Authors Note: (3/10/2019) If you are reading Thanatophobia after this date, please know you are reading an updated version. The story was published way back in 2015, got five chapters in, and suddenly abandoned. Life got in the way. You know how it is. It was never my intention to abandon this fic, however upon revisiting it, I realized I was unhappy with parts of it. As such, the version you are reading now is meant to reflect my more "adult" writing sensibilities. I was 19 back then, and am now 23. I would certainly hope my writing has improved since then, despite a large absence. Things such as spelling/semantic errors, minor bits of dialogue, formatting, and small bits of the narrative have been improved upon. Some small sections have been removed entirely, some rewritten, etc. The shitty song title chapter names are also gone. All of this was done to keep the writing more consistent with any possible future chapters.

The narrative is more or less the same, and if you enjoyed it before, the differences should not be too jarring.

With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

The living room of the apartment was a mess. Various empty bottles of beer were strewn across the floor and the distinct stench of vomit was not too distant. Smoke drifted like a hazy cloud throughout the room, rising slowly towards the ceiling from the filled ashtray on the coffee table. Placed beside the ashtray was a loaded handgun, a Beretta 92F, courtesy of Raccoon City's finest. Chris Redfield was strewn out on the couch, dark bags were under his puffy eyes, hair disheveled, five o'clock shadow growing in, and a cigarette was loosely hung between his lips. Sitting in a drunken stupor and a shadow of his former self, Chris found himself at the end of the line.

A walking model of tragedy, not even a timeline of events could properly exemplify the horror, death, loss, and misery that had occurred in the presence of Chris Redfield. Things will get better, he would say to himself. Year after year, until suddenly he lost the youthful optimism he once did his damndest to hold onto. Things will never get better, he would say now, twenty years later. He would close his eyes, and in the darkness, a face he recognized would appear. A team member, perhaps a friend. And slowly, one by one, more would appear. Until too many clouded his mind in a blur, unable to recount the names or distinguish the faces. They would call out to him all at once in a cacophony, desperate and frightened. And almost as quickly as they came, would disappear in a flash, leaving Chris in silence. And he didn't know which scared him more, the silence, or the thought that perhaps one day, all of it would only ever be a blur, never distinguishable in his mind.

You owe it to them to remember! Chris would try to remind himself. Words from a friend.

Chris had tried to honor the request of Piers to stay strong and work things through. Two years had passed since the outbreak in China and now, while still in business with the BSAA, remained in a dark and deep hole he could no longer justify trying to claw his way out of. The Beretta sitting on the coffee table before him never looked so inviting. Chris forced himself to sit back up, though slumped, and tried to focus his eyes on the gun through the haze of smoke and booze. He leaned forward, resting one elbow on his leg and picked up the gun with his free hand. Posted nearby on the table was the letter he wrote out earlier that night. It would be the last thing people would read from him (and hoped it would at least be legible). The wall mounted clock across the room currently read 9:48. It was dark out and his roommate would be home soon from the BSAA HQ. He was sorry they would have to come home to the mess he would leave behind, but he decided it would be best not stall. No use waiting, and after thinking things over in his messy state, decided he was ready. The handgun was taunting him.

Taking one final drag from the cigarette, Chris took it from his lips and extinguished it in the ashtray. Turning the gun around towards himself, he stared down the barrel momentarily, putting both hands on the grip. It was intimidating, but he didn't want to waste time thinking about it. All it would take is one second and a single shot and it would be over. Slowly, Chris brought the gun closer to his face, opening his mouth and placing the barrel inside. His finger lingered by the trigger and hesitated there. All it would take is one second….

Do it.

The intoxication stopped Chris from being able to hear the keys turning in the lock of the front door, the gun firmly stuck in his mouth. He was stalling. Jill Valentine pushed the door open and a look of confusion formed on her face as she first noticed the smoke. It only took a few moments for Jill to spot Chris on the couch, his finger anxiously near the trigger of the beretta. Quickly shutting the door, she dropped her purse in a panic and dashed over to him.

"Oh my god, Chris!" she practically screamed, ripping the pistol from out of his hands and ejecting the clip.

Tears streamed down from the man's eyes as he looked over at Jill through his hazy vision. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it when Jill's strong hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him roughly.

Distressed and voice shaking, she stared Chris down, eyes wide. "What the hell do you think you're doing? This is not what you want!" Even in his current state, he could feel how tense Jill's hands on his shoulders were.

"You don't know what I want, Jill! You don't!", he shouted back at her, his voice slurred. But surrendering to Jill's grip, he slumped back into the comfort of the couch. If he couldn't have his way, the next thing he wanted was the warmth of a familiar spot to calm down. Jill took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. Slowly, she let go of Chris' shoulders and squeezed the bridge of her nose, her eyes shutting tightly to come back down from her panic. Upon reopening her eyes and taking a look around the room, Jill took in the appearance of the living rooms current state. A mess. Jill paced over to the window and opened it up, hoping to air out the smoke. Putting her hands on her hips, she turned back to Chris.

"Chris Redfield, it's almost ten o'clock...Before we cause a scene and wake up our neighbors, get your ass up right now. I'm taking you to the E.R."

He didn't move. At most, he tilted his head towards her to acknowledge her words. "Jill…" he slurred out in a moan. "Please no…"

"I'm sorry," she said, walking back over to him and placing his arm around her shoulder to help him stand, "but I'm not giving you a choice." Chris reluctantly stood with shaky legs and drooped his head down, staring at the floor and letting out another sob. Jill lead him back to the door and opened it up, scooping her purse back up as she neared it, and guided Chris down to the car. He was heavy, but Jill managed. Opening the door for him, Chris slunk down into the passenger's seat, rolling his head back into the corner where the window and head of the seat nearly met and shut his eyes. Jill was momentarily in the driver's seat beside him and helped buckle the drunken man back in. He obviously would not cooperate.

Turning the key in the ignition, Jill paused, turning her head back towards him and gave him a somber look. It was quiet outside. A Wednesday night, most people would be home by now. Sighing, she pushed back some of her brown hair, tucking it behind her ears. It took a moment of silence before she spoke.

"Chris, look at me…"

Another long moment passed before he turned his head back towards Jill. All that illuminated his face was the light looming in from a nearby streetlamp. But through the dark, Jill could read his expression like an open book. One that seemed lost and hopeless. She had seen variants of the expression before, but never so powerful as now. Her own face turned to a look of worry. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't think for a single moment that nobody isn't going to help you get through this mess, okay?"

She paused.

"Chris, we've been through this dozens of times. We've been through a lot together. Don't give up on me now, you understand?"

Slowly, Chris Redfield, once powerful and strong willed, merely shook his head. With what he could still muster, he only replied:

"I'm scared…"

There was nothing Jill could say in response. Quietly, she turned her attention back to the front of the car, and pushed down on the pedal, taking off for the hospital.