Work Text:
My Dear Clarice,
I hope this letter finds you well. This will be short and to the point, as I am rather pressed for time at the moment, but I thought I would drop you a last line before I disappear. This will be the last time you hear from me. Whether this is welcome news to you or not I dare not surmise; I can only say that there have been times, in my weaker moments, when I consider what the outcome might have been if that lovely shiny cleaver had not been within arm’s reach. Tell me Clarice, what do you suppose would have happened if I had allowed us to stay connected until your backstabbing friends arrived? I believe it would have ended with little bars over my mouth and larger bars around the rest of me, till the moment I died. That would certainly have been an unfortunate outcome, one that I simply couldn’t chance. I suppose that is why the human body comes so conveniently with all its most useful features in pairs; two eyes, two ears, two arms, two legs, two feet, two hands. We always have one to spare. We do not, however, come with two earthly lives. Know this, Clarice: if I had had an extra life instead of an extra hand, I’d have lived it cuffed to you.
Before I bid you adieu, I would like to make a few things perfectly clear. Thing the first: although you will never see me again, I will see you. I will be watching, Clarice. I tell you this not to inspire paranoia, no not at all. That would be most ungentlemanly. You have heard of the angel of death, yes? Of course you have, I suppose that little West Virginia Lutheran church wouldn’t let its children go without a proper dose of holy terror. You have also, of course, become familiar with the guardian angel. Your daddy told you all about that guardian angel, whispering in the dark when you were too small to tell the nightmares from the shadows. Consider me your guardian angel of death. If you ever happen to feel a twinge of pre-mortem pity for those who cross you, feel perfectly free to warn them. If not, I am very sure that their sins will be delicious. A guardian angel is quite a handy thing to have, and, whether by life or death, is quite effective. Fear not, Clarice.
Thing the second: I believe that once, when I had recently made your acquaintance, I asked you rather bluntly if you thought your supervisor wanted to fuck you. I cannot overstate the disgust I feel for those men, the ones who treat others as objects. This may seem an odd thing to hear from one who consumes other people for nourishment that can be easily gathered from non-living sources; it would seem odd to most people, but I believe you catch my drift, Clarice. I detest those men, and I would like you to know that, whatever else I may be, I am not one of them. Even when I had you backed against the fridge, in quite attractive and provocative attire, entirely in my power, I did not want to fuck you. I wanted you, Clarice, but I did not wish you to be my plaything. Whether you will understand this, I do not know, but I believe you will. I would have you know, though, that you are the only living creature that I have tasted, savored, and let live.
Thing the third: the doctors call me a psychopath, and I thoroughly concur with their diagnosis. After all, I have quite extensive medical training myself. I am aware of the definition of psychopathy, and I am aware that I fit it quite well. I feel no remorse for the pain I have caused other people. I do have a working theory that that has more to do with my choice of victims than with an incapacity to empathize, but that is beside the point. There is one small aspect of the definition of psychopathy that I am afraid I cannot claim. It is generally agreed by the professionals that true psychopaths lack the ability to love another human being. I have forfeited my diagnosis in this respect. I am afraid I’ve fallen in love with you, Clarice. It is what I believe the fairytales call “unrequited.” But we are not in a fairytale now are we, Clarice.
Your humble servant,
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.
P.S. Tell me Clarice, what did you do with my hand?