Author's Note: I do not own anything within the Resident Evil Universe, though I do own Hannah/Annabelle/Melody.
I am new to the world of fanfiction, and this is my first story. It is the first installment of a quartet that I will write, but I really need the reviews and constructive feedback on fleshing out characters, emotions, and action.
Think of this story as the prequel. The next installment I write will get to the really good stuff! I look forward to all your reviews!
Chapter One: The Perfect Family
The glass of water slipped from Annabelle's hands, shattering on the terracotta tiles of the patio. Her breath hitched in her chest as her eyes went carefully blank.
"Annabelle?" an imperious voice sounded from within the mansion. Oh no echoed from the depths of her mind, bouncing off the walls of her skull. Her face stayed serene though. To have it otherwise only tempted more trouble. As Annabelle heard the click of heels approaching from behind her, she sighed and turned to face her mother.
"I apologize Mother," Annabelle said quickly. Her voice was perfectly modulated, soft and feminine, measured with each word carefully enunciated. Perhaps years with a voice coach would pay off in this moment and sooth her mother's temper. She had no such luck.
Elena Davenport, Annabelle's mother, coldly took in the scene before her before turning her ice blue eyes on her daughter. Her body, every inch the appearance of an elegant lady from the ivory unblemished skin to the artfully coiled blonde hair on her head to a cream suit over a silk sapphire blue blouse and matching heels, was tight with disapproval. There was no real emotion on her face, but Annabelle felt the waves of Elena's disapproval crashing onto her. "How?" was all Elena asked.
Annabelle's eyes went demurely to her black flats, focusing on their shiny buckles. She could almost make out the details of her fuzzy, warped reflection. Though she kept her face blank of emotion, Annabelle could not stop her hands from shaking ever so slightly as she smoothed her red velvet dress her mother had picked out for her that day, despite the warm weather. She took a deep breath, knowing those waves of disapproval would turn into a tempest once she gave her answer. "I tripped on the tile, Mother. While trying to regain my balance, the glass slipped from my hand and crashed on the floor." Looking up she continued quickly, eager to please her mother who now was breathing shallowly in deep anger. "I jumped back to spare my stockings of any splash, though."
Elena's eyes glanced to her daughter's shins, and saw the white stockings unmarked. Her gray eyes went even colder, lips smirking sardonically. "And that is supposed to excuse your carelessness, your unladylike deportment?" Elena asked slowly, mockingly. Annabelle did not answer. She already knew there was nothing she could say; she could see the back board chair looming in her mind's eye. "Perhaps," Elena continued, her voice so cold it could have given ice freezer bite. "You need a lesson in ladylike deportment."
Time stretched for a few minutes as Annabelle felt her stomach drop and her ears roar. While she knew it was coming, she could not help her visceral reaction. "Your figure is off," her mother barked suddenly. "It is time to work on your posture for the day. Clearly it has been too long, for it has caused your lapse in grace."
Annabelle could hardly react before her mother grabbed her wrist and took her to the uppermost corridor of the Western Wing of the mansion they lived in, the capstone of a sprawling estate. Annabelle, panicking, tried to pull her wrist from her mother's gripped, straining to stop her legs from moving forward. "Mother, no!"
Elena turned to Annabelle, furious. "Now you are disrespecting your mother?" She cried shrilly. "You act as some kind of common trash, Annabelle, and I will not abide my daughter behaving in such a way! You are a Davenport, a daughter of the leading family in the name of genetic research, one of the highest standing families in society, and yet you act like some sort of trollop!" Elena looked frenzied in her anger, gasping in air as she shook. "How dare you behave in such a way!"
Annabelle was terrified of her mother in this moment. She always feared her mother, but now seeing the older woman shake, hearing her shrill voice all the while maintaining a calm face, terrified Annabelle to her very bones. "I'm sorry, Mother," she whispered out, too scared to say anything louder. "It was just a glass."
SLAP.
Annabelle clutched her reddened cheek in shock. She did not register her mother grabbing her wrist again and start pulling, but she did hear her mother's voice, as if from very far away. "If you insist on acting like garbage, I shall treat you as such. Perhaps that will encourage you to appreciate my lessons as an alternative."
Suddenly she sat in it. The chair. It was old, looking like a throne. Cast iron locking bands were open at shoulder length. These were strapped tightly around her shoulder, as two more locking bands tightened around her waist. Annabelle's torso was immobilized. It was an old technique used to teach girls appropriate posture, meant for an hour or two. Annabelle was never in the chair for so short a time, and she doubted this would be any different. Her body was numb with trepidation as she waited to hear how long she would be forced to deal with such agony at her mother's hands.
Elena did not make her wait long, though her answer shocked Annabelle. "You will be in that chair for three hours," Elena announced, tone businesslike. "At that point you are to ready yourself for a guest this afternoon. You know who it will be." Elena smiled in genuine pleasure and walked away.
Annabelle did not bother to squirm or figure a way out of the chair. She was just deliriously happy to only be in the chair for three hours. It was the shortest she could ever remember being in the chair. Annabelle just sat frozen like a statue for the next three hours. Her body remembered the positioning of the chair. What Annabelle could not remember what number this trip to the chair made. She just looked ahead at the white wall opposite for her, waiting to be released.
Annabelle stepped off her balcony into her room. It was richly decorated with dark mohagany furniture offset by wine red walls. Annabelle moved to her opulent four poster bed. Looking down upon it, she briefly was seized by the urge to fall backwards onto the feather mattress and laugh as her legs flew up. Instead she sat primly on the embroidered coverlet. She never knew where her mother would be.
Suddenly the door opened. Annabelle did not dare jump up, expecting Elena. Sighing in relief she allowed her posture to relax an inch when she saw it was her maid, Jezebel. Jezebel was a fiery person, Latina and Portugese. At five feet five, she was a beauty with creamy bronze skin, bright amber eyes and constantly smiling lips. The woman gave off such an air of carefree youth that it was hard to remember that Jezebel was in fact twenty-eight, and had been Annabelle's maid for ten years, since Annabelle was seven years old.
Jezebel's eyes lit up with warmth. "Hello, Annie," she greeted. Annabelle loved that nickname. She loved any nickname. Anything was better than Annabelle. I hate Annabelle.
"Hello Jezebel," Annabelle smiled, relishing the company. Life felt a bit easier when Jezebel was around. Jezebel never insisted on any propriety. Jezebel would sneak her hotpockets when she was younger, a fare forbidden to her by her parents. Her father obsessed over what she ate, and decreed long ago that nothing prepared in a microwave would ever touch his daughter's lips. Annabelle loved hotpockets.
Jezebel looked quizzically at her as she unzipped the plastic bag she had carried into the room, "Where were you this afternoon babydoll?" Jezebel always talked to her that way, like a real mother. Annabelle felt so happy to hear the little nicknames, the little signs of affection. Jezebel basically raised her, under the strict guidelines of her parents, and tried to fudge what she could. Annabelle knew Jezebel pitied her, for all she was the maid of the rich Annabelle Davenport. Annabelle used to feel uncomfortable knowing this, but now she craved this pity, another sign of affection. "I expected you to be reading by your balcony."
Annabelle forced a smile. "I was occupied with lessons under my mother's tutelage." Annabelle could feel the revulsion rising within her at the thought of her mother, and quickly put a cap on her emotions. I can't let Mother have any inkling, or any possibility of any inkling, or I fear what else she could do to me. Annabelle promptly stopped her thinking as well, before it became rebellious. She was now convinced after living years with her mother that Elena has some sort of ESP concerning Annabelle's emotions. Which just meant that her mind and heart were never safe.
Jezebel stopped what she was doing, placing the plastic bag on Annabelle's bed. Placing her hands on her hips, she pinned the young woman with her eye. "Which was it? Standing for hours with five pounds of books on your head, or sitting in that blasted chair?" Jezebel's musical voice was tightly angry, revealing a slight accent from her youth. Annabelle knew Jezebel was careful with her speech. Elena could not abide accents.
Annabelle did not even consider hiding the truth from Jezebel. Her maid had figured out years ago what Annabelle's parents put their only child through, but instead of leaving in disgust, Jezebel resolved to stay for Annabelle's sake, and do what she could to give the girl as normal a childhood as she could. That meant bringing her laptop to show Annabelle twenty minutes of sesame street, making hotpockets, sneaking Annabelle an iPod with whatever music besides classical that Elena demanded played that she could. For the past year, it also meant sneaking
Annabelle out of the house to parties and clubs owned by Jose, Jezebel's brother. Those nights were as cherished to Annabelle as her mother's diamonds were as cherished to Elena, only not as commonly come by.
"The chair," Annabelle informed Jezebel neutrally. "I needed to improve my posture after breaking a glass. I feel it helped, don't you?" Annabelle always did that – approve of her mother's actions, her father's obsessions, as if they were secretly in the room. You never know where they are. I would rather be rewarded for an aside comment.
Jezebel pursed her lips, hot anger playing in her eyes. Annabelle looked back, smiling steadily, if a little sadly. Jezebel recognized that smile. It was the smile Annabelle gave whenever she felt the trappings of her gilded cage a little too tightly. "That's it," Jezebel promptly said. "Out with the contacts."
Annabelle started and glanced at the grandfather clock by her bedroom door. She was confused. She only was allowed to take out her contacts when she was going to bed. It was a part of what her father obsessed over – her physical appearance. Since the day they moved into their mansion, Annabelle had been made to wear blue colored contacts. "To make my little porcelain princess doll absolutely perfect," her father had smiled down at her. At seven years old, Annabelle had grinned at being her father's princess. After a while Annabelle had stopped grinning. "But it is not yet evening," she reminded Jezebel.
"Yes," Jezebel agreed. "But you are to take a bath now, and this is a good time to let your hair down and wash your contacts before your guests arrive." That said, Jezebel left to Annabelle's connecting bathroom to draw a bath in the large sunken alabaster tub. Annabelle stood and walked into the large bathroom as her maid poured perfumed oils into the water. The room was filled with the scent of lavender and sweet pea. Closing her eyes Annabelle breathed deep, a tight knot in her chest she did not know was there loosening.
"Thank you Jezebel," Annabelle said to her maid, happiness ringing in every syllable. Annabelle was fully aware that she probably would have gone insane had Jezebel not been in her life. Shaking her head at such folly thoughts, Annabelle turned to her mirror and removed her contacts, placing them in their little dish with cleaning solution. She registered Jezebel turning the water off of the bath, and returning to the bedroom to lay out her clothes for the afternoon. It was just past one o'clock.
She slowly ventured a glance up into her reflection, and stared into her own true eyes. So rarely does she see their true chocolate color. It was like staring at a stranger. No, some features were familiar. There was her straight nose, her full red lips, arching eyebrows, slender neck, pretty bone-structure. But then there was her hair and her skin, both obsessions of her father. The same day she moved with her family into their mansion, her father took her to a salon and paid for her hair to be dyed blonde. Never again did she see her natural hair color, which she could just remember was a brown of some sort. There were no pictures of her when she was young, so Annabelle could not be quite sure. Not that it mattered. Annabelle was blonde haired.
Her father was equally obsessed with her skin. There were no beauty marks, no freckles, no warts, no blemishes, no tanlines. Her whole body was just the same creamy, glowing color. Whenever she went outside, she was always smothered with sun block and made to wear a hat. She loathed the smell of sunblock, it made her want to retch every time. Not that she ever did. No, that would not be ladylike, that would not be perfect, that would not be the spitting image of wealth her parents strived every day to emulate. It would be normal, simple, common. Annabelle was not allowed to be normal, simple or common. She must be Annabelle Davenport, a gentle beauty, every movement an effortless display of ladylike deportment.
Coming back to her reflection, Annabelle was shocked to see her features twisted in anger. Quickly, scared, she schooled her features back into a calm mask. Stepping away from her mirror that reflected too much, Annabelle let down her hair that was piled and pinned on her head to hang to her waist, and slipped out of her clothing, handing everything to a silent Jezebel.
Gracefully she stepped into the tub and sat down, enjoying the lavender and sweet pea scents as it relaxed the muscles in her back. They were not sore from the back board. She had survived much longer and again was shocked that she only had to deal with three hours. Annabelle leaned back, her fair hair floating around her as she thought of Elena's words. Her mother had mentioned a guest, a guest that Annabelle knows of. It gave Annabelle a feeling that this afternoon and evening was what her parents had been working and waiting years for. It was a dinner party, honoring a fellow colleague's progress into vaccine work against AIDS. Annabelle doubted that is what mattered to her parents tonight, for all they planned and hosted this party.
The guest. That is what mattered. All her life, Annabelle was told that she was perfect and was being made perfect for one person. Her looks were refined to appeal to one person. Her clothing was tailored to emphasis her beauty for one person. She was homeschooled and had excelled far past her peers so she may be entered into college early and impress that one person. She was built up, created by her parents into this perfect image for ten years. Annabelle knew that. They told her that themselves. None of it was to enrich her. It was all to make her into an offering for the guest. Everyday Annabelle worked hard at her lessons and every night Annabelle prayed she would be good enough to please this guest so they may take her away. And now that day was here.
She was relieved. She felt a small twinge of hope surge through her veins, getting stronger as a thought formed deep in her mind, floating up slowly. Everything might change now.
Annabelle stepped out of the tub, trailing water droplets from her body as she walked to her towel. Drying, she wrapped the towel around herself and approached the bed. What has mother picked out for me now? Elena always picked out what Annabelle would wear, after conferring with her father of course. Her clothing was always lovely, made of rich cloth and elegantly put together. She was curious this time though, because it appears her parents bought her a special outfit. A gift. Annabelle wished she could see it as such.
It was a pretty dress. Its skirt, waist, back and arms were a gorgeous sapphire blue, while its bust was white, shining in contrast to the dark blue. It looked so similar to that character in Titanic that her mother allowed her to watch parts of, to gain lessons in ladylike deportment and speech. Jezebel helped her get into the dress, making appreciative noises, telling Annabelle how pretty she was. Asking Annabelle if she wanted to see herself in the mirror, Annabelle shook her head. She loved seeing the finished product of Jezebel's work. With that, her maid got to work on braiding the majority of her hair, curling some tendrils that did not fold easily into the braid. Annabelle sat patiently through the whole process, which was second nature to her now, as Jezebel applied her makeup, put on her stockings and matching blue heels, jewelry, and most importantly her contacts. When Jezebel was finally finished, Annabelle stood and walked to her standing mirror.
She looked like a doll. A perfect porcelain doll. Not a hair out of place. Bright, vibrant colors and features. Everything was too perfect, too set. Annabelle suddenly wanted to rip the dress off of her and light it on fire. Its skirt was too restricting, and she swore its bodice just tightened by an inch. She wanted to smear her perfect makeup, her hands ached to take a pair of scissors to her heavy long hair that was currently braided. She could not take any of it. She could barely breathe. Gasping, the world swirled around her. Lifting a hand to her temple, she did not hear her door open.
"What goes on here?" demanded a mid ranged male voice. Her father, James, rushed past Jezebel to his daughter, catching her as she swooned. Jezebel's voice came from far away, unintelligible. Annabelle's eyes fluttered, finally staying open and focusing on James' face.
"Father," she murmured as he helped to stand. "I apologize, I must have spent too long in the bath."
James' brown eyes looked into hers, eyebrows together in concern. He looked very brown today – brown hair, brown eyes, brown suit, brown shoes. He was less dangerous than Elena, at least in the obvious sense. Annabelle still did not feel safe with him. While Elena was brutal, James was driven and would not be deterred. Annabelle's near faint only fed his fervor now.
James fingers squeezed reflexively as he looked over her paler than normal complexion. Biting his lips, James relaxed his hands, glancing at her arms to ensure he did not mark her skin. "When have you eaten last?" he demanded, his voice a whine. He already had the answer of course, for he had developed her eating schedule. Annabelle had eaten a salad for lunch that day, as he prescribed, every ingredient of the salad exactly measured out. Annabelle told him this.
James frowned. "Then why are you faint?" he demanded, annoyed. He stood her up on her feet. Annabelle shook her head slightly in confusion. She had already told him she had taken a bath, and believed the hot steam was too much for her. Of course he did not listen to her though, he never did. Turning away from her father Annabelle allowed herself the luxury of rolling her eyes. There was nothing Annabelle could possibly say about her own self that could be correct.
"I told you Father, I spent too much time in the bath. I need water. Jezebel?" Annabelle asked, turning to her maid. Her maid nodded and walked out of the room. The slim woman stood aside for Elena, who now sweeped into the room. She, surprisingly, was still wearing the same outfit. Elena was known for wearing five different outfits a day. Jezebel glanced back to Annabelle before leaving.
Annabelle stood stock-still as her mother coolly approached the two. A smile graced Elena's features. "My dear daughter, you look simply lovely." Elena turned to her husband, eyes bright. "Don't you think so my dear?" James turned to Annabelle, slowly picking apart her appearance.
Annabelle hated when they did this. She felt like those purebred dogs on a little tier being poked and prodded until she assumed the proper pose, then looked at without any respect for modesty or personal space. Her parents literally circled her in their inspection. And so Annabelle stood there like a show dog.
"She looks perfect," her father breathed. "We've done a good job."
Annabelle mind and body felt strained, her calm suddenly stretched thin. Annabelle struggled to maintain her calm demeanor even as she felt her soul screaming. She was shocked to the bone. It was as if her entire body was trying to rebel. She desperately wanted to turn to her balcony and jump over its edge, convinced anything such a leap provided were better than her life in this cold mansion. Never had Annabelle felt so utterly consumed by emotion, never had Annabelle ever felt the urge to run at her parents screaming with her outreached fingers curled like claws to rip their eyes out.
Annabelle smiled at her parents, counting to ten until her wild emotions subsided. As Annabelle breathed, her parents spoke of that night's party and the guest. Annabelle latched onto the conversation desperately. The guest, her knight in shining armor. Annabelle was determined that he would be her ticket out of this mansion. All Annabelle knew was that the guest was a man.
"Remember, Annabelle," her mother started. "You know how to act, what to say. We need you to bring this guest under your sway. It is what we have been striving for." Elena's face went hard. "Do no fail."
Annabelle's eyes surveyed the Turkish rug below their feet. "I wont fail Mother," she replied with a quiet passion. She looked up to see Jezebel return with a glass of water. It looked identical to the glass Annabelle dropped that morning. She glanced at her parents. A quickly look at her father told her that Elena had informed him about Annabelle's mishap that morning. James now was looking over her with concern, waiting for another sign of weakness. Annabelle was sure that if she had dropped the glass again, her father would have an apoplexy, convinced there was something wrong with her central nervous system's communication with her muscles.
Annabelle looked at her mother. Elena stared at her, her eyes full of contempt as she waited for Annabelle to drop the glass again. She wanted desperately to stare her mother right in the eye as she gulped water down, but no. Annabelle dropped her eyes meekly to the ground as she took the glass from Jezebel, smiling her thanks before taking a little sip.
Elena nodded slightly as a man walked to the door of Annabelle's bedroom suite. It was Edgars, the butler. Annabelle's breath hitched in her throat. This was it, she was sure of it. She would meet the guest.
James stepped forward. "Yes, Edgars?"
Edgars bowed his head, every inch the classic British butler with the suit, the accent, and the stiff mannerisms. "An Albert Wesker has arrived, sir. He is being shown his rooms for the evening."
"Thank you Edgars. When Dr. Wesker has settled in, please escort him to the Conservatory," James dismissed the man. Edgars bowed and left to return downstairs. James and Elena looked at each other, eyes alight. "The time is upon us," murmured Elena, a slight flush of excitement bringing life to her cheeks. She turned to Annabelle, beckoning as she walked to the door.
"Come, my dear. Let us wait for our guest to settle in."
Annabelle fought the sudden urge to run down the stairs. These urges were disturbing to Annabelle, barely able to be controlled and yet they were almost like hints of fresh air entering her lungs. Mentally shaking her head, she followed her mother out of her room, thoughts swirling around the guest currently settling in for the night on the opposite end of the mansion.