Pacing. That's the one thing I usually do to pass the time in this confinement. Like a caged animal, a lion. He looked at the clock on the grey, slimy wall. Twelve hours, fifty-seven minutes until she comes. Stop! Stop thinking about her!
He laughed aloud, and a man in a cell down the corridor mimicked him. He sighed, and the man started to whimper and murmur insanities. Lector sat down, folding his hands behind his head. No. He wasn't in love with her. He knew that. He was old. So old. Too old for Clarice. But…but he could still think about her, couldn't he?
Still think about the slight flicker of a smile when he guessed correctly about her. The way her hair was casually tossed to one side as she ran her fingers through it absent-mindedly. The way she- No! Stop!
Her personality, her history, it was intriguing. Clarice was merely an interesting character. The way it was the lambs that screamed in her dreams really interested the old psychologist. Lector's hand slunk under his pillow, and pulled out one of his drawings he preferred to keep from the guards.
An imitation of the young student in a loose fitting, pale blue dress sitting in a green meadow, eyes headed toward the setting sun. A small and frightened looking lamb was clutched to her breast. He sighed, and a tingle shot up and down his spine.
He shoved it under his pillow and stormed to the opposite side of the cell, determined to rid her from his thoughts. He smirked a little as a thought occurred to him. How ironic, the deadly, elusive cannibal manages to become completely involved with the colleague of the bastard's who caught him.
No. This mustn't be love. He would never give up his somewhat…strange appetite. Not even for Clarice. So, if he loved her, it would be selfless, and he was not in any position to do that. However…
No. Just stop. Stop thinking of her. She is clever, beautiful, and young. The youth was what attracted him to her. It would be the same for any other older, lonely man. Although, not every other man was a sadistic psychotic cannibal with a strange talent of reading people like a book.
OK, so maybe he wasn't in love. But his psychotic mind was obsessed with her, and his psychotic mind just happened to think it was love. He smiled, crossing over to the bed again.
So why fight what was apart of him? Why deny this strange corner of his mind to obsess and fantasize over this young FBI agent? He wanted her. He'd do anything to get to her. Anything. And then what?
He quivered again at the possibilities. A darkened room, flickering with few candles. The motionless body of Clarice curled up in the centre, unconscious. And then, a small moan, a little kick and a flutter of eyelids. And then the realisation. The struggling against the bonds. The widened eye fear as he stepped out of the shadows. And then the fun would begin…
Lector broke his train of thoughts, storing it in his palace for later. He began to wonder if it was a little bit too insane to be thinking of these things, but he shook it from his thoughts, and pulled the drawing out again.
He looked at the innocent eyes of the woman etched into the paper. He sighed, remembering the transformation. He ripped the paper in half, at the neck, and threw the scraps on the floor.
He took a pencil and paper out from a draw, and began to draw. A girl with dark seductive eyes and a revealing scrap of fabric stretched across her smooth skin. Lector smiled, and hugged the paper close to himself. He looked around the cell, highlighting useful parts of the dungeon, making his escape plan. It shouldn't be too hard. Not for him. Not for Doctor Hannibal, the Cannibal Lector.