Moment of Weakness
*****
I'm waiting, waiting for my turn.
I am no stranger to waiting for my turn. I have an older brother, you see. He got to do everything first, and I had to wait. I remember having wide eyes and pigtails and watching in awe as my brother got to stay up late and stay out late and go out on dates and drive a car. I always wondered what it would be like to be older and not have to wait to do things.
Now I sort of am the older sister--the younger girl is standing in front of me, like one of those department-store pictures where the poses are unnatural and everyone's hand is resting uncomfortably on someone else's shoulder. Poor little thing, she's got enough on her shoulders. We all do.
I've got my hand on her shoulder now, trying not to squeeze. I have to be the big sister; I have to be strong for her. I have to be strong for her, even if sometimes I feel like crying, even if sometimes I get scared, even if sometimes I want very badly to be held and comforted. But I can't do any of that, because I have to be strong.
Suddenly she rips violently away from my hand, startling me. She doesn't mean it; she's just suddenly launched herself at him, into his arms. He is there, rock steady to catch her, cradling her against him as he reaches to gently stroke her pale hair. He is murmuring formless comfort in her ear, but his eyes are on me. I'm still a little apart from them, waiting, waiting for my turn.
I can see the muscles cord in his arms as he lifts her up. She weighs almost nothing, but even so my eyes praise his strength as he effortlessly swings her into his embrace. She latches onto him, as if she wants to crawl through him. I know the feeling.
"But Leon, I don't want you to go!" the little girl cries, her sobs muffled into his neck. I stay silent behind them, letting her say all the things I want to say but can't. Oh, to be the little girl, to be scooped up into his embrace and held close to his hammering heart, drowning in the scent of his aftershave and just shutting my eyes so tight, so tight...
I shake these thoughts away. It's surprisingly easy. All my life I've had to be one of the boys--I've had to be tough, hard. I can do that now.
I don't mind it really, the waiting. Every minute longer is one more minute I can look him over, freeze him in my memory, just in case.
Just in case.
I don't want to think about what a "just in case" might be. My life used to be like, "uh oh, I'm late for class". Now it's "uh oh, another viral outbreak". "Just in case I can't call you tonight" got upgraded to "just in case I never see you again".
He's telling her that now she has to put on her bravest face, that I'm going to be there and she'll be safe, and he'll be back before she can say "Disneyland". It's cute to listen to his efforts to calm her, see the sparkle of her smile like a little jewel as he pets her hair and hugs her.
"You will come back, though, won't you?" she murmurs into his shoulder. My body goes snowy cold, waiting for his answer.
He smiles at her. "Of course I'm going to come back. Don't you worry."
He whispers it into her seashell ear, but his eyes are on me, the innocent blue of spring skies. They hold the smile, the promise.
(I'll be there.)
My chest aches with the relief, my heart making a hollow sound, knocking against my breastbone fiercely.
He sets Sherry down. She is reluctant to let go, it seems. Is it my turn yet? I've got my heart chained in my mouth. I need to get this over with, so I can let go. So he won't have to know.
He smiles once again at the little girl, eyes twinkling, and shrugs out of his jacket, the leather straining over his broad shoulders. My eyes follow the movements of his body, the laziness of his grace. The leather creaks and sighs, deafening to my ears.
"Here." He drapes the jacket around Sherry's small shoulders and kneels to look her in the eye. I can't stop my smile. He instinctively moved to her level, proving that they were equals. He doesn't treat the Sherry like a kid; he treats her like a person.
"Your jacket..." she says, pulling it tighter around herself. "Leon, are you sure?"
He smiles, and the storm inside me calms for just that minute. "Of course I'm sure. You keep it, and whenever you feel afraid or alone, you just wear it and know I'll be back soon."
She nods, hugs him again. "But hurry back. We need you. Claire and I need you."
At the mention of my name, he gets to his feet and moves toward me. I can't meet those true blue eyes. I'm staring suddenly at his chest, watching it rise and fall with his breathing. I think about his heart hammering beneath his chest and the fragility of the human body. I don't want him to leave, because then I can't protect him. Then...he can't protect me.
He says my name, almost too soft for me to hear it. I'm suddenly tipping forward, leaning against his chest, so close I can hear that hammering, feel it shake us both. He's holding me up, supporting me easily, as if I'm not leaning full out against him.
Then I regain my feet, and he's not supporting my weight anymore; we're holding each other. That scares me, because when I hold him, he's holding me too. I can't have one without the other. I guess that's the way it should be.
I have to break the silence, because his heartbeat is deafening and drowning out my own, as if there were no heartbeat but his. "Don't worry. I'll take care of Sherry."
He touches my cheek then, lightly, urging me to look up at him. All I can see when I look into his eyes is my own reflection.
Our breath mingles as he says, "You take care of yourself, too."
I nod dumbly. If I move while looking in those eyes, I might splash. He takes advantage of my immobility to drop a kiss on my forehead, as if bestowing a blessing on me. Then he lets me go, and I don't try to hold him there, nor does he try to hold me.
I try to say the words. Risk them. I can't, my lips are trembling and won't work.
I hear the rumble and purr of the motor. Every nerve is screaming at me to move, not to let him go. He raises a hand to wave, winking at us, and I feel my arm waving back, almost stupidly, as if I was an automaton, not paying attention to my own movements.
Sherry's sniffling, trying to put on her bravest face. And for once, I cannot comfort her, because I'm still staring after the winking red brake lights, seeing them burn through the falling dark.
I might have dreamt him up, I realize, but he's left evidence: the leather jacket wrapped around Sherry's shoulders, a cellular telephone number, a Beretta 9mm tapping against my knee.
*****
I've missed him. Missed his call. Missed him all day. Missing--the word makes a strange sound.
I took Sherry out to dinner, because I can't sit by the phone anymore. The reflection of the kitchen light off the white plastic is too bright; it hurts my eyes. The apartment seems so chokingly small. My eyes flick around it as I absently change the channel on the television. I've had worse. I have to keep telling myself that I'll have better someday, that this is not the end.
Why does it feel like the end?
Poor Sherry. I have a feeling that her chatter is mostly for my benefit. She talked nonstop through dinner and barely ate anything. Can't say I blame her; I haven't been all that hungry lately either.
She's asleep now, and the blinking light on the answering machine is grinning at me like a crouching tiger. I'd missed the call; he must have phoned when we were out.
There was noise around him, the crackle of his cell phone, but he sounds fine. I hate him for sounding so warm, when I keep turning the heat up in the tiny apartment, wrapping the blankets tighter around myself.
Back soon, he said. Tying up loose ends, he said. What am I then? What is Sherry? Are we just loose ends that he hasn't been able to tie up yet?
It might explain the helpless dangling feeling in my stomach.
I press the "Save" button, hearing the clack and whir of the tiny tape as it rewinds itself. I thought maybe hearing it would be enough, but now I realize it isn't, not nearly. I won't be satisfied until he's back here.
(He's tying up loose ends,) I think. (Here's hoping he doesn't hang himself.)
*****
I dream.
I dream I'm back in Raccoon City, in the police station. I see the flash of pale hair in a dark hall, moving away, away from me.
"Sherry," I call, turning in her direction. She only runs faster.
"Sherry!" I call, more urgently now. She can't go off by herself. She needs me...I start to run after her, but my boots feel like they're filled with cement.
"Sherry. It's me. It's Claire." It's too late. She's outrun me, turning a corner in the empty hallway. "Sherry."
(Don't leave me...)
I turn the corner, and there's no floor beneath me. I can't stop my fall, can't stop my head from that extra smack against the ground. It's cold, dark. Rolling over onto my back, I look up. I see a ceiling fan, whirring lazily above me.
Where?...
I hear voices, my brother's voice. He's talking to me. No, he's talking about me.
"Chris?" I'm trying to get up. There's debris all around me.
"I can't tell my sister about this trip because doing so could put her in danger." My brother's voice is underwater and far away. "Please forgive me, Claire." The words of his journal, spoken out loud.
"Chris!" I yell, getting to my feet. "Where are you?"
I hear footsteps, and the slam of a door. He's gone.
"No..."
(Don't leave me...alone...)
The slam of the door again. I hear the hammer being pulled back on a gun, deafening. Then a sigh of relief, as if the person who came in was looking for a fight and wasn't expecting an empty room.
Footsteps. Coming closer.
"Hello?" I call, my voice echoing up the walls. Where am I? It's so dark in here...
I feel in my pocket for the lighter, the one Chris gave me. Maybe that will help.
I hear pages flipping, then a voice. "Poor Claire. It looks like we won't be finding her brother."
Leon's voice.
"Leon?" I call hopefully, forgetting the lighter for the moment.
"Where IS Claire, anyway?"
"I'm here!" I call. "Leon, I'm here. Where are you?"
He doesn't hear me. I hear his footsteps, his soft breathing. A familiar sound.
I flick the lighter, over and over, desperately; oblivious to the small pain it causes my fingers. The spark blinds me briefly, then the flame flares to life and I can see the debris around me.
Crumples faces, distorted bodies, swirling colors. Corpses?
No--paper. Paper people; they're from the calendar that sits on the desk across from my brother's. One of those page-a-day calendars that praises flowers, kittens, or in this case, great artists.
This page, the one I'm looking at, is today's. Van Gogh's impossible starry night is making me dizzy as the colors flow around.
Blue. Impossible blue. True blue...
"Leon!" I try to yell, try to force my voice into a scream, but it's barely a whisper. No one can hear me. They've already forgotten me, a calendar page they've ripped off and thrown away.
"You belong with us now," one of Degas' ballerinas informs me calmly, Bubble Yum stuck on her white leotard.
I wake in tears, in pain. Reaching for something, my hands claws. Alone.
My least favorite place to be.
I realize that it's got to stop, that I'm drowning like this. I've reached some kind of end, but I'm still here; this is the point where the credits roll and the crew packs up and goes home, but I'm still here, alone. What happens to the characters when the movie ends? Where does a story go when it's unfinished?
I laugh about it, realizing how comfortable this feeling is, how familiar. It's funny that way; you can get used to the tears and the pain, and forget that there was once normality in your life.
I almost blush as I make my way to Sherry's room, as if I'm doing something terrible and intimate. Maybe I am.
The little girl is sleeping soundly. Her soft, even breathing comforts me as I tuck the covers gently around her; she's kicked them off in her sleep. I don't blame her. I have become a restless sleeper myself.
I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, as he did to me, careful not to wake her. I can't have anyone seeing this. If she wakes up and talks to me, it will kill me. My heart will break and then I'll die.
I quietly rifle through the closet, casting the small outfits aside to find what I'm looking for. I take the jacket off the hanger and look at it, feel the coolness of the leather against my hands, feeing the letters stitched in, R.P.D.
With one more glance at my "little sister", and a tiny smile in her direction, I leave her room and head back to my own, the jacket lying in my arms like a limp body. I'm almost afraid to hold it too tightly, as if it will fall from my arms and I'll lose it forever.
Back in my room, I shut the door, locking it. I know that locks don't work, that monsters break down doors and ravage things, but I lock it anyway. The scent of leather beckons to me, whispering my name.
I slip my arms through the sleeves, feeling how large the jacket is on my small frame. As I reach my hands through the sleeves, it's almost like being drawn into an embrace, only not quite, not as good. But it's something, something I didn't quite have before.
I fall backward onto my bed, feeling weightless and free for the first time in days. My feet leave the floor and for a minute I'm flying, and then I am cradled by the softness of a warm bed in a safe place. I'm cradled in his jacket, in his arms, feeling the leather slip like a lover's caress over my skin. I'm safe in his embrace. Smelling his scent. Shaking from tears.
I can hear his voice in my ear, maybe, proving that there are still heroes, that I can melt away and not be hard as a coffin nail all the time. I can hear him, feel his breath warm on my neck, ghosting over my ear.
(Whenever you feel alone...)
The zipper is cold on my skin, the leather soaking up the heat from my body. Warm. Warm as an embrace.
I'm not alone...we're together...
The backs of my eyelids are wonderfully cool and dark. I can feel the tears slipping down my cheeks, coursing over my bravest face, but I'm safe, safe with him. Safe...
I'm suddenly too tired to move, too tired to even pull the covers over my body. Certainly too tired to return the jacket the Sherry's room.
Oh well. I'll do it tomorrow.
I suddenly smile at that.
Tomorrow.
It's a nice thought.
*****
I started writing this because of a memory that suddenly rose to tease me this month. It's of a crush I had on the guy who got me and my friends into RE to begin with. I was sweet sixteen at the time. There were a bunch of us, watching the opening movie, and I laughed, "Ooh, Leon's cute." He began to tease me, saying I'd have secret pictures of Leon S. Kennedy all over my room, and would make a better Claire, and would beat up Ada Wong for the officer's affections. I remember getting a ride home in his car, with the music blasting and the window open, blowing my hair. At any rate, it remains one of my nicest memories, and I wanted to keep the warm feeling it wrapped around my heart. So, I thought I'd pay Leon a visit *^_^*
Please, please read and review! I accept reviews of all kinds, just please be constructive, okay? Thank you.
*****
I'm waiting, waiting for my turn.
I am no stranger to waiting for my turn. I have an older brother, you see. He got to do everything first, and I had to wait. I remember having wide eyes and pigtails and watching in awe as my brother got to stay up late and stay out late and go out on dates and drive a car. I always wondered what it would be like to be older and not have to wait to do things.
Now I sort of am the older sister--the younger girl is standing in front of me, like one of those department-store pictures where the poses are unnatural and everyone's hand is resting uncomfortably on someone else's shoulder. Poor little thing, she's got enough on her shoulders. We all do.
I've got my hand on her shoulder now, trying not to squeeze. I have to be the big sister; I have to be strong for her. I have to be strong for her, even if sometimes I feel like crying, even if sometimes I get scared, even if sometimes I want very badly to be held and comforted. But I can't do any of that, because I have to be strong.
Suddenly she rips violently away from my hand, startling me. She doesn't mean it; she's just suddenly launched herself at him, into his arms. He is there, rock steady to catch her, cradling her against him as he reaches to gently stroke her pale hair. He is murmuring formless comfort in her ear, but his eyes are on me. I'm still a little apart from them, waiting, waiting for my turn.
I can see the muscles cord in his arms as he lifts her up. She weighs almost nothing, but even so my eyes praise his strength as he effortlessly swings her into his embrace. She latches onto him, as if she wants to crawl through him. I know the feeling.
"But Leon, I don't want you to go!" the little girl cries, her sobs muffled into his neck. I stay silent behind them, letting her say all the things I want to say but can't. Oh, to be the little girl, to be scooped up into his embrace and held close to his hammering heart, drowning in the scent of his aftershave and just shutting my eyes so tight, so tight...
I shake these thoughts away. It's surprisingly easy. All my life I've had to be one of the boys--I've had to be tough, hard. I can do that now.
I don't mind it really, the waiting. Every minute longer is one more minute I can look him over, freeze him in my memory, just in case.
Just in case.
I don't want to think about what a "just in case" might be. My life used to be like, "uh oh, I'm late for class". Now it's "uh oh, another viral outbreak". "Just in case I can't call you tonight" got upgraded to "just in case I never see you again".
He's telling her that now she has to put on her bravest face, that I'm going to be there and she'll be safe, and he'll be back before she can say "Disneyland". It's cute to listen to his efforts to calm her, see the sparkle of her smile like a little jewel as he pets her hair and hugs her.
"You will come back, though, won't you?" she murmurs into his shoulder. My body goes snowy cold, waiting for his answer.
He smiles at her. "Of course I'm going to come back. Don't you worry."
He whispers it into her seashell ear, but his eyes are on me, the innocent blue of spring skies. They hold the smile, the promise.
(I'll be there.)
My chest aches with the relief, my heart making a hollow sound, knocking against my breastbone fiercely.
He sets Sherry down. She is reluctant to let go, it seems. Is it my turn yet? I've got my heart chained in my mouth. I need to get this over with, so I can let go. So he won't have to know.
He smiles once again at the little girl, eyes twinkling, and shrugs out of his jacket, the leather straining over his broad shoulders. My eyes follow the movements of his body, the laziness of his grace. The leather creaks and sighs, deafening to my ears.
"Here." He drapes the jacket around Sherry's small shoulders and kneels to look her in the eye. I can't stop my smile. He instinctively moved to her level, proving that they were equals. He doesn't treat the Sherry like a kid; he treats her like a person.
"Your jacket..." she says, pulling it tighter around herself. "Leon, are you sure?"
He smiles, and the storm inside me calms for just that minute. "Of course I'm sure. You keep it, and whenever you feel afraid or alone, you just wear it and know I'll be back soon."
She nods, hugs him again. "But hurry back. We need you. Claire and I need you."
At the mention of my name, he gets to his feet and moves toward me. I can't meet those true blue eyes. I'm staring suddenly at his chest, watching it rise and fall with his breathing. I think about his heart hammering beneath his chest and the fragility of the human body. I don't want him to leave, because then I can't protect him. Then...he can't protect me.
He says my name, almost too soft for me to hear it. I'm suddenly tipping forward, leaning against his chest, so close I can hear that hammering, feel it shake us both. He's holding me up, supporting me easily, as if I'm not leaning full out against him.
Then I regain my feet, and he's not supporting my weight anymore; we're holding each other. That scares me, because when I hold him, he's holding me too. I can't have one without the other. I guess that's the way it should be.
I have to break the silence, because his heartbeat is deafening and drowning out my own, as if there were no heartbeat but his. "Don't worry. I'll take care of Sherry."
He touches my cheek then, lightly, urging me to look up at him. All I can see when I look into his eyes is my own reflection.
Our breath mingles as he says, "You take care of yourself, too."
I nod dumbly. If I move while looking in those eyes, I might splash. He takes advantage of my immobility to drop a kiss on my forehead, as if bestowing a blessing on me. Then he lets me go, and I don't try to hold him there, nor does he try to hold me.
I try to say the words. Risk them. I can't, my lips are trembling and won't work.
I hear the rumble and purr of the motor. Every nerve is screaming at me to move, not to let him go. He raises a hand to wave, winking at us, and I feel my arm waving back, almost stupidly, as if I was an automaton, not paying attention to my own movements.
Sherry's sniffling, trying to put on her bravest face. And for once, I cannot comfort her, because I'm still staring after the winking red brake lights, seeing them burn through the falling dark.
I might have dreamt him up, I realize, but he's left evidence: the leather jacket wrapped around Sherry's shoulders, a cellular telephone number, a Beretta 9mm tapping against my knee.
*****
I've missed him. Missed his call. Missed him all day. Missing--the word makes a strange sound.
I took Sherry out to dinner, because I can't sit by the phone anymore. The reflection of the kitchen light off the white plastic is too bright; it hurts my eyes. The apartment seems so chokingly small. My eyes flick around it as I absently change the channel on the television. I've had worse. I have to keep telling myself that I'll have better someday, that this is not the end.
Why does it feel like the end?
Poor Sherry. I have a feeling that her chatter is mostly for my benefit. She talked nonstop through dinner and barely ate anything. Can't say I blame her; I haven't been all that hungry lately either.
She's asleep now, and the blinking light on the answering machine is grinning at me like a crouching tiger. I'd missed the call; he must have phoned when we were out.
There was noise around him, the crackle of his cell phone, but he sounds fine. I hate him for sounding so warm, when I keep turning the heat up in the tiny apartment, wrapping the blankets tighter around myself.
Back soon, he said. Tying up loose ends, he said. What am I then? What is Sherry? Are we just loose ends that he hasn't been able to tie up yet?
It might explain the helpless dangling feeling in my stomach.
I press the "Save" button, hearing the clack and whir of the tiny tape as it rewinds itself. I thought maybe hearing it would be enough, but now I realize it isn't, not nearly. I won't be satisfied until he's back here.
(He's tying up loose ends,) I think. (Here's hoping he doesn't hang himself.)
*****
I dream.
I dream I'm back in Raccoon City, in the police station. I see the flash of pale hair in a dark hall, moving away, away from me.
"Sherry," I call, turning in her direction. She only runs faster.
"Sherry!" I call, more urgently now. She can't go off by herself. She needs me...I start to run after her, but my boots feel like they're filled with cement.
"Sherry. It's me. It's Claire." It's too late. She's outrun me, turning a corner in the empty hallway. "Sherry."
(Don't leave me...)
I turn the corner, and there's no floor beneath me. I can't stop my fall, can't stop my head from that extra smack against the ground. It's cold, dark. Rolling over onto my back, I look up. I see a ceiling fan, whirring lazily above me.
Where?...
I hear voices, my brother's voice. He's talking to me. No, he's talking about me.
"Chris?" I'm trying to get up. There's debris all around me.
"I can't tell my sister about this trip because doing so could put her in danger." My brother's voice is underwater and far away. "Please forgive me, Claire." The words of his journal, spoken out loud.
"Chris!" I yell, getting to my feet. "Where are you?"
I hear footsteps, and the slam of a door. He's gone.
"No..."
(Don't leave me...alone...)
The slam of the door again. I hear the hammer being pulled back on a gun, deafening. Then a sigh of relief, as if the person who came in was looking for a fight and wasn't expecting an empty room.
Footsteps. Coming closer.
"Hello?" I call, my voice echoing up the walls. Where am I? It's so dark in here...
I feel in my pocket for the lighter, the one Chris gave me. Maybe that will help.
I hear pages flipping, then a voice. "Poor Claire. It looks like we won't be finding her brother."
Leon's voice.
"Leon?" I call hopefully, forgetting the lighter for the moment.
"Where IS Claire, anyway?"
"I'm here!" I call. "Leon, I'm here. Where are you?"
He doesn't hear me. I hear his footsteps, his soft breathing. A familiar sound.
I flick the lighter, over and over, desperately; oblivious to the small pain it causes my fingers. The spark blinds me briefly, then the flame flares to life and I can see the debris around me.
Crumples faces, distorted bodies, swirling colors. Corpses?
No--paper. Paper people; they're from the calendar that sits on the desk across from my brother's. One of those page-a-day calendars that praises flowers, kittens, or in this case, great artists.
This page, the one I'm looking at, is today's. Van Gogh's impossible starry night is making me dizzy as the colors flow around.
Blue. Impossible blue. True blue...
"Leon!" I try to yell, try to force my voice into a scream, but it's barely a whisper. No one can hear me. They've already forgotten me, a calendar page they've ripped off and thrown away.
"You belong with us now," one of Degas' ballerinas informs me calmly, Bubble Yum stuck on her white leotard.
I wake in tears, in pain. Reaching for something, my hands claws. Alone.
My least favorite place to be.
I realize that it's got to stop, that I'm drowning like this. I've reached some kind of end, but I'm still here; this is the point where the credits roll and the crew packs up and goes home, but I'm still here, alone. What happens to the characters when the movie ends? Where does a story go when it's unfinished?
I laugh about it, realizing how comfortable this feeling is, how familiar. It's funny that way; you can get used to the tears and the pain, and forget that there was once normality in your life.
I almost blush as I make my way to Sherry's room, as if I'm doing something terrible and intimate. Maybe I am.
The little girl is sleeping soundly. Her soft, even breathing comforts me as I tuck the covers gently around her; she's kicked them off in her sleep. I don't blame her. I have become a restless sleeper myself.
I press a gentle kiss to her forehead, as he did to me, careful not to wake her. I can't have anyone seeing this. If she wakes up and talks to me, it will kill me. My heart will break and then I'll die.
I quietly rifle through the closet, casting the small outfits aside to find what I'm looking for. I take the jacket off the hanger and look at it, feel the coolness of the leather against my hands, feeing the letters stitched in, R.P.D.
With one more glance at my "little sister", and a tiny smile in her direction, I leave her room and head back to my own, the jacket lying in my arms like a limp body. I'm almost afraid to hold it too tightly, as if it will fall from my arms and I'll lose it forever.
Back in my room, I shut the door, locking it. I know that locks don't work, that monsters break down doors and ravage things, but I lock it anyway. The scent of leather beckons to me, whispering my name.
I slip my arms through the sleeves, feeling how large the jacket is on my small frame. As I reach my hands through the sleeves, it's almost like being drawn into an embrace, only not quite, not as good. But it's something, something I didn't quite have before.
I fall backward onto my bed, feeling weightless and free for the first time in days. My feet leave the floor and for a minute I'm flying, and then I am cradled by the softness of a warm bed in a safe place. I'm cradled in his jacket, in his arms, feeling the leather slip like a lover's caress over my skin. I'm safe in his embrace. Smelling his scent. Shaking from tears.
I can hear his voice in my ear, maybe, proving that there are still heroes, that I can melt away and not be hard as a coffin nail all the time. I can hear him, feel his breath warm on my neck, ghosting over my ear.
(Whenever you feel alone...)
The zipper is cold on my skin, the leather soaking up the heat from my body. Warm. Warm as an embrace.
I'm not alone...we're together...
The backs of my eyelids are wonderfully cool and dark. I can feel the tears slipping down my cheeks, coursing over my bravest face, but I'm safe, safe with him. Safe...
I'm suddenly too tired to move, too tired to even pull the covers over my body. Certainly too tired to return the jacket the Sherry's room.
Oh well. I'll do it tomorrow.
I suddenly smile at that.
Tomorrow.
It's a nice thought.
*****
I started writing this because of a memory that suddenly rose to tease me this month. It's of a crush I had on the guy who got me and my friends into RE to begin with. I was sweet sixteen at the time. There were a bunch of us, watching the opening movie, and I laughed, "Ooh, Leon's cute." He began to tease me, saying I'd have secret pictures of Leon S. Kennedy all over my room, and would make a better Claire, and would beat up Ada Wong for the officer's affections. I remember getting a ride home in his car, with the music blasting and the window open, blowing my hair. At any rate, it remains one of my nicest memories, and I wanted to keep the warm feeling it wrapped around my heart. So, I thought I'd pay Leon a visit *^_^*
Please, please read and review! I accept reviews of all kinds, just please be constructive, okay? Thank you.