Memento Vivere

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own any of the characters from Resident Evil. ; w ; Although I wish I did on a constant basis. This is merely for the reader's enjoyment. Thanks for reading! :3

A/N: For those of you who're unfamiliar with latin - Memento Vivere means 'Remember to live'.

In her sleep, she writhes and groans like the countless monsters she has faced. Her pale, slender hands run over her porcelain face. Unaware, she curls into a tight cocoon. Her gut twists and turns, flopping at an inconsistent rate. In her haunted dreams, she sees decaying hands reach out towards her. The ghastly, gray skin peels and flakes, revealing the muted muscle underneath. Their grinning faces make a mockery of man. The horrors of Raccoon City will never leave Jill Valentine.

She sits alone in her room, peering out the shaded window. A tree's fragile branches sway with the gentle ministrations of the wind. She pulls the pink, wooden chair closer to the window. Her pert nose presses against the cold glass. Cerulean hues blink once in a dreamy state before tearing her face from the window. Sherry Birkin rests her small hand on the glass, slowly dragging it down.

Was it so wrong? The lone thought courses through his- her mind. Slim hands travel over his- her hips, smoothing out the dress that compliments her figure. Alfred Ashford- Alexia Ashford peers into the looking glass. It makes up for loss time.

As the ivory flake ghosts over Wesker's skin, it lingers. It doesn't melt into a sleek droplet. The snowflake remains, reminding him that he's cold to the bone.

The Tyrant runs its thick claws through his elastic skin. He chokes on crimson as it slips from the edges of mouth. Red adorns his body like an accessory. There's so much blood, but Captain Albert Wesker pays little heed to it. The Tyrant discards him like a piece of rubbish. His body slides to the ground once his shades crack from the impact. His heart slows. His lungs stop. Circulation is put to a halt. In a matter of seconds, something changes. To make up for the loss of life, his eyes glow. He smirks.

It doesn't feel right as Chris Redfield sits in the Confession Booth. He tenses. His muscles twitch underneath his skin. Brown brows knit together as nervousness traces over his features. He can hear his jaw pop as he grits his teeth. Chris lowers his head, staring at the dark floor. He begins to speak, "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

A voice, vaguely familiar, answers him, "And what is your sin, Boy?"

The accent and the hiss- They unnerve Chris.

He dismisses it as mere ghosts and continues, "I've killed to save others."

He hears a chortle and bites on his lower lip.

"You've been forgiven."

It seems too simple. Too easy.

If only he saw the midnight-colored shades on the other side.

Claire Redfield stares at the gold frame in the living room. She doesn't have the courage to pick it up. It's her parents, in their brilliant youth. She takes a deep breathe and edges closer. She never had the chance to say 'Hello', 'Goodbye', or 'I love you.' The thought, alone, makes her choke up. With a trembling grasp, she reaches for the picture.

Footsteps pad across the wooden floorboards.

"Something up?" The gruff tone of her brother inquires.

She turns around with a small smile, "No, just wanted to see you."

Chris flings his arms in the air as the rain matted his hair. A broad grin lightens his features. He jumps for joy as it begins to monsoon.

Captain Wesker turns towards Barry Burton. His expression remains neutral, "Does he always act like this?"

Barry shakes his head with a low chuckle, "Sometimes."

A corner of Wesker's mouth twitches, but it vanishes.

They decide to join Chris in his celebration.

Jill shouts from the office as he hair neatly framers her face, "You three look like drowned rats."

"New York," Chris says in awe. His eyes are wide like a curious child's. He spins in a circle, taking in the bustling streets and bright lights.

"Remember that we're on business, Christopher," Wesker scolds.

Chris pouts.

A firm hand rests on his shoulder, guiding him forward.

Laughter fills the office as Jill taps her finger on a coarse book. She points to the black and white picture of a youthful Chris Redfield.

"You look the same," she says with a soft smile.

A low, accented voice interrupts, "On the contrary, he looks like a young jock who was at the height of the social ladder. Though he might have struggled in school a bit."

Chris' shoulders sag, clearly embarrassed.

"Mo…ther…" The abomination cries before plunging to her death.

Jill Valentine recoils, though her finger remains on the trigger. She visibly winces. The expression of horror is hidden by her brown locks.

Barry Burton rests a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Jill shrugs it off and takes a step back. She heads towards the exit even though she trembles. She feels like a monster for robbing a child from her mother.