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Catherine was weird. Well, after the incident, how could she not be? Years, in and out of therapy, off and on drugs of all kinds, legal and illegal, and of course her mother trying so desperately to push Clarice and Catherine together. It was obvious that Clarice had some distaste for the younger being - never answering her calls, never answering her letters. Tho, the younger woman could justify the behavior. Both women were traumatized from the incident in incredible ways. But, completely different ways. Martin had never cared that much to keep tabs on Clarice. After she received the news of the Lecter escape, she attempted to lay off her letters and calls. Which, met to relative success. On the nights Martin felt the most manic - looking obsessively in the mirror at her ''horrific'' body, she would call Clarice and leave a voicemail. But every morning, she would call once more and apologize for the frantic voicemail. Like that made it any better.
After the case with Buffalo Bill, Clarice learned to reach out to the victims of cases she worked on. In some strange way, it was her way of detaching herself from the case. After many follow ups with the families of victims and survivors - she would leave. Just at the right time. Just so everyone could move past the horrible event that'd transpire, and let the past be the past. So Clarice could move onto the next. But not with Catherine, with her - she had something attached to her. Of course, it wasn't poor Catherine's fault that she had Hannibal Lecter memories associated with her. But that's exactly how Clarice saw her; tied, bound, with Lecter. The feisty brunette had convinced herself that any association with anybody during that time would end her back up with Lecter. She had let herself cave with a monster. Because of that, now, he's a wanted convict. So, at the dead of night she would hear her phone ring, she'd simply ignore it. Until the tone for the voicemail came thru. A hushed voice would come thru - "Heya Agent Starling," it spoke. "I just wanted to tell you about my day."
Clarice would make herself comfortable, always awkwardly listening to the younger soul speak. Despite how much the senator pushed and pleaded, she could never bring herself to answer the calls Catherine had made. "It was a good day," the other voice on the line would start. "Well, as good as it can get. I'm sober, at least. I didn't look in the mirror today, which is a good thing. Every time I look, I never see myself anymore."
The line Catherine spoke always stung Clarice in some sort of sick, twisted way. Whenever she would look in the mirror - she never saw who she was before Lecter, Crawford, Chiltion, the Senator, and Buffalo Bill. Whether they changed her for the better or for the worst, was for the individual to decide.
"I hope you're doing good," the voicemail would speak. "I know we don't talk - and hah, probably never will, but you're a good person Starling. I see ya on the news a lot. You so sweet for helping the families. You're so sweet. I'm sure it helps them a lot."
The other woman couldn't help but think this was a personal jab at her; but she could never tell. "But I didn't do much today. I gained the courage to apply to a job, but my momma would have to watch Precious."
The dog. That damn dog. She always wondered why Catherine was so keen on keeping the pup.
"I'll let ya know if you get the interview. I might. I think I will. I have hope!" With that, cut the line.
Clarice sighed of relief, marking this as her time to rest her own head. This, listening to Martin's voicemails, had become a fucked up habit. But at that point, Clarice couldn't stop. She never changed her number, just so Catherine could call and talk about her day or go manic. She had no idea if this helped Martin - but a great deal of her felt pity for the young woman. Maybe she would get her life together, and keep it together. Only God knew now.
Twelve years had passed. By now, the calls from Catherine had stopped. Clarice had disappeared two years prior, only leaving behind a very dead Paul Krendler. No evidence of the two's whereabouts, and only few signs of struggle, along with a pair of handcuffs. Of course, when this news got out to the public, people theorized. She was kidnapped, she was killed, she was raped, she was manipulated, she was eaten, she was a victim of Stockholm, while many speculated not anyone knew the truth. Not even the living-dead witness. Two years later, the police had pushed the missing report of the famous Agent Starling and Dr.Hannibal Lecter aside, many just had assumed she was dead. Sadly, another victim of the cannibal. At least, that what she was in the eyes of the law. The public? She was very much alive. Whether literally in theories, or just by word of mouth, Clarice Starling was very much alive.
Twelve years had passed since Martin was a victim of Buffalo Bill - and the only surviving victim left of the whole ordeal. She had done a few TV gigs documenting the event, and had a heft paycheck handed to her for it. But, of course, just as most crime cases go, people moved on. Not even when the public was raving about Clarice was Catherine's name ever brought up. Sure, Clarice had a history of keeping in touch with her past case victims and families, but Catherine never made that cut. Oh boy. Were the public aware of that.
On a dewy night, Catherine had sat by herself. Precious was an older dog; lying quietly next to the older woman. Her hair had been messily thrown into a bun, her curls poking out of the hair tie keeping her hair tied. Her dirty blonde locks, kept away from her face. She sat quietly, her hand gently rested over the dog resting quietly next to her, she watched the TV in front of her. Watching it play, softly playing the audio corresponding with the visuals, she remembered an old face. Clarice Starling. She couldn't help but cringe at the thought, all those voicemails. She hoped that Clarice hadn't listened to them. But, of course she had no way of knowing truly. The dirty blonde chuckled to herself, remembering the old number she used to call. Since Clarice had gone missing - she couldn't have had the same number. Everyone tried to call it. No one ever answered. She wondered if the number was eventually passed on to someone else, or became some sort of myth school kids would tell. Curiosity killed the cat, she thought. "But sanctification brought it back," she mumbled glancing at the phone. Suddenly, a wave of curiosity had consumed her. She had to call that old number. Quickly, she scrambled off her couch and brought her phone to her ear. Hearing that same low, dim, tone. Fingers trembled now, wondering about the number. It's probably dead now - she thought as she dialed the number. Dialing the last number, the phone began to ring . Okay, she thought, this number probably belongs to someone els-
"Hello?" a voice peered thru the phone. A southern, West Virginia accent.
This had to be a joke. No way. "UH- Clarice?" was all she could mutter.
Sitting on her patio, wine glass in hand, robe wrapped around her elegantly, she almost choked hearing her name. "Who the hell is this?" she hissed.
"Wait - wait listen!" she pleaded. "It's Martin. Catherine Martin. I didn't know you kept this number.. Starling.."
"I didn't either." Clarice said bluntly.
“How didn’t you know?”
“That’s not important,” Clarice huffed as she set down her wine glass. “You haven’t called in a while.”
“So you noticed?” Catherine asked, a bit of hopefulness.
“Yeah. I did. You called every single day for years, Catherine. Why did you stop?”
“You never answered.”
The line drew silent, and Catherine could feel the pit growing in her stomach more and more as the silence went from uncomfortable to overwhelming. “Why?”
“Because…” Clarice drew on. Her reasoning was hypocritical now. “Of reasons.”
“But you reached out to every other victim. Why do I have to be the single case that you didn’t put as much thought into?”
Clarice’s mouth hung slightly at the comment. She wasn’t wrong. No. “I did, tho.”
“You didn’t.”
“I listened to every single voicemail, Catherine.”
Now it was Catherine’s turn to fall silent. Going from expected, to uncomfortable, Clarice broke it. “All of them, Martin. I couldn’t help myself.”
“Now my turn to ask why?”
“I got some sick habits, just as much as you do, Marty,” Clarice sighed. The voicemails were replaced by excessive wine drinking.
“Are you happy?” Catherine asked bluntly.
“What do you mean?”
“With him? Lecter?” Catherine frowned looking up at the TV screen displaying her reflection back.
“I’m not sure,” Clarice whispered in a low tone. “I don’t think I did the right thing.”
“A lot of people agree with you,” Catherine spoke sadly. Her hand graced over the small, white body next to her anxiously. “I agree with you.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I didn’t want to die, Catherine. He could’ve killed me.”
“And that’s why you won’t come back?” Catherine asked.
“Not just him, a lot of other factors. I’m gonna die with Lecter. Either by his hands, or some other fucked up method. He’s truly the embodiment of a cockroach.”
“Isn’t he like eighty?” Catherine chuckled a bit.
“He’s seventy five thank you!” Clarice smiled a bit upon hearing Catherine’s playful tone. How long it had been since she spoken to someone as a friend.
“Do you think you’ll ever come back to the states?” Catherine asked a bit hopeful, already knowing the answer. “Do you think… maybe one day, we would see each other?”
“Who’s putting that idea in your head? Your mother?”
“Myself.”
“…I’m not sure, Martin. Maybe. We’ll see.”
Catherine fell silent once more, continuing to look at her reflection. “I recognize myself now Clarice.”
“How did you do it?” Clarice chuckled a bit.
“I’m not sure…” Catherine admittedly honestly. “But I did it, Clarice. I made the right choices, despite my circumstances, and now I have a well paying job and my own home. I’m still alone, but… I’m happy.”
Clarice let the phrase I’m happy stew in her mind. Happiness. Clarice could think back to her time as a small, young girl when her Father was alive to when she truly felt happy. Truly felt safe. Everything came crumbling after her Father died, after the lambs started screaming.
“Can I call you again?” Catherine asked.
“Sure,” the southern woman smiled warmly. It was felt through the line. “Call me whenever you want, Catherine. I’ll answer this time.”