A/N: DarkGothElegantGirl22: I'm glad you love it! Thank you for reviewing. The M rating will earned from here on out. Wesker would probably wish it was him if he got past being pissed. Control freaks don't like change much. Excella should be laying on a couch ordering some poor fool thrown from the walls don't you think? And again, thank you my favorite reviewer!
Sad little tiger: You are one of the three who wrote The Serpent are you not? I bow to the master. The Serpent is amazing. My main inspiration really, along with the Wanderer. I hope to live up to your expectations.
Welcome back. I hope you are all enjoying this as much as I am.
Black Cat
A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world. - Oscar Wilde
No. It can't be.
Eyes do not float in thing air. Cats do not materialize around them.
The world can't be that mad.
Can it?
Huddled under the blanket Jill stays very still.
Pretending to sleep.
Walkers in between. Witch's familiar.
The thin mat is hardly a bed. The concrete recess hardly a frame. Thin blanket barely adequate. More something missing from the wall of a catacomb. Missing a corpse and a prayerbook.
Or just missing the prayerbook.
Lips almost smile.
The jewel in her chest barely bobs, breaths slow and measured. Eyes barely cracked blue hidden behind pale lashes.
Remember to breath. Remember to breath.
Between sleep and waking she sees it. First the eyes.
Then the rest.
Al.
Smug orangy eyes. Purring like a small engine. Black cat. Curled comfortably tail to nose.
Tightness in her gut. Claws on her heart. Barely breathing.
You're not real Al.
Oh but she wants him to be. The little thing she forgot. Another notch on the list of things she didn't save. Soft and purring at the foot of her bed.
Alive.
One less regret. One less failure.
Warmth seeps through the blanket. A pale body could have been carved from stone.
Still.
You can't be real. Can'tbecan'tbecan'tbe.
Al has sharp claws. Or was it had?
The scars on her hands have faded. All her scars have faded.
Jill can name where each one should be.
Breath.
Satisfied feline eyes watch her in the dark. Black cat on a bed.
Glimmers. Gran's voice.
A black cat on a bed is a harbinger. Death is coming. Keeps your coin close little one. The Ferryman is near.
The coin.
She always had a coin.
Until now.
Gran hadn't mentioned spares.
What does the Ferryman look like?
Barely breathing.
Sharp edges mortared in blood. Bricks of a shattered whole.
Five uniforms. All alike. S.T.A.R.S. Uniforms.
Blue and new. Laid out neatly before her. Thread sliding through a needle's eye.
"You know threading a needle used to mean sex." The voice makes her jump. Needle pricks a slender finger.
Jeweled blood wells.
"Shit! Damnit Chris don't sneak up on me like that!" Handsome and charming. All-American boy Chris Redfield knew it.
Jill knew it too.
Butterflies in her stomach. Coppery taste of blood in her mouth as she sucks on the finger.
"Sorry. Ripped your new threads already?" Girls fell over themselves for that smile, that effortless charm. He and Forest keep score.
I'm not a notch.
"No. It's...a family tradition." Hesitation. Some things are sacred. Secret.
Chris is a good guy. Would go out of his way for a friend. Eventually a special girl was going to kiss him and he would be her Prince Charming.
For a special girl. Not for all girls.
One girl's Prince Charming is another's toad.
Jill can almost hear Gran's stern reminder. Clever fingers thread the needle.
Careful fingers.
"Sewing is a family tradition? Valentines are closet housewives? I mean you cook, your desk is always neat..." Free laughter and carefree smile. Its impossible to not return that smile, to not be warmed by it.
"And change our own oil, shoot a bulls-eye, disarm a bomb, hold our liquor...beat your ass at pool..." Light and teasing. Being the only woman on the squad can get uncomfortable fast.
He laughs harder.
Once you sleep with one of them you're not one of the guys anymore. You're the piece of ass.
She's seen it before. Not worth the trouble.
Careful fingers pull a coin from a leather pouch, slide it into the hem of the sleeve. Needle pierces.
Jill changes the subject. Offers a secret instead.
"You know they used to put coins on the eyes of the dead. To pay Charon the Ferryman. My Gran was from across the Atlantic. She made Father Douglas bless these coins.-"
Gran's odd mix of religion and superstition had been tolerated by the old priest. Gran had hounded him into submission. Pride wells in her chest.
"-And she'd sew them in herself if I didn't. And give me hell."
"Your Gran must be something if she can out stubborn you." Handsome head shakes in amusement.
"Yeah. Yeah she was."
A flash to her left. Black blur of movement.
The pouch her Gran sent is gone. A feline tail races around the corner.
"Shit! Al! Get back here!" Fast as lightening Jill is after him, voice softening to the croon he seems to like. Dodging around the tables and desks.
"C'mon Al, its not a mouse. You don't want it..."
Jill runs faster.
Al doubles back under a table. Shoots past her.
Clever fingers catch a black tail as it disappears through a door.
The Captain's door.
Shit. The Captain hates that cat...
"Al be a good boy and give it here." Behind a desk across the room a sharp intake of breath hisses.
Dread uncurls in her gut. Jill snaps to attention.
Claws grip flesh through the fabric of her uniform. Again she feels small. Like the first day.
"I'm sorry for the interruption Sir. -Ow!"
Sharp claws dig into her hands, agile body lands on the floor. Darts under a chair. Her lunge barely misses.
Smug red-gold eyes. Pouch firmly in his teeth.
"I'm sorry sir he's being a thief – Al, come out Al. Its not nice to steal things. C'mon..."
The Captain's jaw is clenched. A muscle visibly twitches in his neck.
Sweat breaks out on her back.
Behind the lenses she feels the burn of his eyes.
Jill croons softer.
Al likes that tone best.
She bends down.
The pencil in Wesker's hand snaps.
Definitely not a cat person.
"Valentine get him out of my office." The rasp might have been a preplanned cue. A black blur flies out of the office.
Jill doesn't hesitate. Al makes the Captain angrier than she has ever seen him.
Angrier han she ever wants to see.
She flees.
Al sits next to the blue uniform she laid out. Pouch in front of him, purring away.
Jill swears his red-gold eyes look extra smug.
Through a door across the room blue eyes glare.
A shiver crawls down her spine.
Can't be real.
Blue eyes shut tight. Breath held. Barely open, a sliver of blue.
Al stares back.
"Al. You're dead. Did you catch zombie mice? Don't bring me any ok?"
Jill croons. Murmurs pleasant nothings in the soft tone he liked best in life. Lulls herself back to sleep.
On the otherside of one-way glass a pencil snaps. A jaw clenches.
Hellfire eyes blaze. Breath harsh.
Thin lips compressed.
Stare unwavering for long after she has quieted.
When she wakes again an indent is left in the blanket.
In the shape of a curled cat.
I've lived to bury my desires, to see my dreams corrode with rust; now all that's left are fruitless fires that burn my empty heart to dust. - Aleksandr Pushkin
A/N: Reviews are very much appreciated!