A/N: DarkElegantGothGirl22: Thank you again for the review! I do agree, dark isn't necessarily bad. I find it more interesting than fluff. I'm glad it spoke to you. I hope it still does.
Welcome back! Still with me? Onward we go. With a bit less Alice in Wonderland.
Lady Macbeth and Narcissus
Those who the gods destroy they first drive mad. - Hercule Poirot
How long has she been here? Days? Weeks?
The white walls give no answer. She turns on the tap with shaking hands. Blood leaves dark smears on the silver handle.
I don't know. Forever.
A rhythmic thudding in the distance. Human ears wouldn't hear it but hers do.
Him.
She knows. Like some damn homing pigeon. Her skin crawls, fingers clench on the handle.
How long?
Time has no meaning here. She sleeps when heavy eyelids will not stay open, eats when ordered. Her new eyes have never seen the sun, new skin never felt its warmth.
Only his unnatural eyes. A twin sunrise for her afterlife.
In alabaster halls unnaturally bright she has been killing since she could walk, her first steps leaving bloody footprints.
How many? I swore I would remember...but I...don't know.
Dreams and waking run together. Where one ends and another begins is a blurred haze.
This white underworld is nothing but bland food, little sleep, death, and this.
The aftermath. The clean up.
This.
In the mirror a pale face stares back at her. Spattered with red skin white as snow.
That's me.
Jill leans on the counter, head bowing as if under a great weight.
Her skin should be red. It should be indelibly stained with the essence of her victims. A scarlet letter for the world to see. To see what she smells like perfume on her skin.
Why isn't it red?
It should be red.
It should be red.
She'll make it red. Scoured raw and bleeding, the shell finally showing the creature within. Steeped in blood and pain.
Panicked hands grab the soap. Anything to get it off.
Hurry. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
The bell tolls. Footsteps in the distance.
Scrub harder, faster, hurry hurryhurryhurry He's coming!
So much blood she has shed. From the moment she could walk he asked her to kill. Again and again. The best training is with the real thing according to him. Then she will be ready to find the worthy.
He will make her ready.
Like he did in another lifetime. When he trained his team to survive.
Ever louder the sound drums in her ears while the smell fills her nostrils. The sound of his approaching is Jill Valentine's funeral bell.
She is afraid.
Blood wells along her cracked knuckles, starts to run down her hand.
Not who I used to be...hurry lather rinse repeat he's coming!
Her battlesuit was blue once. Blue and new like she had been in another lifetime. It shows what her skin does not.
Stained purple with blood.
Coppery, metallic, salty. God. So strong.
The footsteps echo in empty white halls. Closer.
Jill closes her eyes to the gaunt pale thing in the mirror.
Pale as a new moon, the stain won't stay on her. The smell all that remains.
Death rides a pale horse.
Lips pull in a strange parody of a smile.
The lather is almost red now. Soap stings in her wounds. Burns.
Boots impact tile floor behind her. So close.
"Enough." His voice burns too. The claws on her heart twist and writhe.
No.
Its not enough. She doesn't turn, won't stop, can't stop.
"Enough." Gloved hands cover her own, stop her frantic movements. Firm but gentle.
She is afraid.
He is ruthless and cold-blooded. Even when he is gentle it simmers under the surface.
When he is gentle she feels the predator in him.
Something cold is in her neck and her hands still. Jill is almost grateful.
P30 makes her not care she smells like carrion and looks like Death's mount.
P30 only cares about him.
"Sleep now Jill." Warm strong arms take hold of her. Jill clings to the only warm human (He's not human. Neither is she what does it matter?) contact she is allowed.
Blue eyes fall shut. Soul shuttered.
"Are you still there Jilly?"
The voices in her dreams hurt. She dreams of people from better days becoming nightmares. Sometimes they scream and rage. Sometimes she just watches the faded film of her past life. Each is a piece of her shattered mind, mortared together with her blood.
This dream is different. Like falling and dying. A dream and not a dream.
"Jilly? You're in there Jilly-girl." Worried voice trying to reach her.
Joe Frost was tan and vital in life. Always moving, always smiling. Half his face is gone now. Flesh hangs in ragged strips from his bones, teethmarks of the cerberus who killed him etched on bone.
Rotted fingers stroke her hair, putrid arms hold her close. Jill doesn't even flinch.
"It's ok Jill. We've got you." A second voice. In life a coward's voice, nerves never far from the surface.
Once she had called Brad a Victorian Lady prone to hysterics and offered to find him smelling salts. Now she lets silent tears run down her face as she stares at the ruined thing he is.
"We won't let you go. Don't worry." Joe tries to smile with the half face he has left.
Jill's smile is bittersweet.
In the waking world he will wonder what she smiles about.
Shoes tell many things about a woman. What she values, where she walks, her vision of herself in life.
Boots do not suit these feet.
Sleek black stilettos with red soles click loudly down the empty hall, slender hips swaying. The picture of youth.
Excella Gionne loves the red soles best.
Red. The color of sin, passion, blood. Life.
She smiles to herself. Oh yes, she is a creature of life and passion. Reaching for every sensual experience she can, never satisfied. Vibrant youth and life distilled into a person.
Never insecure. Not before him.
Toned tan legs glide elegantly. Heels echoing. Grand entrance with no audience.
No was an unknown word. Men fell at her feet, offered her everything and she took from them all. Trying to fill that empty place in her with greedy hands. Larger than life were the men she chose. Artists, singers, adventurers. So much they offered her.
The Queen of Hearts.
Every treasure.
He offers nothing. He stares at a pale girl.
Excella can't remember her name. Only her face.
A grave is your home corpse girl. Leave him to the living. You have no right to him.
Red lips pull down at the edges. The girl is nothing. A ragged pale thing. Not alive.
Drained of vitality and color. Pretty but nothing like the fierce vitality the life that is Excella. She exudes no sensuality, her eyes do not sparkle, skin lackluster, hair dull.
Clicking stops, her breath held. There through the open door she sees. Him.
Oh.
He always takes her breath. Beautiful. She will never tell him so. He would be ashamed to be called beautiful. Handsome, sexy, appealing he would not mind but beautiful?
She can practically see his lips curling in distaste, the snort of his derision.
Beautiful.
She will never tell him.
Reality returns with a sigh. The girl. He's holding the girl. Staring at her closed eyes and her pale face.
Air is sucked into her lungs as it hits her.
His mirror. Can a man love his reflection?
The pale thing is like him. Pale and ethereal and out of place. So like him is disturbs her.
"Excella." Naked hellfire eyes are watching her. The empty place in her chest fills. He is watching her now. Shoulders square themselves.
"Albert darling. There has been some discussion by the researchers about creating another P30 supersoldier -"
"No." Irritation flickers across his face. He wants her to drop it but she can't. His refusal to create another one galls her, and she desperately wants this damn girl to be less special.
This fucking corpse of a girl who is so like him she could be his fucking reflection sometimes.
"No. She is enough." Glowing orbs return to the girl in his arms.
Excella's red lips thin, dark eyes flare. So alive.
The picture of youth. Arrogant, crude, blazoning vibrant youth. So different from the dead girl he holds who is nothing more than a distorted reflecting pool.
Its a phase. She's just new.
But above all youth is vulnerable. Albert Wesker is power, charisma, and will. He fills the empty place in her chest and Excella is like the blind girl called Hope who is holding a harp with one string left but never stops playing.
Red soles flash as she storms away. He will tire of this new toy. She will pass.
She must pass.
She will be a Goddess to his God.
Off with her head...
Red lips make a predatory smile.
Out damned spot! Out I say!... Hell is murky... Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth
A/N Remember kids reviews are like candy .