A/N: I've wanted to take a bit of a break from fantasy writing lately. I can't quite put my finger on why but I wanted to try and write something a little bit shorter instead of immediately jumping feet, hands, and head first into a full blown project. Huh; hands, feet, and head first? Would that be considered a cannonball? Anyway, I didn't want to keep jumping into projects that burn me out so quickly. With personal and work life crashing into me like a rocket-boosted freight train I hardly have a lot of time to write much anymore, which is tragic.
So let me take some time to do something quick and…dirty.
Hurt
I hurt myself today…
Helena turned the bottle on its end and felt the liquid cascade down her throat like a river of lava; it was like swallowing a forest fire.
Her vision swam in front of her and her knees buckled out from under her, causing her to topple to the cold linoleum floor. She grunted as her teeth clacked together, moaning as the pain shot through her already drowning skull. She let out another moan and leaned her head back on the dishwasher, her eyes rolling in the back of her head. "That was a mistake." She thought, feeling her stomach churn. She attempted to stand up, at least to try and not vomit all down the front of her shirt. It was almost successful.
She stood, but the rapid movement combining with how drunk she was caused her to stumble and fall backwards. Helena whirled around and caught the countertop with both hands. Her muscles were dead; the 90 proof had seen to that quite beautifully. She tasted the familiar taste of metal and tried desperately to hoist herself up to at least make it to the sink.
To see if I still feel…
Her chin crested the top of the counter just as her body expelled what little food was in her stomach. Some of it managed to land in the sink; unfortunately most of it rebounded and coated her lips and chin, a waterfall of vomit flowing down and dribbling on her red blouse and exposed knees. She had ditched her jeans the moment she got in her apartment, opting instead for a pair of lace underwear. "Motherfucker…" Helena slurred, wiping the lower half of her face with the sleeve of her shirt. She still clutched the bottle with a death grip in her hand. She took another long swig.
Helena couldn't remember how long she sat there, half covered in vomit and drowning herself in alcohol. She polished off the bottle that started the night and slowly, drunkenly, crawled over to the cabinet to get another. She cracked another bottle of whiskey and took another number of inhuman sized gulps. At some point she realized that she should get up and try and clean herself; no idea what caused that train of thought.
I focus on the pain…
She shambled her way to the bathroom allowing a small laugh to slide out of her mouth. "Helena the whiskey zombie. Cute." She said out loud, a smile gracing her face. She faced herself in the bathroom mirror; she was unrecognizable. Her eyes were red and puffy from near hysterical crying, her makeup from who-knows-how-long ago ran down her face, and bits of food had found their way into her unkempt and unwashed hair from the fresh vomit. The worse part wasn't even her face, it was her arms.
The only thing that's real…
Hesitation marks; at least a dozen or so on each arm. She had attempted, there was no doubt about that, more than once. She hated herself more that she had failed. It was pills the first time; an ecstatic amount of sleeping pills mixed with muscle relaxers. She remembered waking up in a literal pool of her own vomit, feeling like someone had driven a truck through her entire body and forgot to slow down at the corners. It was knives next; she liked that method more.
Helena stared into the mirror, her face turning into a hysterical, almost Joker-like, smile. She laughed. "You're so fucking pathetic!" She screamed. "Look at you; you look like shit, you feel like shit, you are shit." She brought the bottle to her lips again. "Your best friend is a bottle of whiskey! You're pathetic!" She screamed again, her voice going hoarse; this wasn't the first time this had happened. "How many men have you slept with?" She asked the mirror. "How many men have fucked you like a dirty, filthy animal?"
The needle tears a hole…
She started crying. "Well? What's the answer!?" She cried at the mirror. "I don't know!" The mirror shouted back, hurling the bottle of alcohol. It shattered and broke the mirror. Helena started sobbing uncontrollably. "So this is a breakdown." She thought. She gripped tightly at her hair, dragging her hands through it. Strands of hair started falling to the floor. The broken mirror reflected back at her exactly how she felt: broken.
Her image was distorted, but there wasn't much to look at anyhow. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened as she let out a howl that would put a Shrieker to shame. She gripped the broken mirror of the medicine cabinet with both hands and, in a feat of strength that surprised even her, she ripped it off with little effort. Her hands stung and she looked down and saw that a river of blood had started to flow; she had grabbed a handful of broken glass.
The old familiar sting…
Her voice hitched in her already sore throat. Her head pounded, her hands stung, her throat felt like a war was being fought in it. She shambled off to the bedroom, letting out drunken mutterings in between crying. She flopped down on her unmade bed, riddled with both clean and dirty clothes. She curled up into the fetal position, sobbing at both the physical and the emotional pain.
It was about Deborah, it was always about Deborah. The President of the United States was dead, Tall Oaks was gone, and her sister was dead. And all of it was her fault. But she only cared about her sister. "I'm fucked." She thought. She had rejected the mandatory therapy, instead choosing to resign completely. She hadn't spoken to Hunnigan since leaving 6 months ago and hadn't spoken to Leon in over a month. She wanted to die alone.
She couldn't tell what caused her to pass out; the alcohol or the slow blood loss. But the comfort in passing out was that she never dreamed.
Try to kill it all away…
She was having such an amazing, self-loathing sleep when she was shaken awake. Her eyelids drunkenly fluttered open, her eyes burning at the sight of her bedside light being on.
"Helena! Wake up!" A familiar voice called out.
She recognized it; and she hated hearing it.
"The fuck do you want, Leon?" She asked, her voice incredibly hoarse. She tried shoving him away but only succeeded in smearing blood on his leather jacket.
"Your neighbors called the police! They said it sounded like someone was trying to kill you!" He cried out.
"If only that was the case…" She said.
Leon let out an exasperated sigh. "I told them that I was going to handle the situation and thankfully they believed me. What the hell happened!?" He asked her, his voice reaching a tonality that even he himself was unfamiliar with.
"So, what, you're a cop now? The DSO not giving you a good enough dental package?" She laughed drunkenly at her own joke.
"I own a police scanner," he said flatly, "it pays to know whether the cops are jumping into a-" he cut himself short, "what the hell did you do to your hands?" He asked in a panic.
"I ripped the god-damn mirror of the wall. It was talking shit to me." She slurred. She was still very much drunk.
"And your arms?" He asked, already knowing the answer.
"What the hell do you think?" She spat.
"Where's your first aid kid?" Leon asked, his head swivelling around the room.
"Fuck if I know…" She trailed off. "Where's the whiskey? I need a drink to go back to sleep." She tried to stand but Leon forced her back down to the bed. She grinned. "Or this works too." She said, biting her lower lip. "I've always wondered how you were in the sack." She added, gripping the bottom of her shirt and raising it past her midriff.
Leon grabbed her hands and pulled it down, planting himself on the edge of the bed. "No. You're bleeding all over the place. Where's your kit?" He said calmly. This was the Leon that Helena remembered.
"Come on, Leon…" Helena said, pressing closer to him, "Don't tell me you've never thought about it." She breathed.
Leon could smell the alcohol and vomit on her breath and pushed her away. "That's enough, Helena. You're drunk."
Helena persisted. With speed that was quicker than what Leon anticipated, she wrapped both her legs around his waist, effectively straddling him. "You've never thought about me on top of you? What about underneath you?" She ran a hand up the back of his shirt, feeling his back muscles. "I've been such a bad, bad girl, Leon." She cooed lustfully, digging her nails into his back. "I think you should punish me."
Leon grunted at the pain. He stood up abruptly and with a quick motion of his hand he pulled her arm at the elbow and removed her hand from his shirt and used his other to force her left leg to unwrap itself from his waist, causing her to fall roughly back onto the bed. "Stop it, Helena!" He commanded.
Helena's brow furrowed as her mouth opened and exhaled a pained breath. "Please, Leon," she begged, "I want you to fuck me." She crawled towards him.
Leon stepped away from her. "No." He said, his hands tightening at his sides.
Helena stopped and felt another wash of emotions come over her. "I hate you..." she muttered.
Leon cocked his head. "What?" He asked, picking up a relatively clean white t-shirt off the floor.
Helena exploded off the bed. "I hate you!" She screamed, hurling herself at him. "I hate you!" She repeated. That was her mantra tonight. Each time she yelled those words she slammed her hand into his chest.
Thankfully Leon reacted fast enough to catch the raging woman before she did any real damage to him. "Helena," he grunted, "stop!"
"Fuck you, Leon!" She cried out, feeling tears roll down her face. "I hate you!" She yelled again. "If you didn't come here to fuck me and you won't let me drink then let me die!" She sobbed. "I deserve it…give me what I deserve, please!"
"Helena…" Leon trailed off. He wrapped his arms around Helena; poor, broken, shattered Helena. She had stopped hitting him, now clutching his jacket tightly. She stopped crying and started to hyperventilate. "Helena," he started quietly, "I need to clean your hands, okay?" He felt her head nod in agreement on his chest. "Can I leave you here for a minute? I promise I'll be right back." He felt another nod. He slowly walked her back to the bed and laid her down, brushing a stray hair out of her face. "Hold this on your hands, it'll stop the bleeding." He said, presenting her with the shirt he had picked up. He touched her hands, gently taking them into his own and wrapping the shirt around them. He gave her a weak smile before leaving the room.
Helena wasn't going to lie to herself; the thought of ending it all right now was stronger than it had ever been. All she needed was the kitchen knife she had stashed away in her nightstand for those really rough nights. She wasn't thinking clearly; her mind was a mess of alcohol, endorphins, unbridled lust, and who knows what else. She rolled over slowly and opened the drawer on her nightstand, revealing her shining, stainless steel friend. She gripped it with her already bloody hands and pricked her finger, half on accident and half on purpose.
She looked it over and in that moment something finally snapped into place in her brain.
She didn't remember throwing the knife across the room. Nor did she remember the agonized scream that she let out. She certainly didn't remember Leon running into the room and embracing her in the tightest hug she had ever received. She even didn't remember the words he whispered into her ear.
She did remember the words she spoke after, however.
"I need help, Leon." She said shamefully. "I need help."
"I know, Helena, I know." Leon said, rubbing the back of her head gently.
"I need help, Leon." She repeated quietly.
But I remember everything…
A/N: I'm okay. I promise. I've been replaying Resident Evil 6 recently with my GF and then with a friend of mine and something sparked in me that made me want to start writing in the RE genre again. Anyhow, R/R and I would greatly appreciate it!