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Diary of a Fledgling Killer

copyright 2001, by Julia 676

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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I understand many of you do not know me, though you think you do, as you write of your envisions of what I am like. Well, I'm here to set everything straight . I AM the daughter of one Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. I wish to explain my reason for writing this, but I wasn't to begin with my life.

Not only is it difficult to be born the child of two fugitives, but it is even harder to be born of a cannibalistic fugitive on the FBI's ten most wanted list and an ex-special agent gone AWOL. Yet they are the best parents a child could ever receive. Not once in my life has there ever been on instance where I didn't feel the support or the warmth of their love smothering me life a blanket. No matter the decisions I've made, right or wrong, they've always supported me. Physically, I am my mother with brown hair, except for these maroon eyes. Mentally I am my father mixed with the spirit will and courage of my mother. Once at the appropriate age, I learned of my parents past. At first I didn't completely understand, though after time spent watching my parents together I learned why. Their love is too intense for words and is equally reciprocated between the two. From the age of five I was enrolled into a private school. There I was allowed proper instruction and the all important interaction with peers. Father always wanted me to feel apart of the crowd, and despite the concerns of mother, had me placed in the best school offered bear Florence. While instruction was received at school, most of my knowledge and my appreciation of the arts comes from father's lessons at home. Besides, there are simply thins one will never learn at school, such as how to defend one's self properly with a harpy.

Now, Back to the reason I write. Well, at the moment I am being held for refusal to cooperate with the Florentine Police. Escape is definite and only a matter of time, but having a chance to actually sit and think, I want you faithful followers of my parents to know what I am like. When I was nine, I learned of the resourcefulness and effectiveness of the harpy by practicing on wild hare and deer. I suppose that has led to my arrest and detainment along with the rookie mistakes of a fledgling killer as I know my father would say. In fact, I received a message from him (after my allotted one phone call) which indeed said I was a "fledgling killer in an attempt at transformation." Transformation into what? Some, which doubt the psyche of my father, would say a monster. But that's not what I think he meant. No, not at `tall. Rather a transformation into a legacy. One which I'm sure mother doesn't wish me to become a part of, but father had assured me that she is understanding at the moment.

Sitting in this room, surrounded by detectives, I begin to sink into the subconscious of my memory palace. Here I am far away from their petty questions I refuse to answer. Here I am at home, lying on the living room floor with Tony the boxer dog. Here I am with father in the infirmary where I learn about proper dissection techniques. Here I am with mother as she helps me dress for my first opera. Here we are all in the kitchen, tossing flour about at each other and laughing at an experiment gone wrong. And here....well, here I am for the first time taking the life of a human.

As I think back and relive the moment of what has brought me here, I begin to feel the coldness of the metal harpy in my hand, the flow of blood through my physic's teacher's jugular vein. I can smell his fear as his whimpers fill my ears. A smile begins to turn my lips upward as the ether soaked rag is covering his nose. His muscles go limp in my arms. Faintly at first, but then louder, a familiar tune creeps into my head. Ah yes, father's favorite: Bach's Goldberg Variations. It plays our perfectly in my head, just the way father always plays it, as I finish carving my teacher up. I know this would stir rumors about my father, but alas, they belive the killer to be me. But I do not exist. At least, not legally on paper.

Alas I am woken from my reviere as some needle-nose young Italian cop with breath of onions begins to question me again. If it were not for the feel of his hot breath and saliva on my face I would have never let him know he had gotten to me. Turning to face him, I give him the patented stare I learned from my father. His pupils grow wide as I can see the pinwheels turning in my eyes as a reflection in his. The tactic works and he returns to his chair across the room.

Just then, a tall, slender man enters, whispers to the young cop and removes the entourage of other cops from the room. A few moments later the door opens as a beautiful woman walks through the door. The young detective gawks at her from his chair before standing to inform me my lawyer has arrived. I know her as mother.

We are taken to a secure room and left alone. For minutes no words are exchanged as she can read the explanation from my eyes. She know I am sorry for the mess I have caused, though not my actions. We talk only briefly but she tells me that my bond has been posted and I will be out within the hour. You see, the Florentine Police division is entirely corrupt( as many of you already know). Anything can be bought for a price; including my innocence. The amount of money posted compounded with the fact the no finger prints were found and that the only eye witness was a homeless drunk who can't tell the difference between a human and a three-legged dog were key elements of my defense.

When mother and I return home, my parents exchange a look that can only be deciphered as mother telling father, "That's your daughter." Now I find my self sitting through one of father's rare lectures, but in his eyes I see pure joy; pure paternal glee.

And that is how my story ends as you will find my family gathered at the dinning table. Tonight's meal is a special one, for it's not often we get to enjoy father's favorite recipe for sweetbreads.


copyright 2001, by Julia 676

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