[Author's Note: This actually isn't a drabble but a solo RP post from my William account, haha. Please keep in mind this is somewhat AU, my William has learned of the details of his own oncoming demise and has been working to change his own fate. Amongst other things.]
Tangled serendipity in shadowed darkness. William Birkin had been haunted by the words his older doppelganger had murmured to him, the sweet silken poison about G, about it being inside of him, infecting him, for days now. He knew he was slipping ever towards that spiraled canopy of madness. Knew that it wouldn't be much longer before it was too late, too late!, before he and G would be one and the same. Before he too would know unity with his own creation… before G would flicker and slither through his veins like hell's own sensuous serpent.
The blond scientist stepped from the confines of his shower, securing a towel around his lower half as he procured the second to start drying his dripping, damp, hair off. Somehow he'd pulled himself away from the wonders that was the G-virus, pulled himself away from the whispers of madness that echoed throughout his laboratory. That echoed through the cracks and fractures of his own deteriorating mind. This wasn't much, this sweet solitude, but it did wonders in refreshing himself.. in making him recall that he was Birkin, he was alive, and there was no G there within.
As the fog from his heated shower started clearing out the weary man glanced up to see his own image reappearing on the mirror that hovered above the sink. The hand that was drying off his hair lowered as he stepped closer towards it - it had been a while since he'd really stopped to contemplate himself. William had lost more weight again, that was an evident factor, and he couldn't remember the last time he looked so tired.. so empty. The dark circles under his eyes, above the spattered sprinkles of freckles across his cheeks, told a poignant story as to how little he had rested.. How long had it been last? Days, surely, perhaps even longer. His blue eyes were dulled, glassy, something decidedly lacking then the last time he'd considered them. Or, perhaps, it was the something extra within.. that glimmer of near-madness, a fragment of futile insanity, that clung to himself wherever he went, whatever he did.
Anger, sudden and fierce, coiled up from somewhere inside of him. Was this what Wesker saw? What about Alfred? This comical parody of a man, struggling through his own near-madness and failing so drastically, being pulled towards an oblivion even he could not stop, even he could not control. A growl escaped William as he moved, lashed out, and the side of his hand slammed with all his last reserves of strength into the mirror before him. The glass didn't shatter - he was not strong, had never been truly strong - but from the spot his hand impacted cracks scattered across the mirror across its surface. His image distorted cruelly, echoing back multiples of himself from the shadows of nothingness.
It's not the monsters we create that we need to fear.
William's hand lowered, rested against the surface of the sink as blood trickled from the ragged cuts his attempt had inflicted on himself, crimson beads that tainted and stained the porcelain surface as they ran down to drip somewhere, lost forever, on the floor below. The failing man, the falling man, lowered his head… closed those empty eyes so that he'd no longer stare at the vestige of what had been himself.
It's the monsters that lay within us all.