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 ...

I was giving chase of that remote skeleton

Through the graveyards

Of my memory...

The discarded moving carapace

Came in many forms,

And illuminated it's

Surroundings like a spectral force

Until I doubled back to immerse myself

In the remnants of it's heyday,

Flipping over stones in a

Hellbent search

Of shattered self...

Broken mirror shards lay sprawled across

The desert floor, reflecting the

Prehistoric cacti, and the lizards

Crawling to and fro

In their desperate,

Arid haste...

I was giving chase of that remote skeleton

Through the graveyards

Of my memory...

Were you only a mirage that occupied

Tattered shreds of distant thought?...

The desert hosts ghosts of a similar persuasion

While sundials spill their shadows

Across hills, like capsized

Buckets of house paint laid to dry...

Blow me a kiss over Agave and

Spineless Yucca

As you dip and dive outside my grasp...

I breathe my final scent of you

As in a haste you

Disappear over that mound...

The desert glass

Shimmers profoundly,

Dazzling my broken gaze...

I was giving chase of that remote skeleton

Through the graveyards

Of my memory...

A pinwheel stuck within the parched soil

Spins madly during the howling

Night winds of my longing...come...

And pay me visit

If the spirit

Doth incline...

6/18/24

Bunny Villaire

There are people who care.

Is the line I often come back to

when I'm struggling to be.

I grew up with buying certain

foods, clothes, and toys

categorized as special occasion things.

Hand-me-downs filled my dresser

Though some I barely wore

Clothes were welcome gifts

And I'd still be happy if they were

I'm in college and still ask

if I can get a choclate bar.

There are people I need to see

And those to stay in touch with

Songs I need to sing

And those I'll put up with

And one day I hope

My mom won't have to break herself

just so there's money to scrape by with.

I have more things to write

And many more to do

As a lonely neurodivergent

There's one thing I come back to:

If I were gone

a number of people

would be impacted

And I could never see

my mother in retirement.

There's people who care

especially those I care about

This is why I don't wanna die

even when existing is something

I could do without.

The title is lyrics from the Queen song Bohemian Rhapsody by Freddie Mercury

There's a saying, I'll repeat it here: Pull up those big girl panties. Or put them on. Or whatever the saying is: I repeat that to myself when I'm in line at the grocery store, behind someone paying for an apple with their checkbook and also pennies, or just getting out of bed, first thing, craving coffee and a different personality.

I told my husband that I went to therapy and asked my therapist if I was a good person. My husband pulled out a pretend cigarette and pretended to take a long drag. "That's what your therapist did, internally," he said. I wonder if asking that question is somehow a faux pas, a cringey moment of "me me me." No one should think about themselves that much, I guess. But then I'm behind that women at the grocery store, paying for her apple with her checkbook and pennies, and I lock eyes with the cashier: in that moment, I have the option to lose my s___, or just carry on, being the "bigger person" - and is that when I'll know if I'm a good person or not? Do we ever really know for sure?

I wish I smoked cigarettes, but instead I'm stuck with big girl panties.

Anne Sexton wrote a poem about suicide, and in there is the line "me me me." When I think about a bad day, or being a bad person, I remember that suicide is really a way of making it all about me, and I think existing in that headspace is toxic and unproductive, ultimately. I think about my therapist, and how if I mentioned suicide, she might put down her internal cigarette, and really lean in to listen. But wasn't I already insinuating that I think about death, already, with my question as to whether or not I am "good", a person worth their oxygen and time on earth?

This life is an endless death march, if you really put your mind to thinking about it: every day you're older, closer to death, fading away slowly with each step forward. But then I get out of bed, pull out my big panties, and live.

-my heart, which inexhaustible refuses to stop

-my body, inexorable, which continues to move

-time which clocks from day to day, my restless limbs

-which must unfortunately wake and drag me from the soft embrace of slothful sleep

-bony fingers squeezing into the too bright dawn of a new day

-my lungs which moment to moment bring in breath, not air

-my work which doesn't wait for me

-every day I am expected

-to be in a certain place

-I must, I guess, walk through the motions, say and do the things expected

-I am the flesh only with the spirit is gone

-I walk like one alive, but truly dead

-perhaps I died and I do not know it yet

-My family, whom, would be inconvenienced

-death is messy, perhaps too much to bear

-if only something quiet and quick could take me away

-an unexplainable accident, unladen with stigma

I live not because it pleases me

even though from time to time, a ray

will pierce the gloom and I'll be briefly at peace

but because the machinery of my body goes from breath to breath

from now, till death

A cup of tea to soothe the nerves

A long chat with my mum

Happy Wednesday with my friends

Dinner, chats and hugs

Therapy to talk it out

And understand the past

Journaling to write it out

And challenge my rogue thoughts

Walking out in nature

The warm sun on my back

Dancing salsa at the club

My face lit by a smile

My two left feet won't keep the beat

It matters not a jot

The joy is in the trying

And spinning round a lot

Organic fruit and veggies

From a local family farm

So fresh and nourishing

A box packed full of charm

My writing course each week

And sharing who I am

Practise, feedback, reading

I hope it never ends

Weekly tea with Mary

Who always bakes something

She showers me with love

Doesn't care where I have been

I could go on for days

Listing all the good

My life is pretty sweet

And it all lifts my mood

Babies laughing

puppies leaping

sun rising

rays shimmering

on waves rolling

breezes blowing

colorful leaves fluttering

rain falling

puddle jumping

cold-day cuddling

hand holding

arm-in-arm walking

silly dancing

dumb joke telling

belly laughing

cooking, baking

meal making

sports watching

card playing

porch sitting

bird watching

garden growing

snowman building

poem writing

story typing

oil painting

music tickling

my ears listening

your fingers strumming

lips smiling

hearts beating

spoon sleeping.

Sadness was silly when I was twenty-three

Masked with a drink whenever it bothered me

When my head hits the pillow, it won’t leave me be

Curious what keeps it alive inside me

A lifetime of firewater banished from my diet

Thoughts I generate are deafening yet quiet

Some may notice and engage with defiance

A mere spark to the blaze of my self reliance

Day-in and night-out is the only time I dream

To escape the nothingness of my homemade esteem

T’was self-induced as I retrace the seam

Dreams are for suckers mister Martin Luther King

Three fort-years plus two, is the level I’m on

No cheat codes, or power-ups except for my Dawn

Thinking aloud that identity is needed

To conquer the beast whom the devil preceded

My mind is a television that goes back to this show

Like  a car wreck, a rubbernecker will never truly know

Wipe the tears, chin up and let no one else know

The weaker use this for their selfish ammo

Without earning the title, everyone seems to  judge

My productivity met with a smug-filled grudge

Know this now, I will never ever budge

From the path I’ve chosen so continue to judge

The smoke has all cleared and the mirror’s been broken

The bullshit discarded from what has been spoken

With steps taken toward Him, I feel more awoken

I now overlook fake-friends who’ve  misspoken

Friendships lost and ties have been frayed

By the judgment and ridicule I sensed every day

Now strangers, not family like back in the day

I pray this new path won’t end in dismay

I’m now wide-awake, crafting my thoughts into text

Forever hoping one day He will grant me His best

Full-speed ahead on my unending quest

I pray that the outcome turns out better than my mess

I know not the purpose of this rather long story

Should be filed away in it’s own category

Forever in search of the true morning glory

But to the naked eye, everything’s hunky dory

otherworldly sweet

red blessings cast by Nature

homegrown strawberries

I need go no further than my garden to find a reason to live. The colors, flavors, and changes of my plants are a source of inspiration and therapy. If you're feeling down, plant a garden. If you don't have the place, money, or health for that, get a houseplant. Nourish it regularly with water and love. Watch it thrive. You'll probably feel better. You might even flourish.