Disclaimer: Not my characters.

April 12, 2009

Chris brought me this journal, told me to work through it. I don't know what he was thinking exactly. It's not like I'll ever be the same again. Not like I'll ever be me again.

Back for a few weeks now and I think it would have been easier if they'd just left me there. I know Chris means well, I know Sheva thought she was saving me, but I should have died.

I thought I was going to die that day. Taking Wesker out the window.

But for some reason I was saved. And I wish like hell I hadn't. This is worse. Seeing everyone look at me. Some of them with pity, some of them with disgust. Some of them think I should have just been put down like a rabid dog.

I couldn't agree more.

Every day they come in with P30. Just a little less every day. I don't know if Wesker knew he was creating a dependance on it. Either way it's not like he would care.

Chris stays then. Always. Refuses to allow anyone near me until it has run it's course. He's always felt the need to protect me, though now I can't even remember why.

I haven't slept for days. All the noise. The nurses coming in and out of my room. I just can't…. They all want another piece of me. More blood, more samples, more more more.

I just want to be left alone. Why the fuck can't you people just leave me alone? Put me in the fucking looney bin where I belong if you won't kill me and LEAVE. ME. ALONE.

Every time I ask Chris why he won't just leave he gives me that look. The one that says I should know better. "You know why."

But I don't. I don't know anything any more. I just want to….

I just want to stop the screaming in my head.

April 30, 2009

Chris told me there would only be another week of P30. Apparently my body is quite resilient these days and adapts quickly. Somewhere in the back of my mind I think I should be interested in this fact, but I'm not. Maybe that's why the doctors have given up talking to me and only deal with him now. You'd think we were married or something the way they defer to him about me.

Whatever. The sooner I can get out of here the sooner I can just disappear. Be gone. I know it will be hard on him, but he'll survive. Somehow he always does. He made it almost three years without me. He'll adjust.

The screaming in my head never goes away. I hear it constantly: shrieks, cries and horrified wailing. Sometimes I think it's my own. Sometimes I think I'm just going fucking crazy.

Last night I woke up screaming. I had begged Chris not to let me fall asleep. He just gave me that look, like you would give a child, before he lay next to me in this tiny bed.

I woke up, clawing my chest, tearing open the fresh scars. "Get it off me!" My voice didn't even sound like my own.

"Shh," he told me, grasping my hands, pulling them away. "It's not there Jill. It's gone. You're ok."

But I don't feel ok. I don't feel much of anything. But that's better than the other options.

He didn't bat an eye at the blood I drew on myself. If only he knew how badly I wanted to claw all of it out of my body. Rip it out of my flesh. But it's there and it can never be removed.

And yet, he's still here. Still feeling guilty. Still trying to reassure me.

And I still don't understand why.

May 7, 2009

A therapist. Right. Because that's going to help. Let's talk about our "feelings". Here's a feeling for you bitch. Go to Hell. Stop trying to get into my head. You wouldn't survive it if you did. Go to Hell and leave me alone.

You want a mental assessment? Here it is. You people declared me DEAD. You left me to DIE and now you want me to play your games.

You can all go to hell.

I hope you rot there.

May 10, 2009

I'm begging you… please Chris, stop looking at me like that. Like you know who I am. Like I'm still Jill Valentine.

I'm not. Somewhere along the way he managed to kill her. I don't know where or when exactly, I just know one morning I woke up and I wasn't her anymore.

I was this thing. This defiled, tainted, unclean thing. Contaminated and vile.

I don't know what I am any more, but I know I'm not her. And if you keep expecting me to be I will only hurt you.

But every time I open my mouth to tell you the words won't come out. All those years and you could read me so easily. Why can't you now? Why can't you see the truth?

Because I'm not her. That's why.

I'm begging you, please, just let Jill Valentine go.

June 1, 2009

Oh God is it never going to end? Will I be living with this for the rest of my life?

Chris touched me, innocently, on the arm, and all I could think was how to get away. My mind thought of, and rejected, a dozen ways to keep him off me. Keep him from touching me. I kept expecting the attack, the pain that always followed. Felt the panic clog my throat.

But he would never. And I know this to be true. As much as I know my own name. As much as I know how to tie my shoes.

If this is how my life is going to be then it wasn't worth coming back from the dead.

June 15, 2009

It's been almost 3 months since I returned from Africa and I still find myself unable to sleep most nights. They keep trying to pump me full of drugs "For my own good" and I keep refusing them. I guess they don't understand what it's like to have all of your control taken from you, forcing your body to do things your mind is screaming at you to stop. I don't care if I ever sleep again, not as long as they stay away from me with that shit.

Chris has given up trying to go home I think. He says I sleep better when he's here. He's probably right. It's not like it matters though. When I do sleep I see the same things over and over again. People screaming, being ripped apart, mutating… all of it done by my own hands.

And I see him, begging me to remember. The hurt on his face, the lack of understanding.

He says he forgives me, that there's nothing to forgive really. But I catch him sometimes, looking at me when he doesn't think I know. And for once in our lives, I can't read him. Maybe it's just as well. He did his duty to me… he found me. Brought me back. I don't want him suffering with me. It's not fair to him.

The head doc says all of this is normal. Like that stupid bitch would ever understand normal. Have a device attached to your chest, pumping chemicals into you until all you can do is what they tell you. Protect someone with your life that you have hated for so long. Be his slave, his punching bag, his rag doll.

Then you can tell me about it. Just the sound of her voice makes me want to scream. She doesn't know me. No one knows me. Not any more.

I don't even know myself…

He should have let me die in Africa. He should have pulled the trigger and killed me.

But he didn't. And I don't understand why.

June 29, 2009

No more.

No more blood. No more samples. No more tests.

No more.

I can't do this with them anymore. I won't do this with them any more. If they think they're being kinder than Wesker was, they're sorely mistaken.

So no more.

When I ran the nurse out Chris smiled at me. A real smile. Not the one he's been giving me all these weeks now. I almost had to laugh, if I remembered how. Had I known a simple act of defiance would have amused him so much, maybe I'd have done it before now. Then again, I don't think he'd appreciate most of the acts that pop into my mind.

When she left he looked at me and told me "Tomorrow we start training again. You've had enough time to lay around."

He also promised to find out when I could leave here. I'm not entirely sure where I'll go. My apartment has since been long gone. Not that I was staying in it much before this anyway. I guess I'll have to find a new one. Eventually.

Since no one sees fit to allow me to die then I suppose I have to figure out how to at least exist again.