Chapter 21.
Sherry can't believe I've never seen fireworks. She drags me along with her out towards the only park in the city of concrete, metal, and glass. About halfway there, we meet up with Redfield and Jill. I really wouldn't expect Redfield to be this kind of guy, but he's holding Jill's hand. I'm a bit off with my black shirt and jeans, and everyone else is wearing those good ol' American colors: red, white, and blue. The four of us head towards the park, and the crowd looms around the entirety of the park, which is amazing because this place is huge. Sherry points out something and runs off with Jill, and before I know it, I'm with Redfield fetching drinks. Redfield's nervous.
"I never explained anything to you," Redfield admits.
"Hmm?" I stare at the wood of the bar that we wandered into.
"Now that you know Jill, this may be easier." He scratches the back of his head.
"So it was her, wasn't it? She made it personal." He nods.
"Wesker killed off most of S.T.A.R.S., and then, Jill and I started the BSAA. I thought I lost her when she sacrificed her well-being for my life. When that – when Wesker resurfaced in Kijuju, I found it as an initiative to exact my own revenge on him."
"You want to know something?" He never responds. "I didn't give two shits about Wesker. I was pissed to know the bastard was dead because I wanted to beat the shit out of him and make him suffer for everything that he put my mother through. He was never there, so don't beat yourself up because you killed my 'dear old dad.'"
"Your mother, how did she stand him?"
"When you live your life with everyone degrading you, you lose the right to degrade others, and besides, he would have torn apart the world to save her. She had faith in him."
"I did too." He stares at the ground. "He was a good man, the first time around."
–xxi–
I hear Excella's heels against the floor before I see her shadow looming over me. I have successfully isolated a simplistic, temporary concoction to sustain my sanity for a little while longer. I have amassed a small fortune, planting prices on parasitic, mutation-inducing species. Excella sits next to me as I finish writing a report to archive my growing finances. She wraps her hands around my forearm. 'I've been thinking that every king needs a queen.' I peer at her out of my peripheral. "King?" She presses against me. 'Yes, in this world, my darling, you are the king, and they don't even know it yet.' She smirks. I know her intentions and her foolish, human incentive. "Why does a king need a queen?" I pander. She stops, checks if I've finished my work, and slowly slides my laptop off of my lap as she tries to act seductive. "What exactly are you trying to do?" I feign confusion. Her hand runs down my chest. 'You're different.' It's my turn to smirk. "That's because I'm Hell in human skin, and everyone who gets too close burns." Her hand slides down to my belt. 'I don't mind the heat.'
Excella Gionne was just Wesker minus the virus and plus a dress, heels, and PMS.
Excella sits next to me, and she's on cloud nine. She stares out the window at the snow. Anita used to do the same thing, but she would get dressed, run outside, and make tracks in the snow. Something about perfection scared her. I miss her, and there's no way to deny or avoid that. And I still love her.
But he never came back.
I received a letter today, and I still don't know how she finds me.
'Dear Albert,
'It's been a long time, and perhaps you don't care to remember me. So this is my selfishly vain attempt to reconnect. It's been fourteen – going on fifteen – years, and I have to tell you something. Well, Albert, you have a son. He's fourteen, but I'm not trying to get you to take care of us or anything. I just thought it was important for you to know. You don't have to do anything for us. He looks like you...Oh, I also thought you would want this back.
'Love,
'Anita'
I peer into the envelope, and I should have known she wouldn't keep it. But why did it take her fifteen years? I pick up the sapphire ring, inspecting it. I never thought I'd see this again. It's aged slightly, from wear. So maybe, she's been wearing it throughout these fifteen years, and if so, why is she giving it back? I inspect the envelope once more, but like last time, there is no return address. I want to ask her how she found my address, and why she's giving this back.
She was sick, and they told her it was terminal. That's why she broke fifteen years of silence to tell him that he had a son, but he didn't care. Why didn't he care?
–xxi–
I finally accessed my savings account, so now I can stop living off of Sherry. She talks about vacation, and Redfield offers renting a house in Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I pitch the idea to Sherry, after making some calls; she agrees to the thought of vacation. It's only four hours away from the city after all. We – well, I was already packed – pack our bags; Redfield gets a car for us. His reasoning is 'at least, I won't have to watch over you anymore.' I stare out the window at the rolling landscapes of trees, trees, and more trees. How exciting. My eyes fall upon Sherry.
"Now I see why you don't like my staring." Sherry chuckles.
"Have you ever thought about how we got here?" I ask.
"Yeah, you offered a vacation, and I'm still trying to figure out why."
"No, I meant here, together."
"I'd like to think it was all coincidence." 'Just think if Sherry and our child were to be together.'
"Maybe we were supposed to meet some time earlier on, but stuff just got in the way of it all."
"You act as if you wouldn't exist without me or something." Funny that she'd say that.
"Yeah, it sounds dumb."
The house I rented is old – from the eighteenth century – but welcoming nonetheless. The exterior is wood-paneled, and the yard is peppered with hydrangeas, ranging from deep purple to a pale blue. We unload our bags and walk up to the front door. The owner opens the door, gives us a tour of the house, offers any food that we would like from the fridge throughout our stay, and leaves the keys. The owner is an artist who stays at his gallery when renting out his home. He makes me think of a child's mythical Santa Claus with his cheery, round face; full, wispy beard; and stout body. When he leaves, we truly get to look around the house. It's nice and cozy; there are three doors that lead outside. However, there's only two showers, and one's an outdoor shower which is apparently an important thing on the Cape. The stairs to the second floor are steep, but the second floor opens up to a master bedroom. I place the bags by the bed and peer out the window at the garden that surrounds two-thirds of the house. It's nice here.
"Let's go to the beach." Sherry offers as she pokes her head out from the staircase. "It's only a few minutes from here."
"Sure," I comply, digging through my stuff for a pair of shorts.
–xxi–
I never thought I'd come back here. I sent Ada Wong to get the Plaga from the Los Illuminados, so I could do my own investigation. She didn't ask for anything, and I assume that has to do with the agent Leon Scott Kennedy. Either way, I could care less. Edonia has become more of a dump, consisting of run down and abandoned buildings. I walk around the city, stopping in a few shops to ask about Anita. No results, and I'm ready to give up. A customer at a grocery store stops me and points me towards Anita.
He was too late. His timing sucks.
The directions were to a cemetery, so here I am with a gladiola and an apology, an apology that she won't ever hear it would seem. I carry myself through the field, inspecting graves. There's one in the distance covered in flowers, and a boy sits in front of it. He is alone. The sun has hidden behind clouds, and the air begins to thicken with humidity. My eyes refuse to read and interpret the name on the grave, but I cannot deny what is set in stone. And I will them to read the words and tattoo this pain on my brain. "Is this really Anita Muller?" I motion towards the stone, a pathetic representation of her if you ask me. The boy looks at me with anger at the unknown. 'No, she's in the ground, six feet under, dumbass.' I inhale, taking in the information. "What I meant is surely understood." 'Yeah, yeah, what did you come here for? To criticize her for being a whore? Spit on her grave and leave.' The boy hisses with a scowl on his face. He has her eyes, and it feels like I'm finally getting that hatred that I deserved. I crouch down and run my hand over the embossed letters that are supposed to immortalize her memory. They aren't particularly doing a good job."No, I came to see her one last time, but it seems that she has beaten me." I stare at him, and I wish I could explain something, anything. I wish that I had been there, that I knew, that I wouldn't keep hiding behind these sunglasses. I wish this child would accuse me, make me accountable. "Was she happy?" This takes the boy aback. His eyes soften as he gazes at the flowers on the grave. 'As happy as someone with her life could be.' He has his mother's eyes and hair color, but his image is tainted with my own features. I want to ask so many questions, but this child, he was raised by another man. So I have no right to get involved. "Are you her son?" He turns within a split second; shock stares me in the eyes, begging me for an answer. "Simple deduction, you have her eyes."
He knew. He knew that I was his bastard son. He didn't have to ask. He didn't have to do anything, and that's what he chose to do: nothing.
His eyes flare with anger. 'And how would you know, ass?!' I know because I'm your father, the man you have probably hated ever since you knew of my existence. "I just do." I stand back up, exhaling slowly. I place the gladiola on top of her grave. "You used to love these." I whisper as I turn to leave. "I still love you." I mutter to myself as my legs retreat from the scene. It only takes a handful of minutes before the boy is on my heels again. 'She wasn't happy.' He admits. 'She married a man, so she could keep me. Once she started to love him, he died. She was afraid of loving people, and she couldn't function anymore.' I stop; why did it take fifteen years? 'It was a tumor. She was delusional, but she tried to work because we couldn't afford her treatments.' And here I am basking in my wealth. 'And when we could afford it, they said it was pointless and refused to help. She carried herself with a smile and faith in a man that never came back, my bastard father.' The boy laughs. 'There were days when she couldn't differentiate me from him, and I'd play along because she'd be happy. See that's the thing that you don't understand. She was happy for all the wrong reasons, and I wish I could have fixed it all.' But I could have fixed everything. I could have and should have. I shouldn't have gotten involved with her. I didn't know I'd pull her down this path. 'That's why I'm going to find the bastard and teach him a lesson.' You found him, but that's too easy for even a child. "Good luck." I continue my retreat from the child, away from Anita. It seems that in the end I left her behind...
He didn't know my name, but I knew his. I didn't know what he looked like then. He was a coward who refused to look me in the eyes, shielding himself with a pair of expensive sunglasses.
–xxi–
I sit on the sand and watch Sherry walk towards the water. I've never really thought about people in bathing suits or anything like that. I wonder if that's weird. She stands at the water's edge, considering the option of turning back. I stand up and run across the partially occupied beach towards the edge of the water. My arms grab her as I propel the both of us into the cold water. She almost screams but chooses to smack me instead; she hugs me closer as her body shivers. My arms are still around her, and her head rests against my shoulder. The sun is hidden behind heavy clouds, and this vacation is feeling more and more like home. I kiss her forehead. Her eyes rise to meet mine. I say that I hate my father, and don't get me wrong I do hate him. But if he wasn't my father and Thomas was, I'd be another J'avo and never meet Sherry. So that was my father's last gift to my mother, whether or not he intended it to be so.
After another freezing hour in the water, we returned to the house. With towel in hand, I make my way out to the outdoor shower. The air is chilly, hinting at rain. Despite the temperature, the water is hot. The shower itself is refreshing in its own unique fashion. When I finish, I grab the towel and wrap it around my waist; then, I make my way up to the master bedroom to get clothes. Sherry walks out of the bathroom in her underwear. She jumps a bit at the sight of me; her face is red with the embarrassment of being so under-dressed.
"If it makes you feel any better, I'm technically naked." I state flatly.
"It's not like that's something I've never seen before." She flirts.
"Oh, well, it's not like I haven't seen you like that either." I joke; she disappears in the bathroom and returns fully dressed while I only have a pair of boxers on. "That's got to be another one of your super powers."
"Or perhaps, you're just slow."
"Oh, that's definitely it!" My sarcasm is as obvious as the wear on my pants.
"Where to for dinner?" She sits on the bed, watching me slide a shirt on.
"Anywhere your heart desires, seeing as I don't have to mooch off of you anymore."
"We're on the Cape, so let's get seafood."
"I've never had seafood, but sure." I put on socks and a pair of sneakers. Finally, I give Sherry a good once over, and she looks beautiful, especially compared to my slovenly put together ass.
I never really thought anything about seafood, but now, I realize that I underestimated the destructive power seafood has towards appetites. I just stare at the steamed clams on Sherry's plate. She opens the clam shells and pulls out the clam with her fork effortlessly. I can see the poor steamed bastard with his – what I assume is – breathing tube. Either way, it looks gross. She says it tastes like chicken, but that's what everyone says about everything, and eighty percent of the time, that resemblance to chicken is nonexistent. As for seafood as a whole, I don't mind shrimp, but they don't really look like their living forms and like burgers, are processed beyond their living resemblance. I'm just saying if you have to rinse the sand off of your cooked food, you probably shouldn't be eating it...
"Don't tell me that you're going to chicken out, Jake Muller!" Sherry commands as she holds a clam out in front of my face.
"It just looks...ew." I admit, scratching the back of my head nervously.
"Jake Muller, the man who took on the Ustanak one-on-one, is grossed out by a little-neck clam." She giggles.
"I don't think you understand how gross that thing looks." I sigh.
"Rasklapanje would beg to differ."
"Those things are pretty nasty. I prefer to call them Gumbercules." I eye the clam.
"Just don't think about what it looks like."
"Too late for that." I take her fork and bite into the shellfish. It's not bad, but it's the texture that I find repulsive. I find it quite hard to swallow for a second. Sherry giggles.
"I can't believe you've never had seafood before."
"It's expensive." I point out blatantly.
"But still..."
"Still?"
"It's seafood! Everyone's had it before!"
"Not me, guess I'm not everyone." I smirk. She pouts at my response. "That clam tastes how it looks – like rubber."
"Perhaps it's an acquired taste."
"Well, I can live without it then." I chuckle.
"Not while we're on the Cape you won't."
"I can't wait to tell Redfield of my adventures of outdoor showers and seafood so delicious it makes me gag."
"I'm glad you're looking forward to it all."
"You know it, Super Girl." I wink at her. She leans over the table and kisses me. A blush tints my cheeks. PDA has always meant private display of affection for me. As for its public counterpart, I don't quite know it that well.
–xxi–
No more childish hesitation. There aren't any more restraints on my conscience. I will fully comply with the Tyrant now. I will do anything to make this world perfect, and since no man is perfect, man is the first thing to go. If I'm a monster, everyone will know my name, and if I'm a king, everyone will kneel at my feet because I do indeed have the world in my hands. I have nothing to lose, and that's what makes the most dangerous of men.
A/N: Once again, I need to thank you for your patience. I've been all over the place recently...