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Apicem Rapax	By : Ripsi Category: +M through R > Resident Evil Views: 2155 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Resident Evil fandom/franchise or any of their characters. I make no money from this fanfiction. It is merely a piece of fiction written by me.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
November 4, 2014
I swear all I could hear was, “Bump, bump, bump, bump, bump,” yet I danced as though it was actual music. Amanda seemed to be enjoying my company despite me appearing to be rhythmically challenged at the moment, and she took a quick break to snap some selfies for Twitter and Instagram. Something about this noise was supposed to make me better, make me forget the things that were already beginning to haunt me throughout the night, but instead it was making me more fearful. There was noise at the party, there were people everywhere, and despite all of that I could have been shot. It didn’t matter where I went over the past few days, because nothing was going to make me feel safe. Unless…
“Claire what the fuck is your problem?!” Amanda was somehow capable of being heard around a whole club, and right now it wasn’t as comical as it would be down the road. For some reason when she felt like I wasn’t paying her the attention she wanted, she would demand an explanation that was laced with an expletive or two, and I didn’t take it as her being a cunt. To others it seemed that way, but I had gone toe to toe with Amanda before and once she saw that I wasn’t the one to push she backed off. Based on her frailty that she managed to mask pretty well though, I allowed her that bit of slack, and reminded myself that she usually depended on me to keep herself at an elevated mood. This was a sad fact that I had come to accept, and as a friend I felt that it was the least I could do for her since I typically was of no help in the never-ending battle between her and Dawson.
In an attempt to keep the mood up and away from the territory of my progressing PTSD –I knew this was what it was- I yelled back at her, “I just fucking hate Jason Derulo!”
With a mischievous smirk she sang along to the horrid song, “You know what to do with that big, fat butt! Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle!”
With mock annoyance I pulled her down to the couch with me, taking hold of her forearms while we playfully wrestled with one another.
Goofily, with her hands in the air she proclaimed, “I just wanna twerk!” When she finally calmed down she suddenly broke out with, “I think I’m gonna hit your mom up to buy an ass.”
“God, please don’t!” I was sure that my grimace made me look like an ugly witch but I was willing to do whatever it took to convince her to stop putting things inside her body through means of cosmetic surgery. Amanda’s ass was big enough already, something she attributed to her Brazilian heritage but it seemed that nowadays a fat ass meant you had to look like you were smuggling two turkeys in your pants.
In what she considered a compromise she offered, “I’ll just do half of what Kim did!”
“That’s still too much!” This night may have possibly helped me, and as it progressed I felt a bit more comfortable with dancing and singing along to songs with Amanda. She managed to talk me into coming back out with her for the end of the year celebration in December, and though most of the music was surely going to annoy the piss out of me I’d say yes to appear that I was normal. Since I didn’t drink at the club I was able to get home on my own, and I somehow fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. Maybe things would be all right after all.
November 5, 2014
Last night I woke up, sweating, afraid, and wishing desperately that I could shake the memories of my nightmares away. It happened again but this time I was shot, and then like a video game I began to relive the moments before the shooting all over again but before I had the chance to protect myself I used an old trick I’d come up with: I pried my eyes open with my fingers in the dream. The trick hadn’t failed me thus far, but the problem was sometimes I didn’t know that what I was experiencing wasn’t real until I’d suffered time and time again through my dreamed fates. Obviously I’d find no reprieve in sleep, and since I’d given my mom my word I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Hartman. Now I sat in the uncomfortable armchair before his desk, staring down at the ugly, brown leather whose authenticity failed to make it look any better. The mahogany desk before me displayed inspirational photos of people who I assumed to be models; there was no way past clients would have given away their identities just to bolster his reputation. There were a few rows of pamphlets stacked side-by-side, all of them containing some cheesy phrase with the same message behind the words: this pill will make you happy. One of them was for Zoloft, the others Latuda and Abilify, while the boldest advertised for Xanax.
Dr. Hartman was a psychologist with some extra degree that gave him the power to write out prescriptions, yet his display of support for the field of pharma-psychology wasn’t really winning me over. Somehow I figured that if I didn’t look at those pamphlets the possibility of me being prescribed something would shrink drastically, and I instead turned my gaze to window to my right. Next door there was a Taco Bell, not the most interesting sight but it kept me from dwelling on the contents of the booklets. I didn’t want to look at all of his certificates that were placed meticulously to assure me of his competence, and perhaps it was for the best. Instead I would try to convince myself that blood pressure and my weighing just before being ushered into his office mandated that I stuff myself with some of that cheap, fake food after. It appeared that I’d lost maybe five pounds since the shooting, a blow to my frame that demanded immediate recovery on my part if I wanted to be able to continue standing.
To try to convince myself that I was acting normally I quickly snatched up a peppermint from the glass bowl on the right edge of the desk, removing it from the plastic to pop the mint into my mouth and balling up the wrapper into my hand. Before I could stand to throw it into the waste bin to the left of the desk I heard the door opening, and for some reason I became overly nervous and decided to just ride out the session while fumbling with crumpled plastic.
“Claire Redfield,” he announced.
I turned in my chair but felt it proper to get to my feet to shake his hand, still holding on to that candy wrapper in my free hand. “Hi,” I greeted, as he released me I once again took my seat, not truly prepared. It’s not like I could leave though, right? These sessions were to be paid whether or not I attended.
“So, I heard about what happened,” he stated, opening the folder he brought in with him. I noticed that your weight is a bit on the dangerous side for your BMI. Is that normal for you or something that happened recently?” The lack of tact was intentional I was sure, but nevertheless unsettling.
Shoving my hands between my thighs and moving forward in my seat I said clearly, “Recent.”
He scribbled something quickly. “Are you on any medications?”
Taking in a breath I took up a more comfortable position with my legs crossed and hands clasped over my knees, the prickly candy wrapper spiking into my denim. “I take Ortho-Cyclen to keep regular… and not pregnant,” I added in a lower voice.
Writing in what I assumed was the birth control he said, “Good to hear. Good stuff too I’ve heard. How long have you been on it?”
Feeling more at ease I said with a tiny smile, “A year.”
He continued scribbling rapidly, “Yeah that stuff is pretty much fool-proof.” He finally looked up, “Unless you’re a fool who doesn’t take it for almost a week and expect it to still work.” We grinned at one another before he appeared to check off a box. “It’s just good to know that we won’t have to be taking a pregnancy into account here.” His statement made it obvious that I was walking out of here with a prescription, and though he may have been genuine in some ways it was still required that he lull me into a sense of comfort with him. “Is Chris still living with you?”
“No, he has his own place.” The relief that I initially gushed with in the past was no longer there. My brother had made me feel safe; he came home every day unlike my parents.
His eyes held a look of reminiscence, “How’s he doing?”
“As well as you could expect him to be,” I replied with a shrug. Dr. Hartman had been a useful tool in breaking down Chris’ walls years ago during a time that we liked to pretend didn’t exist. To this day I did.
Eyes back on the contents of the folder he inquired, “And how are you sleeping?”
“Poorly.”
“Night terrors…”
“Nightmares,” I corrected him, proudly showing off my knowledge of Psych 101.
He scribbled something again. “Frequency?”
“Every night,” I admitted regrettably. It was every fucking night.
It seemed he wished to delay the other important questions; I imagine my promptness in correcting his terminology was a giveaway that my sleeping conscious needed tending to. “What are the nightmares about?”
The sound of a gun vividly banged in my head, surely causing me to jump in the chair. Seeing as Dr. Hartman didn’t respond though, there was a chance that was as much as a hallucination as the gunshot. “He kills me. Alfred Kills me.”
His eyes were not alight with curiosity, but it was not an inappropriate form. “How?”
“The way he intended; he shoots me. Right in the head.”
“Claire, how do you know he intended to shoot you?”
I saw Spencer fall again, could hear the screaming, feel Wesker’s arms around my waist. “Wesker took the bullet when he stepped in.” I then remembered that sneer he directed at me. “When they carried him off he was looking at me, smirking. He had to be aiming at me.”
Rather than argue he nodded. “Seems you got lucky.”
“If he hadn’t been there there’s no telling what would’ve happened. Wesker saved my life.” Being that he was taller than me there’s a chance that I wouldn’t have been shot at all, but who’s to say that when Alfred noticed he’d jumped in to get me that the lunatic hadn’t recalibrated his aim?
He chimed in with, “We can’t focus on that Claire.”
“I know but if he’d died it would’ve been because of me.” Blaming myself was not what I intended to do in wake of the incident, but the more that I thought about it the more I ended up at this conclusion.
“… Claire? As a cop he was doing his job.” Dr. Hartman stared at me as though he’d caught me daydreaming and his tone indicated that he saw my deduction as a delusion more so than the truth of the matter.
I took offense on behalf of Wesker at his statement however. “Cop or not he’s a person, not a Kevlar vest. He’s accomplished too much to die for me.” The wall of achievements would’ve been for nothing had he died, and I knew it. I hadn’t even started my life but he was possibly in his prime in terms of a career. Who was I but a little, teenaged nobody to come along and steal that from him?
“Claire why would you say that?” His fatherly tone was a shock to me, but it only bothered me so much because I saw it for what it was: a tactic. His plaques might as well have read: Master of Manipulation.
No soft tone could shake my resolve at this point; I was able to see past myself and my own desires in this world. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
For a moment he looked back down at his folder, then back to me. “In these dreams, is Captain Wesker present?”
“Yes. I worry about him as much as myself. It’s like Alfred is coming back to kill us both.” My admission caught me off guard. I was just set to battle it out with him over the value of Wesker’s life and now I was confiding in him again. That sneaky bastard.
“You must know him very well.” There was the slightest inflection in his tone, letting me know that he was about as sure as I was on this subject.
Staring back to the Taco Bell next door I realized that I’d put too much thought into my brother’s boss. I could’ve died myself yet for some reason I was more concerned with him. I didn’t know Alfred, I hadn’t offended him in any way, yet my life had been at risk. “Not really,” I confessed. Somehow I was sure that that would soon be changing though.
I ended up leaving the office with a prescription for Zoloft because Prazosin seemed a bit overboard to Dr. Hartman, but he felt that the prescription for Risperidone was necessary. He claimed it would help me sleep through the night but I didn’t expect that to be true. I dropped off my scripts in the Sam’s Club pharmacy and passed time in the food court with two slices of pizza and a large soda. Luckily, too many people weren’t around to spark my anxiety, and the people that were shuffling about were trying to make it back to their homes in time for Bingo. Out of boredom I set my phone on the table next to my grease-stained, paper plate and typed in, “Spencer Mansion Shooting.” The results mostly now consisted of outside news sites reporting what we’d already known here. Uninterested in an echo of what I’d heard before I scrolled to the comments.
SallyMaecameandtookmahbaby says:
Is there any news on Ashford? I haven’t heard anything.
JustAnotherStatistic says:
I’ve been hearing that Ashford is out? #howSway
… says:
Sooooo in other words nothing new?
Illuminati says:
A gun cant kill tha devill. He gon b u p an fuckin ppl ova soon enuf. God wasn about 2 let em win tha nite tho. Jus watt an pleas keep ur eye an ears open ppl. #illuminatiisreal
Skullfuckingyourmother says in reply to Illuminati:
Are you fucking serious? What the fuck did you even just type? 1: The devil doesn’t exist so no shit a gun can’t kill him you ass fucker. 2: Who the fuck is Spencer fucking over exactly? Not you, it was obviously your neglectful, crackhead mom who dropped you on your fucking head too many times or just failed to enroll you in school. 3:What the fuck is he trying to win against? 4: Watt? As in voltage? 5: Why only one eye and both ears? 6: No it’s not. Fuck, the American education system has failed.
#freealfredashford says:
Fuck tht old bastard. People rally have no idea what he singlehandedly has doen to the economy of other areas. Fuck him and that “city” he panders too. #freealfredashford
To the moron above says in reply to #freealfredashford:
To the moron above: That man has also singlehandedly built up that city (yes it’s a real city) and brought hope to those citizens who worked hard to get somewhere in life but couldn’t afford to go anywhere else after spending all of their money on the educations that were necessary. PS. Alfred Ashford IS free you dumbfuck! He was never booked in the RCPD database which contains public arrest records. Maybe if you stopped fuckin’ yer sister and breeding more retards such as yourself then you’d have time to Google more into the subject. You may feel personally slighted by the man, but he’s still a man and he didn’t deserve to be shot.
Gladtobebrokeforonce says:
Damn I’m glad to be broke for once. I love a good party but with my luck I would’ve been shot too. I’ll keep my ass at the bottom of the social ladder ::shrugs:: In other news hit up my website in my bio link for original, dope beats #dopebeatswegotem
America the Brave says:
We’re really concerning ourselves with something that happened in a town that sucks on Denver like a tick? We have a non-American, non-Christian in the White House who’s determined to ruin this great nation. I believe this is a diversion. That Muslim Kenyan is still letting in his family from Africa and there’s an Ebola outbreak that could threaten this great country! Don’t be blinded people! Wake up! You think this rich dick would fucking stay here and help develop a cure or hand out hazmat suits if a full-blown epidemic broke out?! #Americanisunderattackfromtheinside #forrealthistimethough
STFU says in reply to America the Brave:
This has nothing to do with Obama or Ebola you jackass! A man was shot! If anything as an American you should be questioning why someone from a nation of our supposed allies has not been booked and is probably back at home for tea and crumpets! I’ll also have you know that Umbrella has a patent for an Ebola cure in the works so go fuck an eagle! Without Umbrella this country would’ve crashed and burned long ago!
America the Brave says in reply to STFU:
You’re probably the one who’s a jackass! Tea and crumpets? Racist much? You sound like the typical, blinded tard looking to shady organizations to save you! #youhateamerica #thegovernmentcanpayforyourbabiesbutwontsaveyou
WTF says:
What the fuck is up with all of these hastags? This ain’t Twitter.
LOL says in response to WTF:
LOL #thisainttwittertho
The comments on this site had absolutely nothing to do with the story anymore and I refused to scroll down any further to see if someone else was interested in a real conversation on the matter. Before I could find another story link I heard my name being called over the intercom, so I ate the rest of my pizza and threw my trash in a nearby bin. The pharmacist gave a warning to eat before taking the Zoloft but to take the Risperidone before bed without eating unless I wanted to gain a ton of weight. So in the car I took one of the Zoloft and sat there for a moment, realizing that something definitely was wrong with me if I was driving my car. I looked at the clock seeing it was only 10:38, giving me plenty of time to get to my second class of the day. It had been suggested that I take some time off from classes, and my work would be excused. I couldn’t stay home though, not when the smallest squeak made my nightmares feel as though they’d come to life. It was like he was stalking around my home, waiting to do what he’d meant to do that night. Yes, I still felt like he meant to shoot me.
This thought persisted through the class, stealing away any attention that should’ve gone towards the complicated material. Thank God this wasn’t like TV where professors ping ponged questions to student after student, because I’d be that girl that looked like an idiot. Due to my inability to concentrate I got up ten minutes before dismissal, and on my way to the parking lot I shot off a quick email to the teacher of my next class. Before I knew what I was doing I was heading to Applewood. There was no way they could’ve allowed him back at work yet, and so as I rang his doorbell I was sure that he’d answer.
After standing at the door for a bit I felt silly though, raking my fingers through my hair nervously. I needed to leave. Just as I moved to turn around the door swung open, and Wesker stood inside in a navy STARS shirt and jogging pants. My silence must have bothered him, and rightfully so; I’d come over unannounced, exuding anxiety when I was sure that he didn’t need any more of that.
“Are you all right?” he asked, removing his shades as though it’d help him determine that on his own.
Shaking my head I whispered, “I could’ve died.”
Rather than question me he stepped over the threshold and took me into his arms, embracing me in a way that I could only describe as secure. Like an anchor he kept me in place, he kept me from falling apart and I was so grateful that I hugged him back. I no longer cared about whether or not this was appropriate, what I cared about was that we had been in the line of fire of a maniac, and we both came out of it alive. There was no one else I could see myself turning to in regards to our brush with death and at some point during that embrace I think I found my safe place. Finally.
A
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Apicem Rapax