Category: Resident Evil (I'm pretty sure you got that already)
Title: Learning to Live Without Steve
Author: Dan
Email: fan_fic_writer_uk@yahoo.co.uk
OR
fan_fic_writer_uk@msn.com
OR
IM me on either of the two
Pairing: Leon/Claire (eventually perhaps)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own RE (well that's hardly surprising)
A/n: *Gosh darn* it, I've updated. It's been a *while* but well, the important thing is I've updated. I've been away from the world of fan fiction for a while (albeit in the writing sense), hopefully that is going to change. I have recently found new interest in a number of fics I had almost abandoned, so I'm going to be updating them (and maybe, one day, actually. finishing a story). Anyway hopefully I'll be putting chapters out for this on a fairly regular basis (don't hold me to that though).
It's probably also a good idea if I also mention that because of my extended absence, my fic might have changed in terms of writing tone and style. I'd hope it hasn't, with any luck it will have matured (well I did have *another* birthday a few months back.my 16th. So now I'm well and truly heading into the teenage twilight years). Anyway apologies in advance for any shift in my mannerisms and characterisation, descriptions and plot.
Also I apologise if I offend anyone with any of my ideas about depression and suicide, be it attempted or otherwise. Contrary to anything I seem to write, I'm not a depressive individual (it's perhaps surprisingly true, and I'm not as nice to people in real life as I am in these a/n's). Therefore I'm merely making educated guesses to the thoughts, feelings and emotions that are going on inside the characters minds.
Oh and also, I had noticed how people did question Claire's love for Steve. It's more than a fair point; she did only know him for a short period of time. However I have my own reasons/excuses for this behaviour which are briefly explained below.
Claire could have been struck with the love at *first sight* arrow (well during that brief time they spent together- yeah that old chestnut). Or perhaps it's not love she felt for him, maybe it was severe guilt. Guilt that she let him die, *allowed* him to die to save her. Guilt can do strange things to people; even direct them to suicide as a way out, to quell their aching consciences. Of course if you still aren't satisfied with those excuses then I have the old artistic license for my defence. yep I'm covered.
Anyway on to the fic,
Chapter Three: Heaven and Hell, Anguish and Grief
***
Silence. beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful silence. It seemed to have wrapped itself around the air in a most precarious of fashions; instilling, infusing itself softly with something scathingly similar to the subtle fragrance of honeysuckle. Amongst that combination of the stillness and delicate scent that *invaded* her mind, she was struck with a sense of complete bliss, tranquillity at last.
That place that was the world and container of all her worries suddenly seemed very fragile, insignificant and so very far away. There was no depression or regret where she was now; no expectations or responsibilities, there were no ties at all to keep her from soaring. There was just him and her, and the light that shone all around them; this magnificent, radiant glow that surrounded her and all of her vision. It didn't matter, she had her eyes closed anyway, in blissful ecstasy; she knew she was safe, she knew she was protected, she knew he was near. This light, this amazing magical beam, was a thousand times better than sunshine on the skin, it brought her skin alive with its sheen, it's brilliance it's gleam. It sent her body in to a state of pure rapture, and there was no doubt in her mind, in her body, in her whole being that she had done the right thing. This was perfection, this paradise, heaven; this was nirvana at last. And then the darkness came.
Suddenly the *light* was blocked out as if by some blackened cloud, its powerful essence concealed, obscured, taken from the reach of her skin. Then there was the falling, that terrible, swift, rapid plunge that took her breath away. And as she fell the darkness grew blacker, inkier, and more sinful; a torrent of indisputably evil blackness.
She tried in vain to open her eyes, to see him, if she could see him, touch him, hold him, then she'd be fine. But her body wouldn't obey to comply with this most simple of requests. Neither could she seem to call for him, every time she did the voice lodged itself in her throat, her mouth refusing to serve as an outlet. And every time she tried to call, the voice got more and more desperate. It began by just itching her throat, a slight tingle, a sensation. Soon however the feeling grew and became a sharp prickle as the words grew more fraught, and then they began to claw for freedom at her throat. The clawing became unbearable, and she knew that the words had to come out, they just had to, and so she began to scratch too from the other side to quicken their necessary escape.
Deep gratings, rakings of nails on flesh that brought tears to her eyes and deep ruby-red blood to her finger-tips, but still she didn't stop. She could feel the scarlet, crimson substance on her hands, thick and viscous, but she wasn't deterred. She could feel herself getting closer, so very near, almost free of them. and then her hands were ripped away by some unseen force, and the voices began.
Her hands were held away from where she so anxiously, urgently wanted them to be, by icy restraints. In fact they were so cold they felt as if they were ablaze with an artic heat. Her skin was attacked by this frosty inferno, sending shivers and convulsions through her hands and to the rest of her body. She was trying, trying so frantically, to escape this slow cold burning, but to no avail, for soon more *manacles* descended upon the length of her body, holding it down and tightening their grip on her soul.
There were voices too; ugly, disgusting, hideous voices that made her skin crawl, for she could hear the evil, the malice in them. Some were shouting, others whispering, screaming and screeching, crying and laughing, although there was no joyful tone in their cackles. She couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, the words were inaudible, muffled, distorted; there was only the distasteful sounds, the vibes that they uttered in filthy, nauseating, gut-wrenching tones.
There was one point when she thought she thought she could make out a few words they were spewing, ejecting from vile tongues. She was sure, so sure, that they spoke her own name, her full name, and when they did the screeching, the yelling, the noises got louder, piercing, ear splitting. That was when Claire Redfield knew it, knew what was happening; the reason for the pain, the reason for those creatures glee when they spoke her name was so obvious. She was going to be punished for committing suicide, for taking the easy way out, she was going to hell. It was that oh so sinister of thoughts firmly lodged stiffly in her mind that the pain finally overtook her entire being.
***
The pain was truly unbearable, it was agonising, excruciating even. It shot through her mind in jet white blasts, making every single cell in it scream with the torture it was inflicted with. It covered every inch of the inside of her cranium entirely evenly; there was prejudice or discrimination as far as far as the tormentor, the giver of this anguish was concerned.
She wanted to fight it but couldn't, it was just so very strong, and she was so very weak. It just wouldn't let go until she surrendered to its power, gave in to its obvious supremacy. Claire knew though that if she did that then hell would surely claim her soul. If it had been up to her mind then she probably would have lost the battle long ago, she didn't have the mental strength to fight at all, her mind didn't even want to live. It was her body that was in control though; it was her body's conflict with this evil, not hers. She could only watch and feel the brawl between the two, nothing more. thing was, she could already feel her body slipping.
***
It was with a profoundly heavy heart that Chris Redfield silently paced the corridor outside the hospital's intensive care ward. Oblivious to any possible onlookers, he marched the length of the narrow window strip that looked in on the ward, periodically peering into it, before resuming his serious of strides.
He didn't know how long he'd been like this, been at the hospital for, neither did he care. It seemed both like forever and no time at all. Everything had become like that, a mere blur and nothing more, since that night. An endless stream of nothingness (for Chris at least) had followed after the discovery of is sisters body, meters from where he had slept. The minutes, hours and even days just seemed to merge into one, neither long nor short, stretch of time. There was nothing, *nothing*, in his mind that was significant enough to split the void that had become, almost literally, a period of non-existence for him. One of the very few things he truly cared for in the whole of his life was being cruelly, callously, maliciously taken from him, and there wasn't anything he could do about the unfairness of it. He was her brother, he was supposed to protect her, be there for her, save her. and he hadn't even been able to fill that most cardinal of duties.
Anyone that looked at the man, who was continually, repetitively, incessantly walking the hospital's tiled floor way, would have come to one universal conclusion, this was a broken man. Indeed he was, it was completely obvious from the outside, there was no hiding of it, for he had not the strength to do that.
He towed his body forward in the stance of unquestionable slouch. He ploughed both feet forward as they dragged along the floor, seemingly threatening to seize up and stop completely at times; propelling him forwards towards the horizontal expanse that was the ground. The steps were slow and weary, there was no life in them, and that was reflected in every fibre of him. His back was bent, his shoulders slumped, his chin practically touching the very top of his chest. and then there was his face, which was entirely riddled with unspoken grief.
His lips were nothing but an unmoving line, a small, tight streak of cherry red, never dissolving into any other emotion; nothing could rouse them from their gloomy and downcast expression. His eyes were utterly lifeless, two staring pupils that were completely blind to everything and anything in their view. Those eyes that had so often been scrunched up in mirth or ablaze with passion as he spoke of his strong convictions and beliefs. now they were pools of pain. Completely dead, they shot morbid thoughts into the minds of anyone who happened to be caught in their path. Chris Redfield was not a well man.
He was weary beyond belief, he hadn't *slept* since the incident, he only grabbed a few hours, at best, of fitful sleep since he'd been there. The others had taken it in turns to be there with him, to be there for him, but they hadn't been able to endure seeing both him and Claire in their respective states. The only constant accompanier he had was Leon, although he barely acknowledged his presence, even if he was subconsciously forever thankful of it.
They were both to far withdrawn and reserved in their own solitary misery, their own grief, their own private hell. They were barely able to keep themselves alive; there was no way that they could muster the energy to console the other. It wouldn't have worked anyway if they had; their pain was different, their hearts hurt differently, due to the difference of their love, for her. they couldn't have comforted the other for they did not know how.
And so, in three lives at least, there was blackness, nothing but hellish blackness for a long time. It could well have been a small eternity, for all they knew. That was until the day when Claire's condition changed and the true heartache began.
***
A/n: Ah well that was another angsty chapter from me (well what else would you expect?). From hereon in I'd imagine it will only get more depressing and darker, although I guess there's the slight chance I could be struck with some sort of fluffiness *disease*.
Dan
Title: Learning to Live Without Steve
Author: Dan
Email: fan_fic_writer_uk@yahoo.co.uk
OR
fan_fic_writer_uk@msn.com
OR
IM me on either of the two
Pairing: Leon/Claire (eventually perhaps)
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I don't own RE (well that's hardly surprising)
A/n: *Gosh darn* it, I've updated. It's been a *while* but well, the important thing is I've updated. I've been away from the world of fan fiction for a while (albeit in the writing sense), hopefully that is going to change. I have recently found new interest in a number of fics I had almost abandoned, so I'm going to be updating them (and maybe, one day, actually. finishing a story). Anyway hopefully I'll be putting chapters out for this on a fairly regular basis (don't hold me to that though).
It's probably also a good idea if I also mention that because of my extended absence, my fic might have changed in terms of writing tone and style. I'd hope it hasn't, with any luck it will have matured (well I did have *another* birthday a few months back.my 16th. So now I'm well and truly heading into the teenage twilight years). Anyway apologies in advance for any shift in my mannerisms and characterisation, descriptions and plot.
Also I apologise if I offend anyone with any of my ideas about depression and suicide, be it attempted or otherwise. Contrary to anything I seem to write, I'm not a depressive individual (it's perhaps surprisingly true, and I'm not as nice to people in real life as I am in these a/n's). Therefore I'm merely making educated guesses to the thoughts, feelings and emotions that are going on inside the characters minds.
Oh and also, I had noticed how people did question Claire's love for Steve. It's more than a fair point; she did only know him for a short period of time. However I have my own reasons/excuses for this behaviour which are briefly explained below.
Claire could have been struck with the love at *first sight* arrow (well during that brief time they spent together- yeah that old chestnut). Or perhaps it's not love she felt for him, maybe it was severe guilt. Guilt that she let him die, *allowed* him to die to save her. Guilt can do strange things to people; even direct them to suicide as a way out, to quell their aching consciences. Of course if you still aren't satisfied with those excuses then I have the old artistic license for my defence. yep I'm covered.
Anyway on to the fic,
Chapter Three: Heaven and Hell, Anguish and Grief
***
Silence. beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful silence. It seemed to have wrapped itself around the air in a most precarious of fashions; instilling, infusing itself softly with something scathingly similar to the subtle fragrance of honeysuckle. Amongst that combination of the stillness and delicate scent that *invaded* her mind, she was struck with a sense of complete bliss, tranquillity at last.
That place that was the world and container of all her worries suddenly seemed very fragile, insignificant and so very far away. There was no depression or regret where she was now; no expectations or responsibilities, there were no ties at all to keep her from soaring. There was just him and her, and the light that shone all around them; this magnificent, radiant glow that surrounded her and all of her vision. It didn't matter, she had her eyes closed anyway, in blissful ecstasy; she knew she was safe, she knew she was protected, she knew he was near. This light, this amazing magical beam, was a thousand times better than sunshine on the skin, it brought her skin alive with its sheen, it's brilliance it's gleam. It sent her body in to a state of pure rapture, and there was no doubt in her mind, in her body, in her whole being that she had done the right thing. This was perfection, this paradise, heaven; this was nirvana at last. And then the darkness came.
Suddenly the *light* was blocked out as if by some blackened cloud, its powerful essence concealed, obscured, taken from the reach of her skin. Then there was the falling, that terrible, swift, rapid plunge that took her breath away. And as she fell the darkness grew blacker, inkier, and more sinful; a torrent of indisputably evil blackness.
She tried in vain to open her eyes, to see him, if she could see him, touch him, hold him, then she'd be fine. But her body wouldn't obey to comply with this most simple of requests. Neither could she seem to call for him, every time she did the voice lodged itself in her throat, her mouth refusing to serve as an outlet. And every time she tried to call, the voice got more and more desperate. It began by just itching her throat, a slight tingle, a sensation. Soon however the feeling grew and became a sharp prickle as the words grew more fraught, and then they began to claw for freedom at her throat. The clawing became unbearable, and she knew that the words had to come out, they just had to, and so she began to scratch too from the other side to quicken their necessary escape.
Deep gratings, rakings of nails on flesh that brought tears to her eyes and deep ruby-red blood to her finger-tips, but still she didn't stop. She could feel the scarlet, crimson substance on her hands, thick and viscous, but she wasn't deterred. She could feel herself getting closer, so very near, almost free of them. and then her hands were ripped away by some unseen force, and the voices began.
Her hands were held away from where she so anxiously, urgently wanted them to be, by icy restraints. In fact they were so cold they felt as if they were ablaze with an artic heat. Her skin was attacked by this frosty inferno, sending shivers and convulsions through her hands and to the rest of her body. She was trying, trying so frantically, to escape this slow cold burning, but to no avail, for soon more *manacles* descended upon the length of her body, holding it down and tightening their grip on her soul.
There were voices too; ugly, disgusting, hideous voices that made her skin crawl, for she could hear the evil, the malice in them. Some were shouting, others whispering, screaming and screeching, crying and laughing, although there was no joyful tone in their cackles. She couldn't hear exactly what they were saying, the words were inaudible, muffled, distorted; there was only the distasteful sounds, the vibes that they uttered in filthy, nauseating, gut-wrenching tones.
There was one point when she thought she thought she could make out a few words they were spewing, ejecting from vile tongues. She was sure, so sure, that they spoke her own name, her full name, and when they did the screeching, the yelling, the noises got louder, piercing, ear splitting. That was when Claire Redfield knew it, knew what was happening; the reason for the pain, the reason for those creatures glee when they spoke her name was so obvious. She was going to be punished for committing suicide, for taking the easy way out, she was going to hell. It was that oh so sinister of thoughts firmly lodged stiffly in her mind that the pain finally overtook her entire being.
***
The pain was truly unbearable, it was agonising, excruciating even. It shot through her mind in jet white blasts, making every single cell in it scream with the torture it was inflicted with. It covered every inch of the inside of her cranium entirely evenly; there was prejudice or discrimination as far as far as the tormentor, the giver of this anguish was concerned.
She wanted to fight it but couldn't, it was just so very strong, and she was so very weak. It just wouldn't let go until she surrendered to its power, gave in to its obvious supremacy. Claire knew though that if she did that then hell would surely claim her soul. If it had been up to her mind then she probably would have lost the battle long ago, she didn't have the mental strength to fight at all, her mind didn't even want to live. It was her body that was in control though; it was her body's conflict with this evil, not hers. She could only watch and feel the brawl between the two, nothing more. thing was, she could already feel her body slipping.
***
It was with a profoundly heavy heart that Chris Redfield silently paced the corridor outside the hospital's intensive care ward. Oblivious to any possible onlookers, he marched the length of the narrow window strip that looked in on the ward, periodically peering into it, before resuming his serious of strides.
He didn't know how long he'd been like this, been at the hospital for, neither did he care. It seemed both like forever and no time at all. Everything had become like that, a mere blur and nothing more, since that night. An endless stream of nothingness (for Chris at least) had followed after the discovery of is sisters body, meters from where he had slept. The minutes, hours and even days just seemed to merge into one, neither long nor short, stretch of time. There was nothing, *nothing*, in his mind that was significant enough to split the void that had become, almost literally, a period of non-existence for him. One of the very few things he truly cared for in the whole of his life was being cruelly, callously, maliciously taken from him, and there wasn't anything he could do about the unfairness of it. He was her brother, he was supposed to protect her, be there for her, save her. and he hadn't even been able to fill that most cardinal of duties.
Anyone that looked at the man, who was continually, repetitively, incessantly walking the hospital's tiled floor way, would have come to one universal conclusion, this was a broken man. Indeed he was, it was completely obvious from the outside, there was no hiding of it, for he had not the strength to do that.
He towed his body forward in the stance of unquestionable slouch. He ploughed both feet forward as they dragged along the floor, seemingly threatening to seize up and stop completely at times; propelling him forwards towards the horizontal expanse that was the ground. The steps were slow and weary, there was no life in them, and that was reflected in every fibre of him. His back was bent, his shoulders slumped, his chin practically touching the very top of his chest. and then there was his face, which was entirely riddled with unspoken grief.
His lips were nothing but an unmoving line, a small, tight streak of cherry red, never dissolving into any other emotion; nothing could rouse them from their gloomy and downcast expression. His eyes were utterly lifeless, two staring pupils that were completely blind to everything and anything in their view. Those eyes that had so often been scrunched up in mirth or ablaze with passion as he spoke of his strong convictions and beliefs. now they were pools of pain. Completely dead, they shot morbid thoughts into the minds of anyone who happened to be caught in their path. Chris Redfield was not a well man.
He was weary beyond belief, he hadn't *slept* since the incident, he only grabbed a few hours, at best, of fitful sleep since he'd been there. The others had taken it in turns to be there with him, to be there for him, but they hadn't been able to endure seeing both him and Claire in their respective states. The only constant accompanier he had was Leon, although he barely acknowledged his presence, even if he was subconsciously forever thankful of it.
They were both to far withdrawn and reserved in their own solitary misery, their own grief, their own private hell. They were barely able to keep themselves alive; there was no way that they could muster the energy to console the other. It wouldn't have worked anyway if they had; their pain was different, their hearts hurt differently, due to the difference of their love, for her. they couldn't have comforted the other for they did not know how.
And so, in three lives at least, there was blackness, nothing but hellish blackness for a long time. It could well have been a small eternity, for all they knew. That was until the day when Claire's condition changed and the true heartache began.
***
A/n: Ah well that was another angsty chapter from me (well what else would you expect?). From hereon in I'd imagine it will only get more depressing and darker, although I guess there's the slight chance I could be struck with some sort of fluffiness *disease*.
Dan