My name is Clarice Starling. I was an up-and-coming FBI agent at Quantico when I was pulled out of my training and into Jack Crawford’s Behavioral Sciences Unit to assist on their premier case, the hunt for “Buffalo Bill.”
It was the thrill of a lifetime, something I had worked towards my whole life. Never did I suspect I would throw it all away for a man the world hated, but I could never have known that I would get lost in those piercing black lifeless eyes of my one true love.
Through my work I was introduced to my love, the man who had been made out to be a monster by the media, Dr. Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter. Through our numerous meetings I was able to see that he wasn’t a monster, just misunderstood.
As my visits became more frequent, we started talking to each other about things besides the case. I would ask about his beautiful sketches on the wall and he would ask me what awful thing happened to me most recently, like what the man known as “Multiple” Migs had shouted at me on my walk over to Hannibal’s cell. It was our own love language.
I found myself defending Hannibal more and more. I was criticized for this by other members in my field. “He’s a murderer and gouges people’s eyes out before eating them,” they’d say. None of that mattered to me. Yes, he eye-gouges, and I don’t like it, but gouging is actually a widely used practice in the field of serial killing so I can’t blame him for doing it.
I was suspended for a brief period of time when I tweeted out a picture of me holding his case file with the caption, “I don’t think he would eat a person. Not even an FBI agent.” It was at this point that my boss Jack warned me, “Hannibal has genius-level intelligence and is a psychopath. He is manipulating you and will ruin your life. He literally manipulated a cellmate of his to kill himself by choking on his own tongue!”
I thought to myself, “That’s just like Hannibal, always the creative one.”
During one of my visits, in between the cryptic and vague case clues he was giving me, he asked, “Clarice, would you be opposed if I referred to you as my inamorata?” I was stunned. Not just because he was asking me something personal that wasn’t about my childhood trauma but because I had no idea what inamorata meant.
After the silence between us went on long enough to scare a lamb, he explained that it meant “lover” in that cute little pissed off tone he uses when I don’t quite grasp his latest puzzle. I said yes and “would it be okay if I kissed you?” He said yes, but I could tell he was confused.
Our first kiss was through .45 caliber bulletproof glass supported by reinforced concrete. The room smelled like a dank basement and of shit, piss and whatever “Multiple” Migs had brewing in his cell. His lips felt like bulletproof glass because that’s what I was really kissing.
We talked about our future and if I would be too old for children by the time he got out or, more likely, escaped. So I froze my eggs for him, and we talked about possible baby names like Louis Friend, Baby Buffalo Bill, and Hannibal the Adorable.
Things took a turn when the head physician at the hospital sent the tape of Hannibal and I discussing baby names to my boss. After receiving the tape, Jack brought me into his office and reprimanded me. “
I literally told you he would manipulate you and ruin your life,” he said. The meeting ended amicably. I said I understood and offered my resignation. “You’ve already been fired,” he replied.
Hannibal doesn’t talk to me anymore since I went public with our relationship and sent a letter to the prison warden asking for him to be released into my care. I was worried about Hannibal contracting COVID-19 while in prison. He’s in a high-risk age group and we still don’t know how the virus affects cannibals.
Jobless, I wrote a book about our love but no one bought it, so I sold the book rights to CBS All Access after Peacock turned it down. It’s coming out soon as a miniseries, but because Hannibal hasn’t signed off on his life rights, he sadly won’t be featured. I’m told my character falls in love with a man named Peter “The Human-Eater.”
I’ve tried calling him repeatedly. After weeks of hearing nothing I finally received a correspondence in the form of a statement released to me via the hospital at which he’s held: “Dr. Lecter wishes Ms. Starling the best of luck in her future endeavors and hopes that the lambs stop screaming.” Which may seem odd to you, but it makes perfect sense to me. A little inside trauma joke if you will.
I keep the only picture of us on my desk. I love his smile in it. You can’t really see it because of the state-mandated muzzle mask he’s wearing, but I love what little you can see of it. Technically, we took two pictures but the first had a huge glare from the flash reflecting off the very thick bulletproof glass.
Even with his refusal to speak to me, I know we’re destined for each other and I will wait for him while he serves out the remainder of his four consecutive life sentences.
