One Foot
The twenty-something blond shooting pool is eyeing his sister, puffing his chest out and flexing his muscles.
Chris wants to vomit.
Aw c'mon bro it'll be fun! Like old times, right?
Sure Claire. Old times.
Old times, sneaking Claire in with a fake ID, just shooting pool and hanging out. A good night was a cold beer, a pretty girl, and a friendly pool game with the guys. Bars were a second home for Chris Redfield, the other patrons friends waiting to happen.
He loved bars.
This is the first time back since the Mansion.
He shifts on the bar stool, watching the blond idiot hitting on his little sister with narrow eyes. The moron doesn't notice. The occupant of the stool to the left edges away from him, feeling the leashed rage.
"I've got my motorcycle outside. I'll take you for a ride girl, what'd you say? It's a Harley."
Fucking moron.
There's fucking flesh-eating things out there and he wants to impress girls with a Harley? Didn't he realize there was a war going on right under his damn nose?
If you could hear the screams you'd know. If you saw...If you saw...
Fingers clench on the barely touched beer, fighting the urge to punch the idiot blathering on about his motorcycle and how hard some accounting class is. About the party his friend is having tomorrow night.
People died. People are dying asshole don't you give a shit?Doesn't anyone give a shit anymore?
Claire is eating it up, flipping her red ponytail, sipping her girly drink and smiling. The sick feeling grows in his gut, because this is his sister and he's not supposed to almost hate her for not being there. For not being stuck with the continual worry about where the next outbreak will be, who will it kill?
And the most important thing on this fucker's mind is will he get laid tonight. I'm fighting for this?
He isn't supposed to hate the innocent, to feel cheated by them.
The beer is an icy cold chill he can feel sliding down his throat, pooling in his burning stomach. For just a moment he considers ordering another.
Just for a moment.
I might talk if I'm drunk. They might hear.
Umbrella won't get any cheap shots on him, even if it would help him forget.
"Hey- Chris!" Claire isn't ready to leave but he drags her out anyway, praying the moron will follow. Maybe swing at him. Any excuse.
The anger in him looking for an escape. Any escape.
Especially a guy like he used to be.
I was him once.
Who he can't go back to being. Ever.
"What the fuck?" The alley is deserted by the time she pulls her arm free, full Redfield fire in her eyes. Fight to match his own.
"My squad is gone. They're dead Claire! And all that fucker is thinking about is getting in your pants. And you're letting him! People died and no one fucking cares! Just...Fuck."
Tomorrow her arms will have hand-shaped bruises, tomorrow he will be sorry but tonight he doesn't care.
Tonight is just rage.
She stands staring after him, silent eyes wide as he storms away.
Fuck. Clair. I didn't mean...
He'll call Jill because the pretty bits of fluff with their perfect tans and french manicures won't understand when he wakes up screaming.
Tomorrow he'll regret it all. The hate will remind him of Wesker and he will vomit until nothing comes up.
But now is tonight, and sometimes its all he can do to put one foot in front of another.
Tomorrow he will disappear, searching for Umbrella.
Alone.
No one else needs to have his nightmares, feel his hate.
He can't go back, but he isn't Wesker. No one needs to be dragged down with him.
Especially not Claire.
I'm sorry. I have to go.
I'll save you Claire. I will.