"Thou shalt not fall."
from the opening sequence of The Lost Boys
"To you, perceptive reader, I bequeath my history…"
The Historian written by Elizabeth Kostova
L'ENFER
By JetNoir
Clarice Starling reached a hundred years of age easily. The knife wrapped around her neck, threatened her vulnerable position.
Those hundred years had not been easy. As contradictory as that sounds, there is method in this madness. Her strong constitution made the job itself easy, but psychologically, and emotionally it was very difficult indeed.
--
Her finger brushed that of the monster, Hannibal Lecter, the Lithuanian serial murderer, as he passed her the case file of fellow serial murderer, Jame Gumb. Their eyes locked, and Clarice's heart jumped as something profound passed through them. Was it love? Lust? Or merely understanding?
Possible all three. Then, after an eternity of maroon, or more accurately, several seconds, Frederick Chilton - a monster in his own right - pulled her away from the man she was meant to be with.
Her soul-mate?
No, surely that again was a contradiction. Yet, pulled away, a deep yearning opened for something more than this. She wanted to leap into the arms of the monster, and either kiss him, or throttle him.
Violence and passion were seeming to rule her life.
--
Making breakfast, one rainy cold morning, somewhere in Asia, Clarice thought about Ardelia. It had been two years since her death - many, many years since Clarice had abandoned her friend. She had been unable to attend the funeral.
Tears, like rain, swept down her cheeks, washing the bread she was cutting far away. Loneliness erupted from her, as she realised she was alone. She couldn't rely on the monster, not matter how much she loved him. La belle, et le bete. It couldn't be more true.
--
They moved around an awful lot, never lingering in one place for too long. It was wise to do so, but it didn't allow for attachments to places. Of course, her lover, still had an exotic taste in food, but they were careful, and he always savoured his mouthfuls. Sometimes she shared his plate.
--
France now, then Russia. Earnest local police, eager to make a name for themselves had made their life intolerable. Doctor Lecter never lost his place from the FBI's ten most wanted.
Until his death of course.
--
The moth floated around the bedroom. A single light was on. The night was hot and sticky, and only a thin sheet covered the lovers, husband and wife. The husband was asleep, but the wife was not, and she watched the moth carefully, calculatingly, coldly.
It drew itself to the flames, and despite the wife's distress, the moth kept bursting onto the electric heat.
Stunned, it fell to the floor. It reminded the wife of other times, happier times, and sadder times. Elsewhere from this place. Her memory palace was growing every day.
--
Burnt Toast. It was what Clarice craved. Perhaps with a little caviar, and she looked down on her rounded belly. The moment in time stretched forever, and she was happy and peaceful.
--
The children grew up, and moved on themselves. They had stories to tell, lives to lead. They would make their parents proud. They didn't use the name of Lecter.
--
Clarice squeezed off five rounds, fighting the recoil, and wincing in pain.
"Good," said John Brigham, still alive, not dead in the ground, "that was excellent Starling. Now try the next target." The previous bullets had been perfectly accurate. No wonder she was nicknamed Annie Oakley.
--
L'Enfer, that place of torment.
After leading a life of joy, and contentment, but not always perfectly happy, for that would have been a fiction, Clarice Starling remained defiant to the end. She was alone now, and old and frail. She hated this savage new world around her, all chrome and neon, and bloody.
She willingly became a victim to it.
She was in Hell.
Then she fell.
--
Clarice Starling reached a hundred years of age easily.
She did not make it to a hundred and one.
fini
Note: I'm honestly not sure what to make of the previous story, but I'm finally writing again, and that can only be a good thing. It's a strange mix of prose and poem, and I hope you don't think it's too pretentious. It was just images flashing in my brain, which I transposed exactly as I saw them: a hundred years in three pages… Well, I hope you enjoyed it, and please let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: Hannibal is copyright to Thomas Harris; and the story, plus original characters to me. This story has been written on the understanding that you may read it and print it out; but you may not pass it off as your own, hire it out, or sell it for money. You also may not put it on your own or any other web page (that includes links) without my express written permission. Thankyou!
JetNoir