𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡

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Plot Craving(s) 𝑉𝐼𝐿𝐸 𝐵𝐿𝑂𝑂𝐷: 𝑆𝑂𝑀𝐵𝐸𝑅 𝑆𝐴𝐶𝑅𝐼𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐸: 𝐴 𝐺𝑂𝐷 𝐼𝑁 𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐵𝐴𝑆𝐸𝑀𝐸𝑁𝑇: >>More information/ideas coming soon<<

Time hadn’t been kind to Adalina. Her weak legs, decrepit and unreliable, had been her undoing. All it took was an ill-placed step and a twisted ankle before jaws welcomed her at the end of a backward fall. Witnessing the bloodshed, the slaughter, Jezebel's ghost doubled over and wept in devastation. Her ear-shattering cries transcended the astral plane, felt through her physical body, as tears brimmed the surface of her vision before descending against the collar of the deceased. With each mindless morsel, skin popped around her teeth as if she'd bitten into an underripe apple, arterial spray squirting against the back of her throat in ropes of warm, pungent fluid. Dead eyes peered straight through, and cold lips embraced saturated flesh like a newborn would a wet nurse. Adalina's shrieks and thrashing torso had since tapered into a cacophony of gurgling gags, her corpse convulsing, as precious Bella chewed one side of her neck–masticating muscle and tendon until she reduced the entire structure to minced meat. It should've stopped at that, but it didn't. He wouldn't let it. A tangle of emotions stifled Jezebel's apparition, feeding off her dismay as she watched Hannibal's knees buckle. Watched as her body reciprocated his touch, spine curved, hips arching forward, pressing Ms. Lacrosse ever-closer between them. His mouth tore shreds from the woman who helped raise her and something similar to relief flooded each fissure of his guise. The sight was vile. And soon, that vileness stirred. Darker than blood and thicker than oil, it moved within the vessel of her spirit, its whip-like appendages slithering inside her abdomen. Blindly, it prodded her pallid, see-through frame, probing outward, retreating inward, before spreading its mass throughout her entire soul. Corrupting, changing, consuming. A sharp pain jolts from Jezebel's ankles to her temples, piercing her navel along the way. It stirs her from her stupor for only an instant. And in that moment of transience, Hannibal's hand is in her hair—loosening the pins from her kempt coiffure, spilling it in waves against her back. She can't speak. She can't even move as the image of his profile molds into that of her father amidst their frightening feast. Through the haze of her exhaustion–through a memory she can't be sure is her own–Jezebel is deposited into an unfamiliar room, bare and broken, one leg lifted, and one arm pinned to the fire screen of a burning hearth. Gabriel's eyes hover above, his breath heavy. Sweat shines across his broad, exposed shoulders, his straining muscles, glistening down the length of his spine and the peaks of his undulating pelvis. Pushing, withdrawing, and pushing again. Like a wound healed over, it opens once more, infecting her mind and existence. Heat sears vine-like shapes into her back. She can feel his fingers coiling against her thigh as he thrusts her against the fire, reassuring her that it wouldn't last too much longer, that the pain would all be over soon. It is within these words that she feels his desolation. And in his shuddering movements, he buries himself in a body that is not his. All she can do is stare, shoved against the fireplace screen, hips tilted, eyes peering over Gabriel’s shoulder to settle across the room. Seeing nothing as a sheen clouds her gaze—not with terror or agony, but incurable resignation—a terrifying acceptance of the inevitable. ...He'll come back for you. He always does. Faintly, the hybridization of a groan and a murmur croons up Jezebel's throat. Her soul snaps into her body like a rubber band that'd been pulled too tight, awakening her to a spectacle most alarming. At some point during her recollective blackout, a skirmish ensued, apparent by the way Hannibal had her bruised beneath him on the Chesterfield cushions, her bodice torn and threadbare across her ribs, and the needle-like end of a hairpin trained directly at his right eye. Her pulse shimmers with the living remnants of their kill, biofluids marinating the slender column of her neck and the dip that valleys into a v against her velvet bones. Had Hannibal’s hand not restrained her, Jezebel’s wrist might’ve plunged forth, and with it, the shaft of a particularly unpleasant point.

Jezebel disliked the scrutiny of palpating fingers. It reminded her too much of the inappropriate curiosities her father exhibited once she'd reached womanhood and each menstrual cycle succeeding it. Or when he'd invite strange men to the house and do nothing as they stared with hollow eyes and grinning teeth, forcing her to fend off palms too eager to crawl up her gown. Adalina's touch felt uneasily similar to the rough, covetous hands of church men skirting across her outer thigh, so when the point of contact idled too long against her neck, the lass's modest demeanor succumbed to interjection, and quickly, she eased the woman's arm away. "Call father and tell him I've returned home safe. You’ll do that for me, won't you?” "You’re far from safe, child. Look at this mess! You can’t even hold your head up straight, and you expect me to spit lies?!" A sadness Jezebel couldn't explain poured through her. That's the sole reason she'd thought to beckon the family caretaker in the first place. Right? Knowing Gabriel would be fuming had she not returned home after her piano lesson. Knowing that untruth might curb disaster if she caught Ms. Lacrosse before the news was delivered that his daughter was somewhere she shouldn’t be. Or maybe Jezebel hadn't had any forethought at all and acted on pure, anesthetized disorientation. Or worse, on instinct and self-preservation. Adalina leaned close, her voice a whisper between them. "Mia cara, we need to go. He's flying back from Venice as we speak." “N-no. I can’t let him suspect Hannibal is the cause of this. He’ll—" Hannibal's inquiry cut through their dialog—an intrusion considered highly ill-mannered by the dark-skinned nanny. Ada's expression pickled, glare sour, as her neck twisted to stalk the psychiatrist's approach. But unlike his client on the couch, she couldn't see what gleamed against the atmospheric obscurity. The surge of panic did nothing to assuage an overwhelming sense of anxiety as the shimmer of a syringe snared Jezebel's attention. Those tantalizing blues and knitted brows, the plush, parted lips perfectly matching an exsanguinated, doll-like complexion, and how she helplessly watched as Dr. Lecter crept toward his target… She could see death in the way he denied her his eyes–how guilt captured each feature of his prepossessing countenance. It loomed within the tenseness of his jaw, the stillness of his elbows hooked behind his back, and each calculated step as he positioned himself behind the troubled crone, weapon drawn and ready. However, what drew the scythe ever closer was an encrypted command strung upon his breath. It feathered across Jezebel's skin as if he sat right next to her, breathing down her neck, along her jawline, into her lungs. Corrupting, changing, consuming. "It'll all be over soon," it said, resounding throughout each layer of fear inhabiting her thoughts. Until fear faded, and only the heat of his demand guided against paralyzing darkness. Jezebel couldn't be sure how much time had passed or if time had moved at all. The denseness of her lashes had fallen heavy, and her silver-blue hues resigned to a dull gray, overcome by hypnosis. Unseen claws shackled her limbs and pulled her from her body like a ghost stripped from its shell, hijacked and powerless. This was their design. At some point, Adalina began a barrage of insults, shouting something in Hannibal's face, arms waving frantically. However, his little marionette couldn't hear the words. She couldn't feel her back stiffen or her fingertips carve imprints into her knees, nor could she feel her shaking thighs and quivering stomach. Submerged in a murky haze, begging to regain control of her body, she could only watch from a faraway window outside of herself as both hands and mouth no longer hers seized Ms. Lacrosse and tore a generous bite from her jugular.

Though the delusions were gradually subsiding, it felt as if Jezebel's brain was being stretched, hyperextended, pulled into two different directions. She was weary. Angered, even. Not nearly on the edge of blind rage, but close enough for it to be considered comparable. Tolerating Hannibal's continual dishonesty without speaking against it was humiliating, but what was there to do about it? Physically, he'd overpower her, especially in her feeble state. Mentally, however, his corruption transcended beyond that. This wasn't the first time he'd governed her—sculpting her into a precious marionette. And despite any conflicting emotions, she often seemed to acquiesce in the decisions made by her puppeteer. If only she knew why. Jezebel watched as Adalina crept into the limelight before her attention flitted to Hannibal. She could feel his gaze on the old woman, crawling like painful, probing fingers. Predatory, as he twisted the deadbolt once she stepped toward the center of the room. Shadows danced along the walls, encouraged by the fire-breathing hearth. A dissonant crackling played over mounted speakers, and a large fare beckoned with decorative persuasion. Aside from a bloodstained Persian rug, some misplaced cutlery, and an overturned chair, everything remained unsullied. But the imperfections were enough to provoke Adalina's disdain. "A few lacerations?" The woman's hand gestured to the dark red mess on the floor, disbelieving. "Tell me where she is." "Here," Jezebel said weakly, cringing at the command in Lacrosse's voice. It'd been years since she had heard her this upset. Dark eyes settled on a corner opposite the door, completely enveloped in blackness. Upon closer inspection, Adalina could make out a faint silhouette huddled on a Chesterfield sofa. With an accusing glare, the warden approached in earnest. "Darling, are you alright? Where does it hurt?" Rough, calloused hands—overworked from hours of housekeeping—cupped the perimeter of Jezebel's face, tilting her chin upward to inspect one side of her profile and then the other. Too fatigued to disallow the examination, Jezebel clutched the same bloodied serviette Hannibal had used as a compress. Her injury had nearly ceased its bleeding, though the pain lingered, sending trembling waves up her entire forearm. When no answer came, Ms. Lacrosse's impatience swelled. Carefully, her thumb traced the length of Jezebel's neck, venturing toward the dip where the young girl’s shoulder connected. Analyzing until two parallel lumps, unseen but felt, throbbed beneath Adalina's touch, each topped with a tiny pinprick.

The sight of death saddens me, though I cannot quite articulate why. When I look at you, looking at me, with your deep, burrowing gaze–in fleeting moments, death is all that I can see. The thought came to her, amplified by delirium. It was Hannibal's eyes, how he stared: hungry and intrigued. She could have sworn she saw something writhe behind his retina, glowing black in the firelight, its many limbs twitching like fine, stringy vessels. And when he withdrew, abandoning her like a broken doll on the dining room floor, it was gone, reminding her again of the all-but-intolerable pain shooting across her damaged extremity. "Don't," she implored, her voice barely exceeding a whisper as she pulled herself into a sitting position. "Don't open it." But why? Why feel the need to protect him? He had hurt her. Bound her to a chair for reasons unknown. What if she hadn't woken? What would he have done? Jezebel's attention settled on the thin barrier between them and whatever else lingered on the other side. Subtle raps became a barrage of heavy-handed knocking, beating against the door's framework with an urgency that disrupted an entire quarter of the manor's expanse. Glassy reflections rippled in protest, mirroring the angry canvas of the fireplace's incandescent oranges. Steady streams of rainwater broke from their beaded formations, sliding down the smooth surface of the threshold. The commotion shouldn't have frightened her, but it did. However, what may have seemed a significant threat at first was quickly contradicted by singular stature alone. "Mr. Lecter! Oh, thank heavens you're here!" Standing at Hannibal's doorstep, little less than an arm's length away, was fifty-eight-year-old Adalina Lacrosse, a caretaker of the De Russo ménage. She'd been hired to move to the States as a family-trusted warden shortly after Gabriel had adopted Jezebel. A year later, she and Dr. Lecter had the pleasure of meeting, introduced to each other during a brilliant soirée one winter eve. The food was exceptional, and many other prominent guests, such as the Chief of FBI, Dean Crowley, had joined in on the merriment. Back then, the woman's hair was coal black, her complexion a smooth olive, and eyes an amber brown. Now, streaks of silver-mottled locks barely clung to her scalp, deflecting light beneath a thundering, moonlit sky. Her skin had grown dark and papery with liver spots. Even wrinkles and blemishes tarnished what was once a comely visage. Time seemed unkind, yet still, Adalina carried the momentum she always had. Her voice was no exception. "Sir Gabriel mi consiglia di venire da voi. I can't find Jezebel, and he's worried himself sick." A flash of lighting arced just above the manor, spawning shadows that appeared as monsters lurking behind hedges. The older woman shivered with sudden cold, huddled inside her cardigan as if to disguise any distress regarding what punishment might await her after she’d neglected her duties as Jezebel's caretaker. But when a familiar voice, soft with underlying unease, chimed "Je suis ici, madame Lacrosse," from within the maw of Hannibal’s dwelling, Adalina’s expression shifted. Worry became relief, and relief gave way to suspicion as the silence between herself and Hannibal Lecter grew bitterly unpleasant.

Nervous would've been an acceptable term for her demeanor, yet even that came up short-handed. More accurately, Jezebel looked like a trapped mouse, too panicked to keep still but too terrified to run as she watched Hannibal's profile take on an ominous form. His lips peeled from his teeth in a slow, frightening grin. And though his gaze remained mostly indecipherable, Jezebel sensed his awareness burrowing behind her eyes. Like a voice, it whispered: "Ah, my little Bella. There's nowhere for you to hide." As Hannibal came within breathing distance, the minister’s daughter reacted in a way she hadn't expected. She didn't turn away or sink into temptation but rather intervened—the middle and index finger of her right hand claiming his lips in place of her own. It was a stand-off. One with a pleasant smell as the citrus and woody notes of aftershave intertwined with a more subtle fragrance stemming from sensitive pulse points behind both ears and at the base of Jezebel's throat. She smelled of fresh fruit and blooms, uniquely formulated by Dossier. During the unusual kiss, a shadow played in her peripheral, its large antlers not unlike the gnarled hands of a corpse, reaching from the opposite wall. And though Jezebel's expression brimmed with terror, begging to look away, she kept her gaze glued to the very man stained with her blood. Words struggled to breach the disorderly static of her mind, the tenseness between them amplified by a ticking clock. But when her mouth parted to speak, she was immediately interrupted by three knocks against a glass-paned door nearest their position. Again, tears welled up. She could cry for help, though the thought of jeopardizing two lives aside from her own was a burden too much to bear. And she suspected that for Hannibal, that was yet another gambit in their game of chess.

Roasted pig? A surge of guilt overcame her, and with it, a soft sob, knowing what she'd done and the discomfort she had caused him. But somehow, the look of disappointment and shame in his eyes was all the focus Jezebel needed. It served as an anchor to quieten the chaos, telling her to let go of the knife she desperately clutched within her right hand. After all, it would've proven useless anyway, more likely to be used as a scare tactic to keep him from approaching. Yet that didn't work either… Closing her eyes, the lass expelled a shuddered sigh as if something so simple would make the disaster disappear. In her mind, it did. At least long enough for Jezebel to enter a state of calm–a disciplined behavior Lecter had taught her over the years. There was an uncomfortably lengthy pause, tears slipping from the corners of Jezebel's lashes as her fingertips flexed within his, trying to encourage circulation. Her wrist, the back of her hand, was entirely marred, chewed up like she'd stepped into the forest to pet an angry bear. A pitiful chuckle escaped her at the thought. At least there was one positive out of all of this. She hadn't worn makeup today. When Jezebel finally inhaled, she was flooded by the subtle pleasantry of Hannibal's cologne, further stimulating focus and repose. "I'm a terrible guest, aren't I? Even the remnants of my sanity tell me so..." Wincing, Jezebel's shoulders tensed, her upper back arching slightly in search of a comfortable position. After a failed attempt, she settled again, her neck easing back against Hannibal's thigh. "Self-medicated," she uttered, correcting his presumption. "Though poisoned seems fitting, doesn't it?" At least, that's what it felt like at this point. Like she'd poisoned herself in an ironic endeavor to stave off frequent nightmares, only to make her hallucinations worse. The humor of that notion was dark. And in a situation so dire, humor was often used as a coping mechanism. For Jezebel, it took away the pain, the humiliation… But, more than that, it took away the fear of confronting him. "I'll pretend my instability is why you restrained me to the dining room chair." The delicacy of her voice had grown grim, her eyes now open–glassy with the fogginess of drug-laced veins. Still, the look she gave was one of knowing—a look bolstered by bravery and intoxication. With measured motion, Jezebel's free hand gripped his, pulling it away from her hairline and tucking it against her beating sternum. Her cold touch formed a loose shackle around Hannibal's wrist, not nearly tight enough to stop him if he tried something. She knew he could strangle her if he wanted to, but something told her he wouldn't. Not because he'd think it wasteful but because beyond the void of his gaze, something in his eyes possessed more compassion than that. As if he wouldn't want her to feel while he was killing her. Or so she thought. Jezebel's teeth clenched, her breath trembling with the uncertainty of what she was about to say. "I see you, Dr. Lecter... I see the very man father tried to warn me about…"

The depth of her gaze was enough to disarm and leave most squandering. Like submerging a hand into brackish water, uncertain of what lurked beneath, it proved a fool’s errand for the imprudent and the key to transcendence for those who sought immortality. But to Hannibal, those silver-blue irises were significant in a different way, often serving as the fertile soil in which he sowed seeds of doubt. A place where he governed the effects of her madness in a peculiar stroke of luck: Immunity. The realization that he had a gift of his own—that he could face her demons without risk of mental catastrophe—came early on when Dr. Lecter eased her into maintaining eye contact, telling her it was okay to explore her interests. And that peering into the windows of her soul allowed him to ‘fix what was broken.' That was the first time she’d ever felt seen and heard, reminded of it by the way his eyes now captured hers. Reality plucked the threads of Jezebel's consciousness, coaxing her out of her trance as Hannibal flashed a grin and drifted from one side of the table to the other. Much like the influence of his gaze, his voice played the role of Puppeteer–veering her emotions in one direction and then another. High and low, left, right, and upside down. At which rate, the poor girl couldn't tell which way she was facing, let alone determine where her dizziness originated. So silently, she watched as Hannibal sifted through his collection for a particular record, and the moment he turned, her upper body lurched forward. Barbs jabbed the more she leaned, pulled, and twisted, threatening to puncture delicate layers of flesh. Tugging at the restraints was taxing, but with increasing desperation, the efforts paid off. Even the physical discomfort didn't seem to register, granting her the opportunity she needed until, with a slip of the wrist, she was one step closer to freedom. Before she could work her other arm loose, however, another familiar melody serenaded. This one far more sentimental, provoking a vivid recollection of events that transformed the entire room. The paint began to recede, exposing a different color underneath. The ceiling rose higher, revealing a beautiful display of embellished architecture, and the dining room stretched into a larger, more comfortable space. Furniture faded, replaced by fittings, decor, and other paraphernalia one might expect to encounter in a private study. Beethoven’s “Violin Romance” transitioned from one setting to another–to a time of innocence and bliss, narrated and reenacted with disturbing accuracy. Jezebel’s eyes trailed after a younger version of herself as she was swept away on Lecter's feet, their dance enlivened by joyous giggles and suppressed laughs. Merriment painted their expressions in a kaleidoscopic array of vitality as the pair set themselves adrift. A step here, another there… all precise movements to match the fluidity of each violin riff as Dr. Lecter held small hands within his carefully trained grasp. The current Jezebel, the one bound to a chair, reached for them as pain and longing dampened pale lashes. And when the little girl turned to look, fear overshadowing her doll-like features, her eyes went straight through. Unseeing and unaware. Abruptly, the scene flashed to another—a similar screenplay of the previous one playing like a live cinema. She couldn't have been any older than eleven this time. Huddled against Dr. Lecter's side, wearing her hand-knitted vintage dress and little black shoes, the same panic from before seeped across her features. Father Gabriel stood at the entrance to the study, irate and disgruntled. His mouth opened to speak, but it was Hannibal's voice that cut through the fabric of her recollection, piercing her psyche in a fashion that mimicked the priest’s. "The calm before the storm before your father would push through the chamber door and remind you, you are just a child." Unable to handle additional injury to her clouded mind, Jezebel whimpered, banishing the memories like they were malevolent spirits. He was breaking her, over and over again, and all she could do was revert to that same girl who used to cower beneath the blanket when monsters appeared in the closet. For an indiscernible amount of time, that’s how she stayed, head bowed and eyes shut tight. Her shoulders quivered, each drawn upward with a tenseness that, no doubt, made her vulnerable. Not simply because she appeared so, but because she knew Hannibal was watching. A gentle clang rang in her ears, metal against metal, as the scent of seasoned, smoked flesh wafted throughout the dining area. The new smell hadn’t initially garnered her attention, but when it finally did, the room grew deathly still. One second passed. Then another. And another… All while she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. It’s an interesting thing to ponder, isn’t it? How people think they’d act in circumstances like these. One might consider Jezebel foolish to have gotten herself into this situation in the first place, yawning on and on about the course of action they’d take—why they wouldn’t do this, why they wouldn’t do that. But, truth is, no one knows the choices they’d make until they were face-to-face with the lion’s den. Not even Jezebel, herself. So when time slammed to a halt and adrenaline clouded her judgment, the stage was set. With one kick, Hannibal’s guest sent her chair thrown backward, the impact splintering wood and sending debris skirting across the floor like shrapnel. It was enough to knock the air from her lungs, though only for a fraction of a second before the next impulse backfired. Amidst her terror and without forethought, she yanked her left wrist free, shredding skin and exposing tendons in a mess of pulpy, red tissue. Blood gushed, cascading down her forearm, and with it, white-hot agony. The scream, the shrill cry that followed, quickly turned guttural as Jezebel bit back her tongue and forced focus on the nearest escape route. With self-preservation on the forefront of her mind, she maneuvered off of the chair, onto her side, and drove it away with her foot, knocking the piece of furniture against a table leg. Silverware rattled—forks, knives and other cutlery all falling within proximity of her reach. A perfect recipe for the perfect disaster.

"...Will it hurt…?" "No, my dear. Now close your eyes and imagine something pleasant. Perhaps the contentment of biting into ripened fruit? You know that feeling, don't you? The tasteful delicacy? Revisit that. And before you know what's happening… it'll all be over." Stationed at one end of an oblong table was a peculiar sight. A damsel in distress, imprisoned and propped up for presentation. Head loose on the shoulders and wrists fastened to the armrests by twine and barbed wire, she appeared frozen in time. Her gown was formal—champagne, slim-skirted and half-sleeved in sheer, floral fabric with an illusion neckline to accentuate virtue. The appliqué patterns swept across her bosom, creeping upward before ceasing at the midpoint of her neck in a tantalizing display. Even her hair, which would—on normal occasion—kiss the backs of her elbows, held a degree of sophistication. Excluding the bangs, it cleared her face, each wavy strand pinned back in a braided halo—a boho updo fit for classic tastes. As for who she was… well… The girl's name carried its fair share of stigmatized criticism. But to understand even a sliver of its past required patience and an open mind. Neither of which most possessed. For starters: Of the two most prominent figures in Jezebel's life, both were men. However, one withheld a deeper, more intimate bond than the other. Known as the famous Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the psychiatrist developed an interest in the priest’s daughter right around her sixth birthday. Father Gabriel, the second prominent figure, never expressed why that came to be the way it was, but more pieces fell into place as years progressed. And by the time she'd reached womanhood, it was apparent that Gabriel’s prize, a girl with pale skin, blue eyes and hair the color of pearl, wasn't the same as any average passerby. But, rather something far more extraordinary. For Jezebel, the awareness of being different haunted her. It unearthed an age during the earliest consultations with Dr. Hannibal and how frequently he’d pick her brain, trying to understand the subject in front of him. The memories of those days would often resurface. Sometimes during solitude and other times during supervised visits to her study. They lingered throughout Father Gabriel's sermons and reappeared as faces in dreams. Or as projected forms in her artwork where convoluted textures often masked the tragic meaning hidden beneath. A seemingly innocent layer of grandeur did well to disguise the ugly. And tonight was no exception. From the next room, high crescendos billowed in a familiar, classical melody. Its complex structure crackled over large speakers, weaving throughout the dining room in a mixture of dramatic and depressed notes. Loud enough to rouse Hannibal's new guest from the deathbed of her sleep. "F-f…ather?" cried the lass in a raspy, feeble voice, easily smothered by the rich background choir. It was all she could manage, earning her the attention of something ill-placed and unexpected. Jezebel couldn’t hear, let alone recognize the Host’s voice before his hand dipped below her chin to capture the saliva she hadn't realized was accumulating. The inappropriate gesture sent her nerves screaming in a fit of panic, begging to recoil. Nails–short, plain, and manicured–gnawed the wooden armrests. Her hips squirmed, bunching the fabric of her dress between her legs, and her arms tugged weakly, senses floundering. As her heart rate elevated, symptoms increased. Darkness teased the edges of her vision in wave after wave of drowsiness, but determination fought the assault in a desperate fight-or-flight response. Her limbs, however, didn’t have that same option. Lethargic, the weight of her head slumped against her captor's caress, battling the heaviness of exhaustion. Eyes lacking their usual luster reflected helplessness while her breath shuddered with a fear she had yet to comprehend. Though what proved more dreadful than that—more traumatizing than being trapped in a drug-induced body—was the level of betrayal upon realizing who had done this to her. Imagine something pleasant, urged the ghost of a memory. And before you know what's happening, it'll all be over.