Disclaimer: I do not own RE
A/N: *adds this to a pile of fics i can't even manage* hey this is a story about wesker suffering from severe ptsd. enjoyyy! (slight wesker/claire) ((so far))
Chapter 1: Drunken Divinity
Eyes of ember scanned over the various items on his desk, some stood out while others merged into the scene of the now chaotic mess he had been making lately. An almost empty bottle of whiskey accompanied by a previously downed crystal glass, sat next to a bottle of pills that did not belong to him. He couldn't remember what they were right now, only that they helped his pain. There were three coffee mugs, each empty and crusted with days old residue of the drink he once preferred over anything else and next to these mugs, there was a photograph. It was angled away from him, the faces of the individuals silently shunned his practice. He reached for the photograph as he poured the last bit of whiskey into his glass and dragged the frame across the desk towards him. Albert Wesker slugged the remainder of his drink, a drunken frown on his lips, lazily holding the gaze of his wife and child.
As he stared down at the picture, Wesker could feel an episode of guilt bubbling under his skin. The woman in the photograph was happy, proud, and relishing in that day's events. The young boy next to her smiled sheepishly, raising up the silver medal that slung around his neck. Wesker grinned lopsidedly, he could smell the whiskey on his own breath. His son was average, that whole period in his life was average. Not in a bad way, in fact, in a way that made him feel normal.
Human, even.
Claire Redfield turned him human. Even if it was just for those handful of years, she had torn down every wall, jumped over every mote, and conquered every demon living inside of Albert Wesker. A glorious feat for a woman so unlike him. She had spent years under his shadow, fighting off his corruption, spreading light where his darkness consumed, and taming a creature unlike any other being. Wesker would admit that at times, he could be a handful. His emotions were repressed, bottled, and compacted, but beckon to the right one and only dead men could tell that tale. After years of what he had seen, after what he'd been through, Wesker suffered severely from post traumatic stress disorder. It was the only thing he couldn't fight off, the only thing he couldn't hide from. It ate away at his brain and devoured his mental capacity. There were nights when random bloodshed wasn't enough to satiate the animal that curled against his brain. There were nights when his sheets would run damp sweat from the terrors in his sleep. His nightstand littered with little white tablets and bottles of expensive alcohol. Wesker wasn't one for pills and booze, but it seemed to be the only thing that could hold off the pain, even if it was momentarily. However lately, and Wesker himself would admit, he had begun to abuse these methods.
It had been three years since he and Claire had parted, they were never officially divorced, their marriage began to spiral into loose love, constant arguing, drugs and alcohol, and nights spent alone, apart from one another. Claire would beg him to seek help, to find a therapist, talk to someone who had no biased opinions on the kind of man he was. Someone who he could pour every little thought into and be confident that the information would never be revealed to anyone.
He refused.
Claire suggested they move, somewhere where they could start fresh, begin a healthy, new life in a different town.
He refused.
After months of guilt, anger, and downright depression, Wesker finally drove himself away from his family. Their son, Jake, spent days isolating himself from his parents due to their behavior towards each other. Wesker could hear him cry himself to sleep some nights.
It drove him mad.
The very idea of his actions destroying what he had built with Claire dug the sharpest stones into his gut, guilt curling in his stomach. It drove him mad because he could not reassure his own son that their marriage was going to survive. It drove him mad because the woman that he had fallen head over heels for had cut him off, telling him that she couldn't live like this anymore.
Wesker halfheartedly pondered about how many marriages ended in failure and tried to find some solace in these facts. He slouched in his chair some more, leaning forward to fold his arms down on the desk, Wesker planted his head upon them and sighed heavily, smelling the smoky tinge of his finished bottle of whiskey. There was a knock at the office door and Wesker grumbled at the noise.
"Al?" A man's voice called. The door swung open slowly and William entered. "Jesus it smells like a dive bar in here." The man strode over to the desk and peered down at his friend who was still slumped over. "Albert Wesker are you doing what I think you're doing?"
Wesker chuckled, a raspy and throaty sound that echoed through the dark room. "Sorry mom." He mocked.
"For the love of god, Albert you should be at home in bed, dead asleep." William spied the clock on the wall and shook his head, dirty blonde hair rustling in front of his eyes. "It's two in the morning"
"I don't sleep anymore." Wesker said blatantly. He had since sat up in his chair and pushed back his already unkempt hair. He looked as though he hadn't shaven in a few days, his hair slightly longer than usual, casually pushed back rather than its normally taught appearance. "I see… it when I close my eyes."
"You're relapsing." William commented dryly. "You told me you were doing better."
Wesker shrugged halfheartedly. "I was... But the stress builds up… the constant gnaw and thrash of these memories boil inside of me. I have violent ones of-" He stopped then, trailing off his thoughts. He sounded resentful but there was something in the way his words fluttered down, the tone shifting to the point where William was certain those words were meant for the memories of fear.
"Of what...?" William prompted.
"Of the mansion, mostly. I see everything all over again as if I'm really there... I can hear every creak of the boards under my boots, the sound that teeth make when they snap together like a rhythm... They gnash right in front of me and they're so hard to escape. I see the white and deathless eyes of the tyrant… I can feel it's claw burrowed-" Wesker clamped a hand around the edge of his desk and his jaw locked tightly.
"There's so much pain…" He seethed through clenched teeth. "White hot pain."
There was anger present. There was powerlessness present. There was hatred present.
Wesker breathed slowly. "I try to anchor myself right here..." His hands motioned to the room, eyes wandering over the details. "It's a goddamn nightmare that I can't wake up from…and it eats away at me."
"I will help you." William says. "But please, for the love of god, Albert you need to tell me this shit." Williams features danced in the sharp neon glimmer.
Wesker chuckled in the dark which turned into a throaty and frankly disturbing laughter. "Claire wanted me to get help." He says once his laughter settled. "She thought that pouring my damn heart out to a stranger would cure this." Wesker ran a hand over his face. "And she hated me by the end of it all. My son hated me…"
William sat in the chair opposite of his friend. "Claire does not hate you and Jacob does not hate you." He assured.
Wesker slammed his fist down on the desk, making William flinch and just slightly push back in his chair. The whiskey toppled over, a pill bottle rolling off onto the floor. Wesker had been exceedingly aggressive these past few years and although he had an aggressive reputation in the past, it had bloomed into something more over time due to his disorder. The room became deathly silent, Williams ears quivered with the sounds of rain and the street traffic below. Neon lights from the buildings burned into the blackness of the office. Pinks and greens and blues clashed against the shadow of Wesker's sharpened features. He was a blade in the dark.
"I'm just a fucking monster." He says. His voice is a growl.
XXXXX
The conference room was bright and invasive and did not help the throbbing ache behind his eyes. His sunglasses lessened the harshness of the fluorescent lights but that alone wasn't enough. His head swam with a migraine that bubbled in his brain, churning back and forth and spreading the dull pain throughout his head. Wesker palmed his temple as he heard, but not listened, to words rattle out of each mouth. He sat at the head of a long table and on either side of him, sat numerous colleagues all whom of which were itching to be in Wesker's company for once in a blue moon. They discussed several different topics including company expansion, investors, money, and politics. All of which bored Wesker. He cared little for these things, he had people who handled these things for him so he wouldn't have to waste his time and yet, here he was. Subjected to a five hour meeting without the company of William, a grueling migraine, and a room full of individuals he'd rather be without.
Eventually, each conversation began to blend together, melding into a slur of words lost on his ears. Until a single name flared against Wesker's consciousness.
Ozwell.
His ears began to ring harshly as if a gun had been fired right beside him and the worst aspects of a man Wesker loathed to his very core, began to surface and rear their ugly heads. As soon as his breath hitched in his throat, tunnel vision threatened to embarrass him in front of some of his most affluent characters. Wesker stood up swiftly and his vision blurred from the headrush. The room fell silent as his colleagues looked on in confusion.
"Excuse me." Wesker said. His words were guttural and husky, his mask was quickly beginning to slip as he ushered himself out of the conference room and into the hall. He walked swiftly, employees of the building kept their distance as they watched Wesker storm down the hall, one hand pressed harshly against his forehead, fingers twining in his hair, the other hand in a tight fist. His eyes strained to focus and his breathing became labored. Visions of Spencer flashed behind his eyes and he could hear his frail voice ring like death bells in his ears.
You are nothing but a cog in my machine, son. A small and insignificant piece of a puzzle. You were created to serve me. Your mother did not want you. Your father wanted to kill you. They didn't love you.
I love you. You're my son. I created you.
Wesker had made it back to his office. The silence, however, was unwelcome. His thoughts, the voices were much easier to hear. He tore his sunglasses from his face and they clattered onto the desk, broken. He turned the photograph down harshly, the glass shattering. He pilfered a new bottle of alcohol from a drawer and snapped open the top, pouring himself a shot, he knocked it back, it burned.
You were born to serve me! You were born to kneel at my will! You are nothing without my guidance and love!
Wesker hurled the shot glass harder than a major league pitch and it left a crackling dent in the wall, the glass nearly turned to dust.
There were a few lights raps on the door.
Anger boiled like no other. He didn't care for anyone other than his wife to walk through that door right now. And that wasn't happening any time soon.
Whoever knocked finally let themselves in. A bold move. However, it was Ada who proceeded.
"Someone told me you stormed out of your meeting for no reason." She mused, not paying much mind to the noticeable dent in the wall and Wesker's visible aggression.
"Are you my babysitter?" Wesker growled. His tone was clipped and sharp. He was not to be trifled with.
"Well I damn well might be." She says. "You've been acting like a fucking child lately you know that? You're out there throwing tantrums and barging out of meetings, scaring people half to death."
"Stop." He warns. "Stop right now…" Wesker slouched over the desk, his head hangs between his arms, hair that is usually so kept and neat, now tumbles in front of his unshaded, bursting eyes. Ada watched his hands and forearms tighten like a coil.
"You've become irresponsible and reckless." Ada says, her words are stern and forceful. "And frankly, it's becoming an issue for the whole damn lot of us."
"I don't pay you to scrutinize me." Wesker's voice is a low and warning tone. It changed the feel of the room in an instant. "I pay you to protect my assets."
"And your ass." Ada added. "You pay me to make sure everything is ok. Well ya know what, Albert?"
"Do not call me that." He says, words quivering on the edge of snapping.
"This shit is not ok. You are not ok." Ada approached his desk, a dangerous move for his current state. "You need to get your shit together."
Wesker's fist hammered onto the desk and it cracked into several fragments, splinters of wood flying into the air.
Ada did not flinch. She wasn't scared anymore. She had seen Wesker in every form and hardly anything the man did surprised her. He used to, however, throw her through loops every damn day, making her life hell. But after nearly fifteen years in his service, to Ada, Wesker was nothing more than a damaged, drunken, and hateful creature. His post traumatic stress was harsh and not a day went by that he suffered. It was hard to watch him deteriorate, it was hard to watch him fall to his knees… Ada clenched her jaw… it was hard to watch him fight a losing battle. What once was a man who struck fear into the hearts of everyone he encountered, what once was a man whose reputation stretched so far, what once was a man who was ruthless and yet divine, was now another helpless creature of habit. A slave to self-destructive behavior. Ada found it downright pathetic.
"Come on." She says. "Get back in there. Do your job."
Wesker took a swig from the bottle and then offered some to Ada. She shook her head. "Suit yourself."
XXXXX
Killing felt the same after a while.
Innocent.
Guilty.
Witness.
It didn't matter.
It all felt the same when he was wrist-deep in blood, hands clasped around organs. It all felt the same when he tore into flesh. It all felt the same when he severed bone with little force. It all felt the same when the gun was a means to an end. Yet, those hands once placed lightly feathered touches on the skin of his lover. Those eyes once wandered over every detail of a body shimmering in moonlight. The gun was once issued to protect. He used to feel happiness and pride. He used to feel calm and peaceful and loved. But now there was guilt and anger and hate. There was paranoia and anxiety and depression. Beasts that gnawed among his brain, snarling, snapping, howling for substance. Creatures that lurked and migrated from the darkest corners of his person. And Wesker kept feeding them what they needed. Every event, everything he'd ever done, and everyone he'd ever met, fell into ashes behind him. Their memories turned to cinder. He wanted to forget and let them die. But he couldn't die.
Spencer would not let him.
You will come back and you will suffer again. It is your fate, Albert. You'll just throw up the poison and shed off the burns. If you jump you'll just swim to the shore. You'll choke but your neck won't break. The bullet will push itself out of your skull and look like it never happened. And there will be no scars to prove you tried. The only scar you'll ever bear is the crescent on your belly. The scar that made you. The scar that turned you into a monster.
Wesker twined his fingers in his hair even harder, eyes screwed shut, trying to expel the voice rattling in his skull. His fingernails scraped his scalp and little stars danced behind his eyelids.
And why on earth would anyone love a monster like you? A beast. A tyrant. A fool. You are a shell of a man. You had so many opportunities and you destroyed all of them. You betrayed me and I loved you. I gave you everything I had so you could have everything you wanted... and you made me despise you. You made me regret ever allowing you a chance in my world. You are an ungrateful savage.
You will consume yourself. You will destroy everything you love and cherish. You will bleed. You will never know what it's like to live happily every again. You will continue to terrorize and murder and ravish and sabotage.
You will kill until you are killed.
You will kill until you are killed.
You will kill until you are killed...
A/N: well i hope u all like suffering cause this is the main course. i hope u enjoy darkness and pain cause that's pretty much what this is centered on.