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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 11 In the flickering glow of a candlelit room, I find myself face to face with the most startling and intriguing enigma of my life. I can feel a thin stream of blood drying on my neck, my flesh beginning to mottle where his teeth have marked me. He gazes at his handiwork, and for just a moment I think I can detect a troubled look fleeting across his features. And then, so quickly that I doubt my perception, his expression has congealed once again into detached observation. He retrieves his already bloodied handkerchief from his jacket and delicately cleans my neck. I stare down at the bit of silk, brown lines of my dried blood forming a disturbing hounds tooth pattern on ruined finery. “I seem to have broken the skin. Please forgive me.” As nonchalant as if he was apologizing for coming late to dinner. Please forgive me, I almost tore out your throat. I’ll be sure to keep better track of the time. He tucks his kerchief back again, and I wonder why he hasn’t disposed of it. The answer lingers disturbingly in the back of my mind. It’s a memento. A memento suggests absence. My absence. Will he let me leave, or is he planning a different route for my departure. And if he will let me leave…will I? But there’s still a nagging voice in the back of my head. He had me pinned to the ground. I was painfully aware of his arousal, and much to my shame, I know he was aware of mine. And then, startlingly abrupt, over. On his feet. Civilized. Why? I try to find the words to ask him, but my mouth is suddenly dry. He cocks his head at me, and a silver ripple of fear slithers through my heart. I see fire and ice in his eyes, and mutely lower my head. His fingers snake out and cup my chin, drawing my eyes back up to his with gentle insistence. His index finger trails across my lower lip, and he takes a step closer to me. The rightness of the situation is completely at odds with my inner Lutheran screaming out against my sin from the pulpit in my mind. He’s an inch away from my lips, and the prospect of kissing him fills me with a stab of fatalistic longing so keen that I actually feel my heart contract with pain. Don’t kiss me. Please don’t kiss me. Not there. Not my lips. I can’t. I can’t and leave. I just can’t. “Dr. Lecter…” He doesn’t withdraw from me, merely murmurs in his low register, warm moist air from his lungs caressing my naked lips. “Hmmm?” “Dr. Lecter…Why…?” And now he pulls back from me slightly, soaking up the emotions threatening to tear me asunder. “Why did I stop?” Words are so costly. I manage a mute nod. “Clarice, I’ve been dreadfully forward with you this evening. And while I trust my own control, I would hate to press my advantage.” I’ve been half drowned then bathed in fragrant waters, frightened and fed, cut and soothed. I’ve had my world turned upside down, only to realize, like a diver in murky water, that the surface wasn’t in the direction I thought it was after all. “I think I’ve been able to open your eyes a bit tonight, Clarice, even if the truth stings like salt water. But I can’t keep your eyes open for you. I’m afraid it’s time for you to make a decision.” “What are my options?” “Your options are the same as they’ve always been, Clarice. You can close your eyes and drown in your former life, or you can wrench your eyes open and swim for the shore with all you’ve got left. But whatever you decide, I won’t coerce you. In fact…” And his warmth leaves me, as he backs away. There is now a gulf of several steps between us. The moment hangs in the grasp of eternity. “I won’t even touch you.” I clench my jaw. “You’ll let me leave. Now.” “Absolutely.” “No consequences.” “Only one.” “And what is that?” “If you turn around and walk out that door, I’ll disappear from you life permanently. Weather you think that’s a blessing or a curse, I assure you Clarice, it is a fact.” Do I feel frigid water swimming around my ankles again. Is it possible to drown in a man’s words? “And what would you have me do?” “Oh no. You’ll take responsibility for your decision, Clarice, whatever the outcome. But I will say that over the course of the evening I’ve seen a tremendous and admirable expansion of your consciousness. You have a beautiful mind Clarice, and I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to savor your intimate thoughts. I would never tire of licking your tears, and drinking in your joy.” “Pretty words, Doctor. “ “Are they?” “Are you telling me that you… “That I love you? What a lonely little word, Clarice. It’s been used to justify and exonerate every crime from murder to incest, asked to shoulder a thousand different meanings, presented as an excuse for every conceivable human folly and weakness. Do you honestly want me to profess my LOVE to you, Clarice? Or would you prefer the truth.” “What is the truth, Doctor? “That I am captivated by you, Clarice. Fascinated, enthralled, challenged, revitalized, enraptured, enamored, excited, inspired, surprised, intrigued, enflamed, engulfed, exhilarated…My Dear Clarice. A single word could never encompass the spectrum of my feelings for you.” And then there is water on the floor. But not a flood. Not the sea. Just a single tear that falls unbidden from the eyes I shield from his. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look up. How can he ask this of me? Why can’t he just take? Does it have to be like this? And in my waterlogged heart, I know, it has to be. Hours must pass in our silent vigil. The door is ten feet from me; He is only five, but it seems like we’re separated by miles of shattered glass. And slowly, painstakingly slow, I take a step forward. Every step towards my love is a walk through broken glass, and my heart bleeds for what I leave behind. But I know that every step back only drags me down to the depths. I’d drown before I got to the door. He makes no move towards me, though I teeter and creep molasses slow. No out-stretched hand, no encouraging word, no smile to urge me on. Then time reclaims me and I’m standing closer to him than I’ve ever been of my own volition. With tentative tenderness I press my fingers to his lapel. The spell that divides us is broken, and he takes my hand in his own. Brining it to his lips, he kisses the top of my hand, a smile dancing in his crimson eyes. With a squeeze of my fingers, he leads me over the phantom glass, and to his bedroom. FIN Part 11 of 12
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6 of 12 copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter |