Resident Evil ...
Chapter 1: Transformation
Ethan Bradshaw blinked slowly, the world around him slipping in and out of focus like a bad dream. He was in the bullpen, his own desk a mess of papers and coffee stains. Strangely enough, blood stains. He felt a nagging emptiness inside—a heavy, unnatural ache that pulsed in his chest. He tried to remember why he was there, why he felt so… wrong. The familiar clutter of the Raccoon City Police Department was around him, yet it all felt foreign, like a place he was only half-allowed to understand now. The office was dull, and dim. And why was that? He thought.
A sudden, sharp memory cut through the fog: Leon. Today was supposed to be his first day on the force. The rookie, eager and green, full of the kind of wide-eyed optimism that didn’t belong in a place like Raccoon City. Ethan felt a tug in his mind, something fragile and flickering. He’d promised himself he’d look out for the kid, show him around, get him settled in. Teach him the theoretical ropes.
As he tried to hold onto the thought, the hunger surged again, sharper this time, clawing its way up from the depths of his body. He staggered, gripping the edge of a desk, his fingers clamping down with unnatural force, nails scraping against the polished wood. Noticing once again the pool of blood on his desk. Again, where had it come from. He opened his mouth to speak, to call out for help, but only a low, guttural moan escaped his lips. His neck was in horrible pain, he hand unsteadily reached up to navigate the source of the ache. His fingers touched ripped flesh and a gaping hole.
Stumbling back he crashed into a desk and turned, the crisp new name plate sitting front and center. Leon S. Kennedy.
Leon, he thought, struggling to remember why it mattered. His head throbbed, and he felt his own name slipping away, his sense of self blurring. But then, as if in response to his silent plea, he heard the faint creak of a door down the hall.
Chapter 2: Loss of Voice
Ethan’s head snapped up, his vision settling on the armory door across the room. He heard footsteps—quick, purposeful. A shadow moved, and then Leon himself came into view, silhouetted against the dim light of the hallway. The rookie’s face was set, focused, unaware of Ethan watching him from across the bullpen.
The sight of Leon sparked something within Ethan, a surge of recognition, a shred of who he used to be. He stumbled forward, his arm lifting instinctively, his mouth struggling to form words. Leon, he wanted to say. It’s me, Ethan. Help me. But his throat only managed a low, raspy sound, barely more than a growl.
Leon’s head jerked up, his eyes locking onto Ethan’s. For a moment, Ethan saw confusion flash across Leon’s face, maybe even a faint glimmer of hope. But then he saw Leon’s expression shift, hardening into a mask of grim realization. Leon took a step back, his hand instinctively going to the handgun on his belt. Ethan saw him hesitate, the rookie’s face tense with an unspoken question: Is there anything left of him?
Ethan tried to raise a hand, to reach out and show Leon that he was still here, still himself. But his arm jerked forward in a lurching, unnatural motion, his fingers curling into claws. His mind screamed in protest, but his body had become something else, driven by an urge he couldn’t control. The hunger twisted inside him, filling him with a need he barely understood. He could feel his humanity slipping, drowned beneath that primal drive.
He took another step toward Leon, his feet dragging, his mouth stretching open in a grotesque attempt at speech. “Le-on,” he rasped, the sound mangled, as if someone else had spoken it for him.
Chapter 3: Unhappy Trigger Finger
Leon’s face tightened, his jaw set. Ethan saw the rookie’s hand steady as he raised his weapon, the barrel pointed directly at him. Kid’s got guts, Ethan thought, feeling a pang of something like pride—or maybe it was a memory of that pride, fading fast. He wanted to tell Leon to run, to get as far from this cursed place as he could, but his body betrayed him, moving forward in jerking, halting steps.
Ethan tried to pull back, to stop himself, but the hunger surged forward, seizing control of his limbs. His own hands reached out toward Leon, his mouth open, teeth bared in a snarl that wasn’t his own. He fought against it, struggling to pull back the shadows that now filled his mind, but his body ignored him. He was no longer in command, his instincts twisted, redirected, making him something he had once sworn to fight.
Leon hesitated for only a heartbeat, his face resolute but tinged with sorrow. Ethan could see the conflict in his eyes, the recognition of a man he had barely known but respected. And then, with a steadying breath, Leon squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot echoed through the bullpen, sharp and final. Ethan felt a burst of pain in his chest, and for an instant, everything was clear. The fog lifted, and he felt a sliver of himself return, just enough to feel the weight of what he’d become. He stumbled back, a strange sense of relief washing over him even as the darkness began to close in.
Leon’s face blurred, but Ethan’s mind clung to the memory of that young, determined expression. He wanted to thank Leon, to tell him he’d done the right thing, but his voice was lost, buried beneath the shadows. The pain faded, the hunger receded, and for the first time since he’d started to lose himself, Ethan felt at peace.
Chapter 4: So Many More ...
Leon lowered the gun, his face a mask of steely resolve, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain. He held his weapon steady, waiting to see if Ethan would rise again. When Ethan’s body remained still, Leon took a shaky breath, his grip loosening.
He had barely known Officer Ethan Bradshaw, had only met him briefly, but he’d seen enough to know the man had been kind, a seasoned cop with a protective instinct. Leon swallowed, his gaze lingering on Ethan’s motionless form for just a moment longer before he turned away, his duty pulling him forward. He had to convince himself over and over that these people were no longer human. It was becoming easier and easier with each pull of the trigger.
With a final look back, Leon stepped into the armory, his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he gathered weapons and ammunition. His first day had turned into a nightmare, but he had a job to do, and he wasn’t about to let Ethan’s sacrifice be in vain. There would be many more 'Ethan's' out there, so many more ...
Daylights Knocking
must be as Godly
a feeling
to be Good
at what one does
not
metering out in
the mendacity
of mediocrity
with the toll
of late fees
that which,
with every blunder
come due
(I don't mean
like death...
but you know
...like taxes)
every act done well
is as an hour
saved
...I know
having seen
many a cigarette
stamped out...
that these ashes
are but a coarser
form of dust
the kind formed
where meditation
met its match
and lost...
11.03.2024
Daylight… saved, spent, wasted? challenge @Mariah
Is this the face of?
Is this the face of?
November 01, 2024
Is this the face of someone who is worried?
Perhaps she is naive. Perhaps she is grossly unaware
Maybe she exudes apathy toward that she cannot control
Toward things within her grasp
Toward a series of successful conclusions
Is this the face of someone dangerous?
Will she hurt you? Will you wish to be hurt?
Maybe, just maybe, you have her mistaken for another
Someone similar in appearance, but not temperament
Someone similar in temperament, but not appearance
Is this the face of someone who is hiding?
Hiding from reality or hiding a secret from full disclosure?
Maybe, you have no right to know the difference
Secrets remain such when known by only one
Secrets remain such when others respect this very definition
Is this the face of someone worth knowing?
Does she seek your counsel? Can you accept a hard pass?
Conceivably an excuse for possible events that have yet come to fruition?
Is she merely a distraction for others to gain access to you?
Is she worth the price you will pay when they do?
Crows and a Raven
I meet its beady, black little eye.
It is paralyzing. It is terrifying. It is decadent for my soul.
The crow chose me.
As I drive to buy cigarettes, or liquor, the crows appear. They watch me.
I believe they know me.
I got them tattooed without a thought as a teen- and yet, now, they are everywhere.
Mindlessly on my walls in pictures, in my tarot, in the painted faces of the rocks I collect.
They are everywhere. All knowing. All seeing. Trying to convey something to me I feel bone deep, but cannot understand.
When my grandmothers rat trap captures one, I mourn.
When I see one hurting, I ache.
When I do not see them, I feel the emptiness.
I believe they are apart of me, while others call them bad.
Bad omens, so they say. But that isn't always true. Sometimes they're good.
And they are good to me, watching and telling.
I greet them fondly when I pass by. They do not fly away like they do others.
They continue to exist. As do I, with a smile unbidden on my lips.
Yes- the crows and I. I try not to get too defensive when others desecrate the name.
But it feels like they desperate my soul. Sprinkle flowers and dance on my grave.
The crows would never.
