23
"To: Dr. Watson
From: xxxxxx
Date: xxxxxx
I am leaving it up to you to deal with the Redfields. I know you will not fail me. They need to be dealt with, however time isn't really an issue. They are, as I write this, sent on a 'wild goose chase'. The brother of the two must die, he has caused me enough trouble and I don't want anymore; it is only the sister I'm interested in. She needs to pay! She needs to suffer! I have included her psyche file; I know you'll find it very interesting as I have.
Do what you may; I want her to be tormented. I know you'll make me proud.
Oh yes I nearly forgot, Kennedy can die along with Redfield, he's inferior. And remember if this mission is not succeeded then I want pay back Watson. And you know how much the fee costs.
xxxxxx"
The e-mail and Claire's bio/psyche file was all that was inside the folder. She couldn't understand who would want her to suffer so much.
There were also photos of her. They looked like surveillance pictures. What was strange that some of them where taken after the Antarctic, even before she attempted suicide. But it was hard to know how long she was being watched if only the date on the e-mail was there.
She turned the folder round and empted everything onto the desk, a card fell out.
She picked it up and examined it; it was a standard white card. There was a code at the back with Watson's name, picture and a metallic strip. The code read 'UWD 2310' in small back letters. On the front was a name of the institute. Claire shoved the card in the jacket pocket.
She knew it would be useful later on.
She opened up her psyche file; it had everything about her since the death of her parents. There were analysis reports of her 'trips' to her psychiatrist. And everything she said during her sessions was also noted down.
She read the first session. It was word from word. She remembered her first session like it was yesterday, it was barely days after her near-death experience when she met her psychiatrist…
The receptionist ushered Claire into the room, however she stopped at the threshold. The chubby woman waddled in front announcing her arrival. A young blacked hair man peered from his desk and smiled. Claire stood motionless, still standing under the doorframe looking in at the man, her psychiatrist. Her wrists were tightly bounded within layers and layers of white bandages. They were healing however they seemed to ache a lot and sometimes reopen slightly. The receptionist turned to Claire and smiled, Claire knew what she was thinking, 'why isn't she coming in?'
And the answer to that was, well, she was scared. Scared that the too-young-to-be-a-psychiatrist would brand her a loony toon. She didn't want to pour her most intimate or suicidal thoughts out to a complete stranger. It would be too weird. But it beat telling Chris or someone close like that.
"Abby that will be all, thank you," he said to the middle aged gawkier.
She jerked just a little awaking from her trance, "Yes sir," she said and walked passed Claire towards her desk.
Claire gazed at her wrists and rubbed them, she avoided eye contact, and she was embarrassed being where she was. She felt almost like a vampire, she had to be invited in or else she couldn't go in.
"Claire?" he said in a very friendly tone, "You can come in if you want to."
She looked up at him and then at her feet. And then she was moving inside the room, her heart was pumping frantically.
He stood up and walked to her slowly, as if not to disturb her fragile state. He wore black jeans and a simple woollen jumper. He was very casual, even his trainers were casual.
She began to feel a little bit at ease.
She wasn't very well dressed either, trainers, jeans and a black long-sleeved top under a black jacket. However her hair, it was tied quickly into a ponytail, some strands weren't in place.
It looked a little messy.
Her skin was very pale, lack of sleep, there were dark circles round her eyes and they were also bloodshot.
Too much crying.
She was very weak and tired, and it took all her effort, with the help of some nurses, to get her into the waiting room.
He offered his hand, "I'm Michael Rivera, but everyone calls me Mike." No Dr. Rivera or Dr. Mike, which was strange since most doctors preferred them to be called doctor. She liked him that bit more for being informal; it made it all easier to do.
She stared at his hand as if it was a new thing, she just wasn't sure to shake it or not. But she knew that it was only her paranoia making things worse. She took his hand, he wrapped his around hers gently and shook, "See that wasn't so bad," he smiled.
Claire returned a smile because it was hard not to, he had that smile that couldn't be turned down, "No," she said quietly, "It wasn't."
He moved from her and glared at the receptionist behind the desk, "Get back to work," he mouthed closing the door.
His office was so woody, a wooden desk, chairs, floor and not to mention wooden panels across the walls. Too many trees died for this room. The office was quite big, only a desk, two metal cabinets, which stood out from all the wood, four chairs and a leather couch. It almost looked like it was a film set.
A very stereotypical psychiatrist office.
He came back to her and directed her to the couch, "Please sit." She did as she was told, mainly because her physical doctor would only allow her to go home if she attended one session with 'Mike'. It was only an hour and thankfully she had already wasted twenty minutes with her dawdling.
Mike sat opposite her in one of the wooden chairs; in his hand he held a clipboard and pen.
He sat up and glanced at her, "You can put your feet up," he said, "I won't bite."
She sighed and lay out on the couch comfortably, "What's the point of this?" she said, "I mean I'm only here because I silt my wrists."
"Why did you silt your wrists?"
She frowned, "Because I was bored," she said sarcastically, "Why do you think I silt my wrists?!"
He gave that shrink look that meant everything and nothing, "I don't know what was going through your head at that moment. I can only assume that you were very distressed."
"I wasn't distressed! I'm a fricking deranged idiot to have done that."
He scribbled something down, "What are you doing?" she said looking annoyingly at him.
He glanced at her, "I'm making notes. I have too."
"Why? That's so annoying; it's like you don't care what I'm saying."
"Claire I have to write down things about our session. If you prefer I can tape record it," he pulled out a small rectangular tape recorder from his jean pocket. Claire stared at it, she didn't like having her thoughts taped. If someone got a hold of it they would know her unspoken thoughts.
She shook her head, "No, I think you should keep writing."
He smiled and settled back into his chair, "If you knew it was idiotic to have done it then why did you?"
He had her there; she did know it was wrong even when she saw the blood running down her arms and to the floor. She glared down at her wrists and breathed out, "I suppose it was a cry for help. I just couldn't deal with the pain anymore."
"And what pain was this Claire?"
"Dealing with his death," she murmured.
"Who's death?"
"Steve," she replied, "He died and left me all alone just like my parents."
He noted something down again.
"How did he die?"
She woke from her daze and wiped her eyes, "He died enough said."
"Ok, how are you feeling after your 'incident'?"
She laughed bitterly, "'Incident' that's a nice way of putting it. Even though I meant to kill myself. It wasn't an 'incident' it was deliberate!"
He wrote on his clipboard, "Fine it was 'deliberate', but how are you coping?" He was like a machine, sometimes he had emotions and then he didn't. She glanced at the clock above the door, she only had ten more minutes and she was out of there until the next session.
"I'm doing alright. Physically I'm so tired and mentally I'm numb. To be honest I still can't believe what I've done. It's almost a blur to me."
"Do you sometimes wish that you did finish it?" That was an almost cold way of putting it.
"Yeah sometimes. I can't sleep because I see the blood. And when the tiredness gets to me I do sometimes wish that I 'finished it' and then I don't."
"Why is that?"
"Mainly because of my brother. I don't want to leave him alone; I'm all he's got."
"Have you told him?"
Claire sat up, she didn't like where the session was going, "No."
"Would you?"
"No," she repeated, "I'm not going to burden him with my problems. Look times up doctor!"
He stared at her and then at the clock, two o'clock exactly, "I believe I'm suppose to say that," he laughed.
Claire only smiled; she was dying to get out of that room, "Can I go?" She felt like a child asking the teacher to go home.
"Yes," he said, "However I hope to see you next week."
She nodded her head, "Yeah sure thing," she mumbled almost running to the door.
Mike stood, "Claire?" she stopped and turned round, "You know it's voluntary."
She stared at him. She didn't know it was voluntary. But did it make a difference? Maybe.
"I'll be here next week," she said, "For sure…"
Claire closed the folder and sat back in the leather chair. Things, many things had changed since that day. She was actually getting a little better, although the visions of Steve weren't helping. But she could control them enough.
She grasped the papers in her hand, there weren't that many, she only had about twenty sessions. She kept the folder and especially the e-mail; she needed to find out who sent it.
It was vital!
She glanced at Watson's body and realised that she didn't check the other room. She got up and stepped over the body.
The room wasn't big at all. Only small. There was a locker and a cabinet on the wall. The locker was open; she peered inside and found a pair of black jeans and a red sleeveless crew neck top. Claire smiled, clean clothes, if fitted were a great blessing. She stripped down to her knickers and dressed in the top and jeans. Using the combat knife sheath she wrapped the belt round her waist securing it tightly. With the hospital gown she tried her best to clean the blood off her feet. It didn't help, but it did get some of it off. She put the army boots on and tied the laces tightly. With the black jacket she put that back on.
There wasn't anything else inside the locker other than another white lab coat and a small black rucksack, she took it and checked the lab coat's pockets.
Nothing.
She abandoned the locker and checked the cabinet; it was locked, however the keyhole was small. She turned to the opened drawer in the desk.
Watson's key! It was the only thing that could open it. It was the only key present.
She ran back to the desk and pulled the key out. She walked to the cabinet and shoved it in the hole. It fitted like a dream, she twisted it and the door opened. Inside was a small white bottle filled with green capsules.
About seven to be exact.
She opened it up and tipped one capsule in her hand. It was green all right and it seemed to glow. She put it back into the bottle and read the instructions on the side:
"Green Herb Capsules/G.H.C (in powder form) used for wounds, bruises and small abrasions.
NOT FOR ORAL USE.
Keep away from children under fifteen years of age.
DIRECTIONS- Break one capsule and rub powder gently into wound, bruise or abrasion and leave. DO NOT touch eyes or mouth, if so please SEEK medical advice."
It was handy if things escalated anymore, which they would, knowing Umbrella. She threw it into the bag with the folder and zipped it up.
She walked to the door and took a deep breath before heading out.
"To: Dr. Watson
From: xxxxxx
Date: xxxxxx
I am leaving it up to you to deal with the Redfields. I know you will not fail me. They need to be dealt with, however time isn't really an issue. They are, as I write this, sent on a 'wild goose chase'. The brother of the two must die, he has caused me enough trouble and I don't want anymore; it is only the sister I'm interested in. She needs to pay! She needs to suffer! I have included her psyche file; I know you'll find it very interesting as I have.
Do what you may; I want her to be tormented. I know you'll make me proud.
Oh yes I nearly forgot, Kennedy can die along with Redfield, he's inferior. And remember if this mission is not succeeded then I want pay back Watson. And you know how much the fee costs.
xxxxxx"
The e-mail and Claire's bio/psyche file was all that was inside the folder. She couldn't understand who would want her to suffer so much.
There were also photos of her. They looked like surveillance pictures. What was strange that some of them where taken after the Antarctic, even before she attempted suicide. But it was hard to know how long she was being watched if only the date on the e-mail was there.
She turned the folder round and empted everything onto the desk, a card fell out.
She picked it up and examined it; it was a standard white card. There was a code at the back with Watson's name, picture and a metallic strip. The code read 'UWD 2310' in small back letters. On the front was a name of the institute. Claire shoved the card in the jacket pocket.
She knew it would be useful later on.
She opened up her psyche file; it had everything about her since the death of her parents. There were analysis reports of her 'trips' to her psychiatrist. And everything she said during her sessions was also noted down.
She read the first session. It was word from word. She remembered her first session like it was yesterday, it was barely days after her near-death experience when she met her psychiatrist…
The receptionist ushered Claire into the room, however she stopped at the threshold. The chubby woman waddled in front announcing her arrival. A young blacked hair man peered from his desk and smiled. Claire stood motionless, still standing under the doorframe looking in at the man, her psychiatrist. Her wrists were tightly bounded within layers and layers of white bandages. They were healing however they seemed to ache a lot and sometimes reopen slightly. The receptionist turned to Claire and smiled, Claire knew what she was thinking, 'why isn't she coming in?'
And the answer to that was, well, she was scared. Scared that the too-young-to-be-a-psychiatrist would brand her a loony toon. She didn't want to pour her most intimate or suicidal thoughts out to a complete stranger. It would be too weird. But it beat telling Chris or someone close like that.
"Abby that will be all, thank you," he said to the middle aged gawkier.
She jerked just a little awaking from her trance, "Yes sir," she said and walked passed Claire towards her desk.
Claire gazed at her wrists and rubbed them, she avoided eye contact, and she was embarrassed being where she was. She felt almost like a vampire, she had to be invited in or else she couldn't go in.
"Claire?" he said in a very friendly tone, "You can come in if you want to."
She looked up at him and then at her feet. And then she was moving inside the room, her heart was pumping frantically.
He stood up and walked to her slowly, as if not to disturb her fragile state. He wore black jeans and a simple woollen jumper. He was very casual, even his trainers were casual.
She began to feel a little bit at ease.
She wasn't very well dressed either, trainers, jeans and a black long-sleeved top under a black jacket. However her hair, it was tied quickly into a ponytail, some strands weren't in place.
It looked a little messy.
Her skin was very pale, lack of sleep, there were dark circles round her eyes and they were also bloodshot.
Too much crying.
She was very weak and tired, and it took all her effort, with the help of some nurses, to get her into the waiting room.
He offered his hand, "I'm Michael Rivera, but everyone calls me Mike." No Dr. Rivera or Dr. Mike, which was strange since most doctors preferred them to be called doctor. She liked him that bit more for being informal; it made it all easier to do.
She stared at his hand as if it was a new thing, she just wasn't sure to shake it or not. But she knew that it was only her paranoia making things worse. She took his hand, he wrapped his around hers gently and shook, "See that wasn't so bad," he smiled.
Claire returned a smile because it was hard not to, he had that smile that couldn't be turned down, "No," she said quietly, "It wasn't."
He moved from her and glared at the receptionist behind the desk, "Get back to work," he mouthed closing the door.
His office was so woody, a wooden desk, chairs, floor and not to mention wooden panels across the walls. Too many trees died for this room. The office was quite big, only a desk, two metal cabinets, which stood out from all the wood, four chairs and a leather couch. It almost looked like it was a film set.
A very stereotypical psychiatrist office.
He came back to her and directed her to the couch, "Please sit." She did as she was told, mainly because her physical doctor would only allow her to go home if she attended one session with 'Mike'. It was only an hour and thankfully she had already wasted twenty minutes with her dawdling.
Mike sat opposite her in one of the wooden chairs; in his hand he held a clipboard and pen.
He sat up and glanced at her, "You can put your feet up," he said, "I won't bite."
She sighed and lay out on the couch comfortably, "What's the point of this?" she said, "I mean I'm only here because I silt my wrists."
"Why did you silt your wrists?"
She frowned, "Because I was bored," she said sarcastically, "Why do you think I silt my wrists?!"
He gave that shrink look that meant everything and nothing, "I don't know what was going through your head at that moment. I can only assume that you were very distressed."
"I wasn't distressed! I'm a fricking deranged idiot to have done that."
He scribbled something down, "What are you doing?" she said looking annoyingly at him.
He glanced at her, "I'm making notes. I have too."
"Why? That's so annoying; it's like you don't care what I'm saying."
"Claire I have to write down things about our session. If you prefer I can tape record it," he pulled out a small rectangular tape recorder from his jean pocket. Claire stared at it, she didn't like having her thoughts taped. If someone got a hold of it they would know her unspoken thoughts.
She shook her head, "No, I think you should keep writing."
He smiled and settled back into his chair, "If you knew it was idiotic to have done it then why did you?"
He had her there; she did know it was wrong even when she saw the blood running down her arms and to the floor. She glared down at her wrists and breathed out, "I suppose it was a cry for help. I just couldn't deal with the pain anymore."
"And what pain was this Claire?"
"Dealing with his death," she murmured.
"Who's death?"
"Steve," she replied, "He died and left me all alone just like my parents."
He noted something down again.
"How did he die?"
She woke from her daze and wiped her eyes, "He died enough said."
"Ok, how are you feeling after your 'incident'?"
She laughed bitterly, "'Incident' that's a nice way of putting it. Even though I meant to kill myself. It wasn't an 'incident' it was deliberate!"
He wrote on his clipboard, "Fine it was 'deliberate', but how are you coping?" He was like a machine, sometimes he had emotions and then he didn't. She glanced at the clock above the door, she only had ten more minutes and she was out of there until the next session.
"I'm doing alright. Physically I'm so tired and mentally I'm numb. To be honest I still can't believe what I've done. It's almost a blur to me."
"Do you sometimes wish that you did finish it?" That was an almost cold way of putting it.
"Yeah sometimes. I can't sleep because I see the blood. And when the tiredness gets to me I do sometimes wish that I 'finished it' and then I don't."
"Why is that?"
"Mainly because of my brother. I don't want to leave him alone; I'm all he's got."
"Have you told him?"
Claire sat up, she didn't like where the session was going, "No."
"Would you?"
"No," she repeated, "I'm not going to burden him with my problems. Look times up doctor!"
He stared at her and then at the clock, two o'clock exactly, "I believe I'm suppose to say that," he laughed.
Claire only smiled; she was dying to get out of that room, "Can I go?" She felt like a child asking the teacher to go home.
"Yes," he said, "However I hope to see you next week."
She nodded her head, "Yeah sure thing," she mumbled almost running to the door.
Mike stood, "Claire?" she stopped and turned round, "You know it's voluntary."
She stared at him. She didn't know it was voluntary. But did it make a difference? Maybe.
"I'll be here next week," she said, "For sure…"
Claire closed the folder and sat back in the leather chair. Things, many things had changed since that day. She was actually getting a little better, although the visions of Steve weren't helping. But she could control them enough.
She grasped the papers in her hand, there weren't that many, she only had about twenty sessions. She kept the folder and especially the e-mail; she needed to find out who sent it.
It was vital!
She glanced at Watson's body and realised that she didn't check the other room. She got up and stepped over the body.
The room wasn't big at all. Only small. There was a locker and a cabinet on the wall. The locker was open; she peered inside and found a pair of black jeans and a red sleeveless crew neck top. Claire smiled, clean clothes, if fitted were a great blessing. She stripped down to her knickers and dressed in the top and jeans. Using the combat knife sheath she wrapped the belt round her waist securing it tightly. With the hospital gown she tried her best to clean the blood off her feet. It didn't help, but it did get some of it off. She put the army boots on and tied the laces tightly. With the black jacket she put that back on.
There wasn't anything else inside the locker other than another white lab coat and a small black rucksack, she took it and checked the lab coat's pockets.
Nothing.
She abandoned the locker and checked the cabinet; it was locked, however the keyhole was small. She turned to the opened drawer in the desk.
Watson's key! It was the only thing that could open it. It was the only key present.
She ran back to the desk and pulled the key out. She walked to the cabinet and shoved it in the hole. It fitted like a dream, she twisted it and the door opened. Inside was a small white bottle filled with green capsules.
About seven to be exact.
She opened it up and tipped one capsule in her hand. It was green all right and it seemed to glow. She put it back into the bottle and read the instructions on the side:
"Green Herb Capsules/G.H.C (in powder form) used for wounds, bruises and small abrasions.
NOT FOR ORAL USE.
Keep away from children under fifteen years of age.
DIRECTIONS- Break one capsule and rub powder gently into wound, bruise or abrasion and leave. DO NOT touch eyes or mouth, if so please SEEK medical advice."
It was handy if things escalated anymore, which they would, knowing Umbrella. She threw it into the bag with the folder and zipped it up.
She walked to the door and took a deep breath before heading out.