Her breathing was ragged as she stood under the liquid fire of the showers head. It had been weeks—months even, and she still couldn't seem to let go of her past. It didn't seem like she'd ever fully let go of Africa. Just as her chests scar would never fade away, neither would the atrocities she had helped commit against humanity. She still clutched onto her chest as if that vile red parasite were attached. She could practically feel the metal legs digging into her—scraping until she felt the blood come dripping out from every slight movement, movements she could only identify as not her own. The absolute worst part was the burning, the feeling of crackling electricity under her skin—the charred black holes which gaped in pain; it was as if she had been painfully prodded for fun. The red leech sensed when she fought back; it retaliated against her thoughts, hissing in protest as she screamed in harmony with it. Jill pursed her lips; crying silent tears at the memory. She could see that sadistic grin; hear the chucking of a madman as she faded in and out of conscience from the pain. Dying had seemed like such a blissful thought—she had wished she would've died. "Stupid woman," she would hear, "still fighting against me—for a cause so futile."
She knew that crying would do nothing, the silent sobbing only made her chest tighten. Her tears lived a short and uneventful life as they fled down the drain. She stood there pitifully; it was almost as if she expected the warmth of the shower to rid her consciences foul thoughts, just as she hoped it would every night. She could feel the torment, still feel her own helplessness as she was held prisoner in her own body. Oh God—oh Christ did it hurt.
I deserve all of this… She did horrible things, things that defied every rule in her own handwritten book. It didn't matter if she hadn't actually been the one to murder and infect, it had been her body used against her—it became her responsibility to stop herself. She had become as powerful as any B.O.W. out there; she became a ruthless pawn with nothing left to lose, yet nothing to gain. She was weak, she was a failure. Jill Valentine had lost the most important battle in her own personal war on bio-terrorism. Her life had been blown into shambles, but most importantly, she had lost herself in the fight.
Even though Chris had told her numerous times she had absolutely nothing to repent for—she hadn't been convinced. She had helped him nearly rule the world—Albert Wesker. Just the thought of that man gave her a migraine, the way he touched her, the things he did to her… She couldn't think of him, not now, not ever. Yet again, for what seemed to be the hundredth time that hour, she rubbed her temples in exhaustion as she shut off the water. It had been half past two in the morning when she got up to take this shower, making sure not to startle Chris in the process. Chris had a gun near his nightstand and has very good reflexes for someone groggy and just waking up. Chris was just as exhausted as she was; field work had become so draining because of her nightmare problem that Chris had dubbed simply as, "Africa." It made her ashamed to think that she needed him so much. She was no help, nothing but his problem—nothing but a burden to him, and nothing but sleepless nights and fear over her sanity and well being. She didn't deserve him, she didn't deserve anything. The only indication of how many minutes had passed came in the form of pruned skin.
After drying herself off and dressing herself in nothing but underwear and one of Chris' over sized, on her, B.S.A.A. t-shirts. She sat down in the living room on the couch. She hadn't bothered to brush her hair; she was too tired to do much of anything anymore, even brushing her teeth felt like too much of a chore. Her wet and matted hair fell over her face as she bent her upper half forward, her elbows resting on her knees. The migraine still hadn't dissipated, and the only comfort she had through the dark room was the sound of the light rainfall coming from outside.
"Jill," Chris' groggy voice came from their bedroom doorway, "What're you doing up?" Jill didn't answer; she knew she didn't need to. Chris knew exactly why she was up, and soon he would do just as he had always done—he would make sure to try his hardest and comfort her. "Come to bed, you need your rest. Jill, we have to get up in a few hours." She knew he just wanted her to come back so he could hold her in his arms and whisper how he's never letting her go. She would smile at his sincerity, if she had not been the one receiving it right then and there. Normally it worked; usually she'd be up by then, she'd go into his arms and pretend everything that happened was nothing more than a memory, something to be thrown into the wind, never to be seen again. She did it for him, she tried to make it seem like he was helping. It had become a horrible habit for her to put on masks, they had become the only truth she's come to know. Honestly, he was helping—just not as much as he believed. She had a feeling that he knew that truth about her, but it wasn't like Chris to not voice his concerns.
She hadn't meant to ignore him, but the rain sounded especially comforting to her at that moment. Chris sighed when he realized she wouldn't be coming. It felt like only a few seconds before she numbly noted that Chris had placed a glass of water on the coffee table directly in front of her. It wasn't until she felt Chris' warm arms wrap around her waist and pull her to him on the couch did she break her focus away from the window. He had brought a blanket for them to keep warm in; she didn't notice how cold she really was until his body touched hers.
"There wasn't any rain," Jill offhandedly remarked, almost as if she were in a daze. "It's so calming, it almost makes waking up in the middle of the night bearable."
"Africa's 8,000 miles away," Chris started, kissing Jill's head and bringing his right hand up to her chest, lightly touching the hidden scar. "Along with the whole Kijuju incident." He started to lightly rub circles into the scarred area on her chest, his actions calming Jill almost as much as the rain. If anyone else were to see her scar, to touch it as intimately as Chris was—she'd probably flinch and cover it up in shame. Chris was different; his touch was soft and affectionate, safe and understanding. She didn't feel the need to cover herself up in shame around him; he had been there for her since the beginning. He knew her better than anyone else. He loved her just as she did him. He loved her enough to stay with her through her darkest nightmares; he cared enough to be her shoulder to cry on. It was hard at first—adjusting to her old life. She wouldn't lie and say it wasn't getting any easier, because it was. But as long as she had these nights—she wouldn't be jumping for joy anytime soon. She closed her eyes at the comfort she felt. He whispered words of love and comfort into her ears as she slowly drifted off. She would probably experience another nightmare, but at that moment she knew she was safe in his arms—Jill knew she was Chris' and Chris' alone. His loving affection was enough to help get her sleep, just as it had been every night since they got back from Kijuju.