#altereddesign

@altereddesign

Hannibal dropped the door of the fridge, letting it close with a soft ‘fwump’. Left-over spaghetti and a jug of milk threatening to go sour. They weren’t the only things in the fridge, but they were the scents that stuck out. He ran his fingers along the modest counter, then paused. He could hear light footsteps crossing the front porch. An early school day? 

He glanced at the wrapped present on the kitchen table and supposed he would get to give Molly’s son her present in person. He hadn’t intended for his break in to be interrupted. The present was one thing. The fact that he had bypassed their security system was another. Leaving indications of his presence in the house was a part of his game. Only Hannibal Lecter ever knew what game he was playing at any given time. 

Will was not due to be home until that evening. Molly, some time before that. And their son was supposed to be in school for another hour. He didn’t precisely have the time to hide. He turned to face the boy. 

                    She was greeted by a pack of very content canines as she approached the Graham house. It was very rare anymore that she allowed herself to come over, especially with her growing proclivities to following in her father’s footsteps. She just felt is was in the best interest of everyone involved that she do so. However, she missed her friend. Ariel was not one to have friends, and in fact, Molly’s son, was her only friend. And while she enjoyed and often preferred the company of her fugitive parents, she craved companionship from someone her own age. 

                                   She allowed the dogs to swarm her. 

                                                 They seemed friendly enough. 

                                         Would they remain if they knew what she had done? 

                        Glancing up, she sees Molly and offers her a polite smile in greeting. 

       BLESSED WITH BEAUTY AND RAGE; 

                 Ariel Mischa Hope Lecter was her full name, however for the sake of secrecy in her school life, she went by Hope. Hope Starling, child of the presumed late great Clarice Starling. Of course, not many had the gumption to ask her about her mother, where she was, what had happened to her. She had long since disappeared, long since vanished off the face of the planet, forever memorialized as the FBI’s death angel who was in love with a cannibal, killed allegedly by the very same cannibal. She never talked about it, though, either. 

                Ariel walked down the long corridor of her high school, finding it rather tedious that she had to study here. She felt, with her parents’ educational guidance, she did not need all of this. It was merely to appease the government, her mother had recently informed her after a rather heated argument. She was feisty, indeed. Like mother like daughter. Text books clutched to her chest, the  young girl walked into one of her favorite classes. English Lit had been one of the few she did not avidly protest. She took her seat by one of her dear friends, Josh. 

               She was well aware of his father’s connection to her’s, though she was grateful beyond measure that he had not the same insight. One wrong move, and her father would be placed back behind the confines of the Maryland Hospital For the Criminally Insane. As a matter of fact, she believed it would actually be much worse. Death penalty, more than likely. With more than two decades of freedom, she doubted sincerely he would be willing to return. However, she was also aware that he would do anything, absolutely anything for his family. She had witnessed this first hand when one of their former neighbors had threatened to harm her when she was only ten years old for trespassing. He made for a lovely series of meals. 

The Orphan /  L'Orphelin

August Friedrich Schenk, 1885

Clarice -

[found on a blank page in the back of one of Dr. Lecter’s books]

Many things. Gooseberries remind me of my childhood. My sister and I would play in the gooseberry bushes when we were intended to be picking the fruit. Dust on old wood reminds me of a home I had but briefly. The scent of Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche reminds me of my aunt. La Primavera...

It is easy for me to spend hours walking the halls of my memory. 

Indeed, you have selected something befitting of me... and someone else, dear to my heart. I am not one to shy from the beauty of tragedy. 

Softly and gently how he smiles, how his eyes fondly open —do you see, friends? do you not see? how he shines ever brighter. Star-haloed rising higher Do you not see? [...and ends...] to drown, to founder – unconscious – utmost bliss!