How do you think they felt, their first time together?
She walks into the room, slowly. She's nervous. All girls are their first time. True, there was Bill, but that was different. That didn't count. He had her trapped in a pitch black basement. Gun trained on her, do it or die. No escape, no choice. She was forced to do it. She lay shaking and crying on the floor afterwards. She didn't want it. It wasn't her fault.
Six shots, center mass and Bill was dead.
This time, she was in control. She chose the victim, who was hanging from the ceiling by his ankles, bound and gagged. No drugs this time, no pretense of control. They both knew he never could, not really. She was too strong, too powerful. She now knew that she had the fire inside her. He now knew that she was like him. They both had learned that she was a monster.
She wanted to be a good cop. Follow the rules. Be the good guy, fight the bad guy. It all seemed to simple. But the rules never helped. They always worked against her. Invoked only to punish her, discarded when they would have helped her. She never had a chance. It had always been hopeless.
The meat is panicking now, it knows what's coming. She had first learned about it while on loan to the FBI's cybercrimes division. It had been on their radar for years, but daddy's money had always kept it out of prison. The whole thing felt a bit too "vigilante justice" for his tastes, but he knew how that type of crime outraged her. And, truth be told, it's not like he hadn't done a few villainous good deeds himself on ocassion.
Besides, he wouldn't dream of interferring with her first work of art.
And with hope, farewell fear...
She looks back at him and he gives her an encouraging smile. There was love in his eyes. Love and awe. The notion that she could have ever feared him, hated him, was laughable. How could she have ever feared someone who loved her so completely?
"That's a lovely blouse. It would be a shame to ruin it with blood. Take it off." She can only see his eyes, red pinpricks in the dark. She removes her top and her brassiere. She stands there bare-chested, illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. "I didn't even mention the bra. So eager to please, aren't you..." She blushes, but she is not ashamed. She would never give him full control, but she does let him borrow it when she has need of his expertise. Or when it's hot. He sits back in his chair.
She turns back to the meat, still struggling. She sees fear in its eyes. It sees peace in hers. Peace and hunger. She picks up the knife. Her own. An Army surplus K-Bar, sharpened like a razor. It felt heavy in her hand. Heavy. Hard. Good. She hears his breath catch in his throat. She smiles widely, he's loving this and she knows it.
She raises the knife. The meat screams into its gag. She brings the blade down, again and again. She's laughing now, feral, frenzied, howling mad. When he cuts, it is always methodical, surgical, precise. She is as destructive as a tornado, as vicious as a wildfire. He is Rembrandt, she is Basquiat. Two artists, different styles, same medium.
She is breathing heavily now. So is he. The meat is long dead by the time she stops.
All that is good to me is gone...
There is an inherent intimacy to cannibalism. To stand before the one you love and say "Look. This is me. This is who I am, what I am. I have committed mankind's foulest crime and I will do so again. I indulge my hunger on human flesh and I will never stop. This is me at my worst, can you still love me?"
And for your lover to reply "I do see you and I do love you. I will damn my soul to Hell so you won't have to go there alone. I'll hold your hand as we fall from grace so that you won't be scared. Even in the Inferno, everything will be okay because we will be there together."
The forbidden fruit. It was never an apple. Eve offered her heart to Adam and he ate of it so that she would not be cast out of Paradise alone.
There is no greater love than this.
He is blinking back the tears as he approaches her, his heart is about to burst. There are no words to describe the overwhelming love, pride and joy he feels right now. He trusted her completely. She accepted him entirely. No matter what happens, nothing can ever come between them. The blessed and the damned.
She is drenched in blood, dark and shiny in the moonlight. Nobody and nothing has ever been more beautiful. He can't help himself, he needs to taste it. Taste her. He bows his head and licks the blood from her breast. He feels her stiffen under his tongue. She moans his name as he leaves a pale streak up to her collarbone. He looks upon her and is nearly overcome by the sight of her, a swirl of coral, cream and ruby. He kisses her deeply and she feels him rising.
When they first met, the press spread lurid gossip about her intentions with him. They called her the Bride of the Monster. After the Drumgo raid, they dubbed her the Angel of Death. Though they will not know her true identity, once the bodies are found they will christen her the Roanoke Manhunter. But from this moment on, she will only call herself one thing. This murder shall serve as their wedding vows, and she has taken his name for her own, a name that is sweeter on her tongue than the blood she tastes as he kisses her.
Clarice Magdelene Lecter.
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