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Burning Heart

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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Once again I wake, and find myself locked in my lonely embrace, both arms wrapped about my abdomen, hands resting restlessly between the curve of hip and waist. I crush my solitude against my chest, a grotesque parody of a lover’s hold rendered all the more pathetic by the fact that I am alone, and I am not alone. He is in my head, but my bed lays cold and barren. I squeeze myself tighter, my arms a poor substitute for his.

The quality of my bedding has improved. The threads in my Egyptian cotton sheets number in the thousands now. Their silky softness mocks me, forming white dunes in the flat expanse of bed that lies empty beside me. There is something undeniably humiliating about a queen size bed for one. In a twin, perhaps, I would not feel his absence so keenly; But how can I deny the wrongness of my situation, gazing at the moonlight soaked bedside that taunts me?

I pull a sleeping mask, black silk, over my sleep deprived eyes, and try to flee from him. How strangely ironic that I could imagine hiding from him in the darkness. I drift back into sleep…and Like a mustang run into a box canyon, I double back and find myself face to face with my pursuer. My breath hitches in my throat as the memory of those crimson orbs slice through me, dissecting the secret chambers of my aching heart, spilling the matching shade across the cold mortuary slab of my mind. A vision passes over me, and I shudder, as I see his presence, painted on the back of my eyelids. With scalpel precision he makes another nick. Another slice. I feel a tug….a burning sensation. And then my mind’s eye becomes painfully focused. He holds my heart in his hand, soft blue flames licking down the oxidized veins that line it’s shiny, membranous surface. He cocks his head, and stares at my exposed heart, fascinated, enraptured. And then his eyes flick back to mine, and he lowers his hand. Trembling, obedient, I shudder as he presses the gore to my lips. I take a deep breath and fight back a wave of nausea as I sink my teeth into the rubbery flesh of my still beating-heart. Smiling down at me, he leans in very close, and nips softly at the opposite side. As the blood drips down over my chin, we devour my heart, feasting together.

I shudder awake, and rip the sleeping mask from my eyes. I fling it violently away from me, and gaze about the room with wildly darting eyes. I venture a glance at my hands, and find them clean and unsoiled. I half expect to find the bedside soaked in mahogany blood, but the white dunes of Egyptian cotton are all the peer back at me. I stare back at the empty bed with a mixture of relief and longing. I am alone, and I am not alone. He is in my head, but my bed lays cold and barren. And yet, when I dream, he lies beside me.


copyright 2003, by Natasha Von Lecter

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