A Viewing of the Soul

Oooo. I have come to like the little author's notes at the top of the page, if for nothing more than to amuse myself. I feel the last chapter was lacking, but the end of the tale will more than make up fro downtimes in the tale. LOL Its coming, I promise. The poem in the last chapter was thrown in on a whim, a cheap ploy for myself. Thank you to all who have reviewed. It is rewarding to know that my work is actually soliciting a response from you. I will stop now, before I ramble on for the rest of the page and forget about the story. Don't fret, dear ones, I would never do that to you. Tralala and off we go.

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Relief swept over her as she entered the farmhouse, finding it empty and herself alone. On the flight back and the drive home from Montpelier, she had convinced herself that there would be a monster lurking in her living room upon her return. But within her relief, she felt a little saddened by his lack of appearance. She wanted to confront him, strip him down to his soul and examine him piece by piece until she was satisfied. That thought in itself made her wonder momentarily about her own sanity. He could do the same to her, and he had already begun. She left her suitcase at the bottom of the stairs, taking the briefcase into the office. She removed her file from the case and dropped it on the desk. She had promised the finished profile by Friday. Three days in which to complete the dissection of the monster. Enough of the dissection to appease the FBI, but not enough to appease her own thirst for knowledge.

*****

Dinner was a sordid affair for Emily that evening. She didn't feel like leaving the house to go into the village, get something from the store. Nor did she feel much like cooking, in the end, she rooted a Tupperware container of chili from the freezer. Even after going through the motions of preparation, she didn't feel like eating it. The night was moving slowly, like it was mired in the moment. Emily sat on the couch, scratching her notes and talking to the tape recorder. Slowly building the psyche of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Sometime around midnight, she stops, returns to the kitchen looking for a bottle of wine. The Santa Ema is gone, but she wants something more than that. Her father's image tingles at the back of her mind, watching him in the basement, his small wine cellar. She had adored the bottles since she was young, knowing that they were special, but not knowing how. She finds herself at the basement door, hand resting on the knob. Memories flood through her, and she succumbs to the past.

"Hey, Emily!" it is the taunting call of her cousins, echoing up the stairs. She turns from her practice at the piano, looking towards the sound. "Come play with us!" Laughter echoes up the stairs and reaches Emily's ears. She looks at the piece she is supposed to be practicing, and weighs the decision to play against the monotony of scales. She slides from the bench and goes to the stairs.

"Hey Emily!" the call comes up the stairs again, and Emily peers around the door. She doesn't like the basement, they had found Daddy down there. But the need to play with her kin is tugging at her. They are all older than her, and all but Sheila are male. Sheila is a tomboy to the grandest extent, and hers is the next voice that comes to her ears.

"Emily, come play with us."

"I'm coming!" she calls back. She edges down the stairs, careful in the dim basement. She sees her cousins and moves towards them.

"Hey, Emily. Look at this!" Sheila and Stephen are facing her, grinning and Martin has his hands behind his back. Emily steps forward.

"What? What is it?" she is curious to see what Martin has behind his back. Sheila and Stephen are giggling.

"Worms!" Martin cries, flinging a handful of worms and dirt at her face. Emily screams throwing her hands up to ward off the surprise. The three cousins think it’s a riot and as Emily blinks, wiping the dirt off her face she sees them laughing at her.

"That wasn't funny, Martin." she chokes out, trying not to cry. Since she had been forced to join the family, they had resented her.

"Yes it was. You should have seen your face."

"No it wasn't. Now apologize or I'm going to…"

"Going to what? Run and tell my mommy?" he laughs, his lean figure at least a head taller than Emily. "She doesn't care. Your daddy can't protect you anymore either."

Anger flares in Emily and Sheila is the only one to see the fire in her eyes as she lunges at Martin. He falls hard to the floor and by the time Sheila pulls her away, he is unconscious. Stephen kneels next to his brother, looking at the bloodied face. Emily has broken his nose, although she won't know that until later.

"Look what you did!" Stephen cries.

"He was only playing a joke Emily." Sheila adds, looking from the blonde headed girl to her prone brother. Emily isn't listening, she is looking at the cut on her knuckles. Blood is welling from it and she presses it to her lips. She turns away form her cousins and goes back up the stairs. Water is heard running followed after a few moments by the sound of the piano. She feels no pity for her cousin, who is being helped up the stairs now. She practices her scales, eyes firmly fixed on the sheet music in front of her. She sees the three pass by, headed for the stairs, reflections in the hall mirror. She smiles, stopping her practice and raising the bloodied knuckle to her lips. No pity, in fact, she feels rather good.

*****

She is standing at he bottom of the basement stairs, looking about in the dark. Her hand finds the light switch, illuminating the basement. She walks to the door to the wine cellar and pauses. If she looks carefully, she can still see traces of Martin's blood on the concrete floor. She opens the door and peruses her father's wine selection. She lifts a bottle, studying it in the dim light. The contents are the color of Martin's blood, and she wonders on the events of the past for a moment. She sees Dr. Lecter's face before hers, a reflection in the wine. She recalls the pleasure she felt in injuring her cousin, the taste of the blood on her knuckle, and blinks, coming to a realization. Her pleasure in violence, does it make her any less of a monster than her mother, or Dr. Lecter?

*****