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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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6 of 12 PART 6 A click registers in my chest as he shuts the bathroom door. If I’m going to run, this is the time to do it. I hear the faucet turn, and then a steady stream of warm water frantically rushing down the drain and out to sea. The sound resonates in my ears as I tear myself away, stumbling numbly towards the kitchen. Grounding myself with the simple, homey tasks of childhood, I pull a bright copper kettle from the cupboard and proceed to fill it with frigid, oxygen rich water. I shove my wrists below the spigot, scrubbing away at the dusty crimson powder that stains my birch-white skin. The burner flame sparks to life, and I give the kettle over to it’s ministrations. With no instructions left to carry out, I sink into the stiff-backed comfort of a wooden chair. Hours pass, surely, before I hear the bathroom open down the hall, and see the ineffable black whisper of his shadow staining the carpet. He steps into the kitchen warily, and I can feel his eyes studying me with appraisal. He glances at the pot on the stove, sees the tension pooling between my shoulder blades, and glances back to my bedroom. Did I have enough time to retrieve my gun AND chase down a hidden bullet? Could I be secreting it upon my body like a shining pair of handcuffs? He rolls the notion over in his mouth, tastes it, and swallows. And then he turns his back on me and opens a kitchen cabinet. He is either very sure of me, or very sure of himself. He pulls out a worn paper box of Lipton tea and I sense, more than see, the look of disdain that turns up the corner of his lip. He digs deeper into the cabinet, far to the back, and is rewarded by a little tin of earl grey. He sets it on the counter below, and turns his attention back to me. He looks at me for a long time, and his silence is maddening. I want to scream, and run at him, throwing curses and rocks at him, like I would a maddeningly devoted pet that brushes my ankles as the hunters close in. I’m convinced he’ll stand there, looking at me forever, until time rots the flesh from his bones, leaving nothing but dust and tattered Armani. He looks deep into my eyes, and I wonder if he can hear the rising scream that’s threatening to tear through my lungs. And then, there IS a scream…He turns away to quell the teapots incessant yell. Tea leaves locked in a pierced silver ball plunge into the roiling water of the kettles design. They release their musk-citrus perfume in one heady breath, causing my lungs to suck deep, moist air into their lower register. “Do you take milk, Clarice?” “No.” He smiles, and lays his hand to the teapot’s lid, a thin, amber stream circling the basin of a transparent china cup. “No. Of course not.” He hands the cup and saucer to me, and I cradle it’s delicate fragile beauty in my death-dealing grasp. He pours himself a cup, but doesn’t join me at the table. Standing above me, he closes his eyes, savoring the fragrance as he takes his first sip. “Dr. Lecter, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but very soon those surveillance men will miss their check in, and this house…” “This house will become my gallows? Really, Clarice, you need to do this more often. Tea time can be a wonderfully relaxing ritual. Just look at the tension you’re carrying in your shoulders.” At the suggestion, my shoulders tense even further, pinching erectors taut between blade and spine. I half expect him to set aside his cup and coax the tension from my muscles with his broad, strong hands, but he continues to sip his tea. He is fingering the rim of his cup, and my eyes trace the bone-hued circle with him. “Dr. Lecter, really, why are you here?” “All business still, Special Ex-Special Agent Starling? I couldn’t forgo the chance to watch you run again, Clarice.” And there it is. Caprice. Whimsy. Some men take walks in the rain, he murders two trained surveillance operators for the chance to sit and sip tea with the woman who nearly bashed in his skull with a candle stick. “You have to leave, Dr. Lecter.” I can see the hair on the back of his neck bristle as my words hit their mark, and I am suddenly aware that I should have taken more care choosing my tone. His grip tightens around the off-white arch of the teacup’s handle. “Do you feel yourself in a position to be dictating my course of action, Clarice?” I try again, allowing the sweetness of a siren to replace the harpy’s edge in my voice. “It’s not safe for you here” “It’s not very safe for me anywhere, really, Clarice. At least here I have a view.” The way he looks at me makes me cast my eyes to the floor. “Dr. Lecter, stop this.” “Stop? I haven’t had such a lovely evening in months, Clarice.” I summon the last of my courage, and even before I parrot the words back to him, I can feel self-hatred wrapping it’s cold, bony fingers around my throat. “Stop. If you loved me….you’d stop” I have never seen his expression change so quickly. One second he is jovially baiting me, but in the next the purest, unmitigated rage I have ever seen on a perp’s face twists his features into a terrifying death-mask. Adrenaline dumps swift and nauseatingly into my system as I feel absolute terror running free and break-neck across the rocky outcroppings of my synapses. He flings the teacup away from him like a burning coal, sending shards of shattering china dangerously close to my face. Lightning fast, his hand hurtles towards me, clamping down unmercilessly at the back of my neck. Bright rivers of pain course down my neck as he twists my hair hard to the side, and I fear he might wrench my scalp free from my head. My hands fly to the back of my head, clawing desperately at his iron grip, but he doesn’t bunch a millimeter. I dig my nails into his hand, I smell blood, but he doesn’t even flinch. Stumbling and kicking, he drags me from the kitchen. In the living room, I catch my leg on the couch and go down hard, but he hoists me roughly back to my feet. A moment later I hear the door clatter open and the salt air hits my lungs as he heaves me towards the ocean. FIN Part 6 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |