open, casting a hush over the already occupied room. No doubt they snicker at it behind my back already, but will wait to snicker in front of my face until the outcome is known. That is of course, if I still HAVE a face. You see I am the Siren in question. And Hannibal Lecter is wayward traveler I must lure onto the rocks of my treachery. I choke back a wave of bile as I take my seat. Their eyes roam over my face and I can practically hear them thinking: “This? This is what he courts disaster for?”

To my left, a senior agent rises. His name has no consequence. I have seen so many like him come, stay a while, them move on to better things. I never move on with them. I am stuck here as surely as if I was changed to the leg of the table we congregate around. He is speaking, and so, out of habit, I listen.

“Alright, We’ve been over this before. In a few hours we’ll be leaking to the press that Agent Starling has been discharged from duty. In another hour, after the gossip press has had a change to congregate we’ll be escorting her out, and onto a plane. Under no circumstances is her destination to be even hinted at people. We don’t want poachers shooting at rabbits to scare away the big game.”

I try to keep the disgust I feel from registering on my face. If they were really looking at me, they might see it, but fortunately, no one as looked at me for a very long time. He turns to me, or rather in my direction.

“Once you reach your destination, all that’s left for you to do is to wait and flush him out.”

Why do they always use backwoods hunting metaphors when they speak of me? This man has never been hunting a day in his life. When I was 8, my father took me hunting in the woods by our home. He taught me how to track, and I had a prize buck in my sights in just under nine hours. I was shaking like a leaf, and squeezing hot burning tears from my eyes, knowing I couldn’t shoot, torn between that truth and the devastating pain of disappointing my daddy. My father “accidentally” startled the buck when he kicked loose some stray rocks, and I loved him for it.

“You’ll be heavily guarded, of course, but at enough of a distance to complete the illusion of your helplessness”.

I almost snort with derision. I almost took him, jacked up on morphine armed only with a candlestick and handcuffs. Hannibal Lecter doesn’t think I’m helpless you stupid Fuck.

“OK, People. If there aren’t any questions, it’s go time.” He pauses for effect.

“Let’s all give Agent Starling a round of applause for agreeing to help us out”.
The false applause echoes in my ears with the sickening roar of a mile-high wave towering above a lifeboat. You sick bastards. You’d clap for Judas as he counted out his thirty pieces of silver. I hate them almost as much as I hate myself.


Part 1 of 12

1 of 12 l 2 of 12 l 3 of 12 l 4 of 12 l 5 of 12 l 6 of 12
7 of 12 l 8 of 12 l 9 of 12 l 10 of 12 l 11 of 12 l 12 of 12

copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter

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No infringement of rights is intended and no profit, of any kind, is made.