The good Doctor Lecter
stood at attention in his cell. Some would think he was waiting, and
perhaps he was, but for what he wouldn't have told you. Behind him
were walls beaten with the blood of the lunatics who came before him.
He covered the stains with sketches, most of the dark memories
clinging to the paper with charcoal and imagination.
One stood out. It was
above his bed. A drawing of the very Special Agent Starling. Of
course removed of her usual dank clothing and instead in lovely silk
as he imagined her at a dinner party, or perhaps a ball. Perhaps
even in the late of night...
Alas. Thoughts like that
were far too exuberant for the time being. Lecter had easier things
on his mind. Like the taste of blood, or a well cooked meal. How he
longed for simplicity, and oh, how it eluded him. He sat, as to get
his difficult mind together, and he looked down at a blank page. The
dimples and coarseness of the paper reminded him of Starling, just
briefly.
If she wanted, she could
be just like the paper, abrasive at first, but with work and time, a
masterpiece. A forever elusive masterpiece.
He settled in with the
charcoal in his fingers, digging into his pores as he worked
steadily, still quite nimble, but not as he was in his youth.
Something that escapes us all with time. His mind was thankfully
quiet as he slaved, getting the edges and the tenderness just right.
Yes, some things escape us with time. As his hand slowed and he
lifted the page up, he needed to make no adjustments for it was just
as his memory preserved her.
His little Mischa looked
back at him from the paper.
Lecter's thoughts were
still, like standing water that would soon attract mosquitoes. And so
they came and he couldn't swat the thoughts away.
What could he do with the
picture? Surely he wished to hang it up next to Starling's portrait.
They did share a similar quality, that they could do few things to
anger him, and each of them in their own ways did settle his
cacophonous mind at one time or another. So we waited for a while, as
he could with time on his side. The answer came. Surely, yes, Mischa
deserved many places on the walls. Entire walls themselves.
So Lecter slowly tore the
portrait to shreds.
Why he had drawn it, was
debatable. It was aggravating to think of that time in his life, he
much preferred the still water of a lake to the rapids of Mischa's
memory.
He ate the paper slowly,
and with a soulless appetite.
As he settled once again
in the middle of the florescent lights, he heard the footsteps, he
could not mistake the sound of the cheap heels that Special Agent
Starling wore for such occasions.
Another session, he
presumed.
A dissection perhaps?
“Hello Agent Starling.”
He smiled as her heels stopped in front of his cell.
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