Small Bump

One clue. Had he not felt at least a swelling idea in the folds of his darkly lit subconscious back then? Had he not suspected a perfidious form of trap? She was one of Lecter's patients, so why did it even surprise him anymore? Randall Tier had also been in this man’s treatment once and one night he had broken thorugh his window in the skeletal armor of a dead animal to shred his flesh into frantic snippets. Had he been blinded by the fact that she was female? Or because she had come for an act to him that had, among blood and scratches promised pure, naked ecstasy instead of murder? Maybe both. Perhaps neither.

And the disturbing thought that somewhere, in a strange house he’d never enter, cramped with art and all kinds of expensive toys he’d never see, and stroked, petted and held high by hands he’d never touch, would soon be someone with his meager smile and his hair, wandering through long corridors and rooms, laughing with fresh, unused voice into the halls of the world, kept him awake until the bitter morning.

And the morning after.

And the morning after.

And the morning ...