.:Cicerology:. Ch.9

Clarice gathered her things in a bag the hospital had provided for her. She had to be careful to not tear the stitches which held her neck shut, so her head moved very limitedly (the thick bandage which covered her throat also impaired her neck movements). She had only spent the night in the hospital, but was awake most of the night due to having slept the entire day beforehand. Instead, she watched a few movies on the television, gathered her notes from her job in effort to make sense of some of her clients' problems (most of them superfluous), and tried to sleep without much success. That morning, she dedicated the time before she was allowed to leave, to calling her clients and cancelling appointments, due to "a severe injury". Some of them burst into tears, some became outraged, but most understood.

She tossed her notebook into her bag. Behind her, there was a light knock on her door. She turned around just in time for a grave-looking doctor to enter the room. She smiled politely, lifting her bag off of the ground. The doctor walked in, holding a clipboard to his chest. She frowned slowly when she noticed his severe expression.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Clarice Stoker?" the doctor said. Clarice nodded slowly. The doctor sighed. "You might want to sit down." She did not move. The doctor continued. "You know who Wanda King is?"

"Yes," she said, her heart beat picking up, her adrenaline coursing. "What the Hell happened to her?"

"She put you as her emergency contact," the doctor said, glancing down to the clipboard. "I'm sorry, but… She was killed."

Clarice's eyes widened and her vision blurred. She stared at a fixed spot in the room. Eventually, her legs began to weaken and shake, before letting her go, causing her to collapse. The doctor ran to her and carefully brought her back to her feet, and sat her down onto the hospital bed. She was too cold, too numb to cry. All her brain and mouth allowed her, was to speak small sentences in order to answer questions in an effort to understand what was happening.

"How?" she managed to say, her voice so low it was practically inaudible.  

"I'm afraid I don't know the details," the doctor told her, still holding her in place. "She was found in some apartment building. She had a piece of paper with address to one of the rooms in her hand, but apparently she never got there…" he looked down to her sincerely. "The police were wondering if you happen to recognise the weapon. Would you like me to describe it?"

She looked up to him, her eyes wet. The doctor's voice was somewhat soothing and gradually brought her back to reality, where the harshness and pain waited for her, and overwhelmed her. She sniffed and nodded.

The doctor nodded in response. "Some strange black, curvy blade, harder than steel and sharper than a razor blade. It's somewhat of a dagger, looks almost like a prop for something, but far too hard and sharp for that. Does it sound at all familiar to you?"

Clarice stared forward again, her mind filled with loathing. She seethed internally, scowling slightly as she stared at the wall so hard, she felt as though she could blow a hole right through it, just with her gaze. The ebony dagger.

"No," she said, through her teeth, lying to the doctor. "I have no idea. Can I please be alone?"

The doctor nodded and stood from the bed, before walking to the door, glancing back at her with slight confusion, before walking out of the room.

Clarice knew perfectly well what happened. She went to perform the role Wanda usually performs, which is to defend Clarice. Fucking Cicero… That goddamn bastard. Yes, she would return to his apartment. Yes, she would speak those words that the Night Mother said to her in a dream. Even if he doesn't recognise them, he crossed a boundary – no, he sliced right through the boundary. He massacred the boundary. Regardless if he wanted to see her again, he was going to see her again. She needed resolution. She taught her clients to avoid revenge, since catharsis doesn't do much for stress relief and anger. But this was different – so, so different.

She picked up her wallet from her bag, and opened it. Inside, in the place where one's ID should go, was a small picture, taken in one of those booths, of her and her best friend, both giving the middle finger and sticking their tongues out. Below that, was a candid picture of the two of them laughing. She smiled and laughed slightly at the photo, before the memory came rushing back to her, causing an emotional outburst. She broke down into a fit of sobbing, clutching the wallet tightly to her chest. She bent over it, holding it tightly in her white-knuckled fists, screaming in a mixture of rage and agony. Since he couldn't take Clarice's life, he took her best friend's, and thereby took whatever essence Clarice had left. How did he know that? How did he know how much she meant to her?

The bar. It hit her. He watched them together, and recognised her when he saw her, before attacking her like the madman he is. On her schedule, then, everything else that meant something to her had to wait. She needed to take care of some business first.

No more idle chats for hours. No more beer and martinis every night. No more Wanda and Clarice. All that history, that friendship, that love they shared, brought to an abrupt end. Now, she was alone. Clarice. All alone.

With a madman.
***
She sat in her car for a few hours, staring at the massive apartment building in which Cicero resided. A million thoughts ran through her head. A madman without a job or a friend in the world would not be missed, right? More than that, he wouldn't be noticed as having disappeared until he is long overdue in bills. On the other hand, however, what about when he was found? Would she be a suspect? Could she clean the scene of the crime without being noticed?

No. She shook her head. That was insane. She couldn't kill a man. But he killed Wanda in cold blood for trying to defend her. Maybe even he deserved to die. He was a murderer. However, did she want to join him?

She glanced to her glove compartment. She was allowed a single firearm to be on her person in case a client flipped his or her lid. She reached forward and opened the glove compartment, and stared at the pistol within it. This particular weapon was usually in her office in the desk with her clipboard. It never had to be used prior to this moment. In fact, she rarely touched the thing, for fear of its power. But, at this point, what did she have to lose? She reached for it, and grabbed it.

It felt heavy in her hands. Cold. Unfeeling. She weighed it, tossing it from hand to hand, watching it as though it had a mind of its own. She glanced forward for a moment, before slipping the thing into her bag, inhaling deeply through her nose, and exhaling slowly through her mouth, before leaving the car and emerging into the apartment building through a door held open for her.

She allowed the elevator to swallow her whole, before taking her up to the right floor. She stepped out of the mouth of the elevator, and shuffled, with shaking legs, down the hallway. The hallway seemed to extend the closer she got to the respective room. The wall sconces and yellowed lanterns watched her with cynical eyes as she made her way down the hallway. The doors were like mouths, laughing at her, wanting to gulp her down as she approached the one she actually wanted to eat her.

Soon, though, she finally reached the room. Her entire body shook violently as she stared at the door. She needed to reinforce her idea. She needed to make sure, to herself, that this really was what she wanted to do. Even if she was just going to scare him, threaten him, making him aware that she knew that he did it. Again, she inhaled deeply through her nose, and slowly out of her mouth. One hand shook as it reached upwards, knuckle prepared to knock at the door, and the other shook as it descended into her bag and grasped the grip of the gun. She knocked.

She only had to wait a few seconds, before the door opened, and there stood Cicero. He looked as though he hadn't showered in days. He look disheveled, unkempt, covered in oil and wax. The strangest thing about it, however, was the fact that he wore that damned jester suit. The hat sat askew upon his head. He had massive, dark bags under his eyes and his face looked sunken as though he hadn't eaten in a while either. His eyes widened slightly when he saw her, before narrowing his eyes and opening his dry, cracked lips to speak.

"Cicero thought he told you-" he began, but was cut short when Clarice lifted her hand from her bag, holding the gun tightly.

She brought her other hand onto the grip as well, and held it in front of her, the barrel facing Cicero. He widened his eyes and reflexively lifted his hands in defense.

"What is that?" he asked, staring at it, terrified.

"It's a pistol, Cicero," Clarice said, her voice confident and drenched in venom, though shaking with the fear of what she was doing. She stepped forward, forcing him to back up. "It's a weapon. The sort of weapon you're not used to. I suppose you prefer a dagger, am I right?"

He frowned and furrowed his brow, looking away from the barrel and to her eyes. "What are you taking about? Have you found my blade?"

"Oh, yes," she said, kicking the door shut behind her, not moving her arms away from him, her eyes not faltering away from his. "The police found the dagger, and told me. I said I didn't recognise it, but I knew. I fucking knew."

Cicero tilted his head slightly. "Knew what? You're not making any sense!"

"I just need to ask you one thing," she said, glaring at him. "Why? Why did you do it?"

"Do what?!" Cicero said, becoming exasperated.

"Don't be stupid, Cicero!" Clarice shouted, tears welling in her eyes. "I know you killed Wanda!"

"Wanda?" he said, eyebrows furrowed. Then, his eyes widened slightly, with realisation. "Wait, what? Wanda? You mean your friend? Cicero didn't kill her."

"You're lying," she seethed, holding the pistol steady. "All the evidence points to you. They found your blade in the chest of my best friend. How does that happen if you didn't put that there! I don't think there's anyone else around here who has an identical blade. Don't try to play me for a fool."

"No, no, wait!" Cicero held his hands out in front of himself, pleading. "Listen to me! Kay, Cicero was over there," he pointed to his still-open window where he had been standing. He then carefully jogged over to the window. Clarice kept the pistol on him, knowing he wasn't trying to make some stupid run for it, unless he was suicidal. "Cicero was standing right here. He held his blade in his hands, and then he abandoned it! He threw his blade right out the window! You gotta believe me, Doc. Cicero didn't kill your friend!"

"Our beloved little fool is telling the truth, mortal," the Night Mother's voice filled her head. She turned her head to look in the room where the Night Mother's coffin sat, opened, candles lit around her. She could see the beautiful figure of her spirit in her mind, assuring her, calming her. She felt herself lower the weapon, though she couldn't explain why. She seemed to feel more relaxed when hearing that voice. It truly was… intimate. "He didn't kill your friend. But I have a hunch as to who did."

"Now, back to what's important," Cicero continued, turning narrow eyes on her. He approached her again, but as he did so, he noticed the large bandage upon her neck. He paused and pointed to it. "Did… Did Cicero do that?"

Clarice lifted her hand to her neck and gingerly touched the thick bandage, before nodding. "Of course you did. I didn't just slip and fall to do this."

Cicero said nothing, watching it. He knew he hurt her, but he was not aware just how much. He frowned, looking back up to her face, not sure how to react. The conflict as to whether or not he wanted to kill her returned. She deceived him and hurt him, but she had meant something to him. She tried to help him more than anyone else had. How could he kill her for that? Carefully, he lifted a hand towards her. Reflexively, she lifted the pistol in his direction, causing him to stop abruptly.

"Can I touch it?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Clarice said nothing and lowered the weapon again. She wasn't sure why, but she knew that he wasn't going to hurt her. She inhaled deeply as though prepping herself for contact. After what felt like a thousand years, she felt his hands, rough and oily though so gentle, touch the bandage. He stroked it softly, his thumb brushing her chin lightly. She felt goosebumps rise on her skin from the connection, memories of that night in her office, and the night before in her house flashing back to her, reminding her of how passionate he could be. He was so far from insane at those moments. He was another entity, one with her. It made her feel as though there was more in this world to live for.

Suddenly, she felt a painful sting erupt on her neck. She gasped, her eyes flashing open as she looked to him. He was looking up to her, smiling innocently, holding the bandage, revealing the stitches. She watched him carefully as he began to examine his handiwork, and that of the doctor. He lifted his finger to touch it, but she stopped him.

"Don't," she said, her voice almost silent. "It hurts."

His eyes met hers and the narrowed. "As it should. You shouldn't have come back."

"There's something I need to say to you," she told him. It was time to say it. She was extremely curious to see what his reaction would be to the words, if he recognised them at all, if it was all some sort of ploy, or if it really was just a morphine-induced delusion telling her to say such things. Her logic leaned towards the latter conclusion, but there was so many factors within her, a strange sureness, that he would know what she was saying and things would change. Besides, it was for more than just curiosity, now. If the Mother really knew what happened to her best friend, she could fix things for herself – she could make sense of the world again, in a world that made less sense than she ever imagined.

"Yes? Cicero is listening," he watched her, eyes still narrow.

She inhaled deeply again, before parting her lips, and speaking to him. "Darkness Rises when Silence Dies."

With those words, Cicero's eyes went wide. His face went pale, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips parted. He took a step away from her, and another, and another. His hands were in fists in front of himself, shaking violently, as were his legs. All at once, he collapsed to his knees, eyes fixed on her. Clarice's eyebrows knitted together and she approached him in confusion. She noticed that his eyes were wet with tears that glinted in the candlelight from the room which held the Night Mother.

"H-how do you know to say that?" he asked, his voice shaking as much as his hands.

"The Night Mother came to me in my sleep, and told me to say that to you," she told him, concerned. "She said she knows how to get you both home, and she needs me to convey the messages."

"Oh, Gods," he said, slumping, as though all energy suddenly left him. His shoulders shuddered as he seemed to cry to himself, silently. She watched him for a moment, before bending down to his level, and watching him more closely.

"Cicero?" she said, her voice soft. "Are you okay?"

He lifted his head, his face drenched with salty tears. "After all this time. After all that has happened… She really did speak to you… Cicero didn't believe you… Oh, Gods, Listener, I am so, so sorry!" He collapsed to her, taking her hands in his, and begging her for forgiveness.

She backed away from him slightly, confused. She wasn't sure what she was expecting from him after speaking those words to him, but this was the strangest. He held her hands so tightly, before lifting his torso back up, and getting closer to her. He reached out and took her face between his hands, before leaning forward and pressing his shaking, wet lips against hers. Her eyes were wide as she watched him, but the immense craving for his lips against hers again seemed to sedate her bewilderment. The kiss seemed rushed, however, pleading, hectic. She parted from him and watched him closely.

"Please, Listener," he beseeched. "Please forgive me. Life for Cicero has been so… strange. It's really stressing me out." He offered a slight laugh through the tears.

She smiled at him, relieved by the drop in pressure in the room by the laugh. He quickly wiped his face on his sleeve, before reaching down to his jester's suit and undoing it. Clarice widened her eyes, watching him.

"Um, what are you doing?" she said, furrowing her brow.

"We have work to do," he told her, pulling off the outfit. "This needs to be washed for the trip home." He stood and left her sight, walking to the kitchen in the pantry where he kept his clothing. "I need to slip into something a little more… Modern."

She laughed, shaking her head, and standing. She turned her head to see the Night Mother watching her through dead eyes – or lack thereof.

"Well done," the Night Mother said to her. She could hear a grin in her voice. "But he's right. There is much work to be done. Wait until you see what's coming. You won't believe it… Listener."
***