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Mar. 5th, 2012 07:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkribbonTitle: N/A
Fandom: Resident Evil
Characters: Rebecca Chambers
Genre: character study, missing scene
Warning: None that I can think of
Spoilers: Remake and Zero
Summary: Memorial day comes and goes.
Notes: I wrote this in 2003 and for some reason, it never got posted anywhere other than lj. Re-reading it, I don't like the flow and there are a couple of repetitive snarls. But the idea behind it is something I keep coming back to. You make it your job to save people, and you can't save anyone. How do you deal with survivor's guilt on a citywide scale? By focusing on the faces you knew.
It was dark.
It was drizzling.
It was far from pleasant.
Common sense dictated that she should be home, or at work. Or somewhere else. Anywhere but here.
This, however, had to be done today.
Going through the motions had been like learning a dance. Difficult at first, but repetition of the steps made it easier with time.
It was very much like a dance. Today was the performance on stage. Previous visits were the practices. Without today, it would have no meaning. No, it would never be devoid of meaning. Just have less of one.
It would be a betrayal. Like a co-star not showing up to opening night because of inconvenience. It was her duty to come, simply because she could.
The ease of repetition still did nothing to dull the pain. It was difficult. It always would be.
It was very much like a dance. Step-two-three. A waltz, repeated tirelessly.
Her mind was pre-occupied, but she knew the path by heart. Her feet tread the path of dead lives, stopping automatically at the intended destination. She crouched, hugging her knees to her chest and stared forlornly at the tiny plaque half buried under decaying matter.
This corner of the cemetery was never well kept. That's why it was affordable. The strong branching arms of a tree towered above her head, always shedding stray leaves that seemed to target the area around the plaque. She sighed and dug fingers into the mass of plant dander and dirt, clawing it away and generally clearing the vicinity and making it presentable. The menial task gave her time to think and to reflect. That was the point of funerary yards; the dead have no need of complex masonry or gardens. They're too busy becoming compost. Save for the empty tombs with no occupants at all.
Gently, she let her fingers trail over the engraved letters and the image carved beneath. She didn't need to read it. She knew what it said. After all, she had commissioned it. Previous visits had only ingrained it further into her memory. The plaque read:
In memory of lives lost:
R. Aiken, E. Dewey, K. Dooley, E. Marini, F. Speyer, K. Sullivan
Below the names was an image of a pawn. It was black, of course. White always went first. Umbrella had made the first move; they had no choice but to react. She thought it was fitting. Pawns were always sacrificed to greater ends. Or so the strategists reasoned. She wasn't quite sure. Cracks in a dam would eventually spring leaks, causing the structure to crumble and fall. Eventually just seemed so far off in the distance, floating barely out of reach, like clouds viewed from an airplane window.
She had been silent throughout this. There were no words, only the hot sting of tears and pangs of bitter regret. She remained crouched and motionless. Abruptly, she straightened. Dusting her hands off on her pants, she gazed one last time at the memorial. It seemed so unimportant, hidden in the corner of a rundown necropolis. Somehow, that only made it more precious. It was her secret and she'd always remember.
It was still dark.
The drizzle had progressed to a pouring rain.
It was still unpleasant. Just suddenly it wasn't as unbearable as before.
Rebecca Chambers turned around and slowly walked out of the cemetery.
Fandom: Resident Evil
Characters: Rebecca Chambers
Genre: character study, missing scene
Warning: None that I can think of
Spoilers: Remake and Zero
Summary: Memorial day comes and goes.
Notes: I wrote this in 2003 and for some reason, it never got posted anywhere other than lj. Re-reading it, I don't like the flow and there are a couple of repetitive snarls. But the idea behind it is something I keep coming back to. You make it your job to save people, and you can't save anyone. How do you deal with survivor's guilt on a citywide scale? By focusing on the faces you knew.
It was dark.
It was drizzling.
It was far from pleasant.
Common sense dictated that she should be home, or at work. Or somewhere else. Anywhere but here.
This, however, had to be done today.
Going through the motions had been like learning a dance. Difficult at first, but repetition of the steps made it easier with time.
It was very much like a dance. Today was the performance on stage. Previous visits were the practices. Without today, it would have no meaning. No, it would never be devoid of meaning. Just have less of one.
It would be a betrayal. Like a co-star not showing up to opening night because of inconvenience. It was her duty to come, simply because she could.
The ease of repetition still did nothing to dull the pain. It was difficult. It always would be.
It was very much like a dance. Step-two-three. A waltz, repeated tirelessly.
Her mind was pre-occupied, but she knew the path by heart. Her feet tread the path of dead lives, stopping automatically at the intended destination. She crouched, hugging her knees to her chest and stared forlornly at the tiny plaque half buried under decaying matter.
This corner of the cemetery was never well kept. That's why it was affordable. The strong branching arms of a tree towered above her head, always shedding stray leaves that seemed to target the area around the plaque. She sighed and dug fingers into the mass of plant dander and dirt, clawing it away and generally clearing the vicinity and making it presentable. The menial task gave her time to think and to reflect. That was the point of funerary yards; the dead have no need of complex masonry or gardens. They're too busy becoming compost. Save for the empty tombs with no occupants at all.
Gently, she let her fingers trail over the engraved letters and the image carved beneath. She didn't need to read it. She knew what it said. After all, she had commissioned it. Previous visits had only ingrained it further into her memory. The plaque read:
In memory of lives lost:
R. Aiken, E. Dewey, K. Dooley, E. Marini, F. Speyer, K. Sullivan
Below the names was an image of a pawn. It was black, of course. White always went first. Umbrella had made the first move; they had no choice but to react. She thought it was fitting. Pawns were always sacrificed to greater ends. Or so the strategists reasoned. She wasn't quite sure. Cracks in a dam would eventually spring leaks, causing the structure to crumble and fall. Eventually just seemed so far off in the distance, floating barely out of reach, like clouds viewed from an airplane window.
She had been silent throughout this. There were no words, only the hot sting of tears and pangs of bitter regret. She remained crouched and motionless. Abruptly, she straightened. Dusting her hands off on her pants, she gazed one last time at the memorial. It seemed so unimportant, hidden in the corner of a rundown necropolis. Somehow, that only made it more precious. It was her secret and she'd always remember.
It was still dark.
The drizzle had progressed to a pouring rain.
It was still unpleasant. Just suddenly it wasn't as unbearable as before.
Rebecca Chambers turned around and slowly walked out of the cemetery.