A/N: Sorry, revising again. Bad habit.

Falling and Dying

Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth

- look at the dying man's struggle at his last extremity

and then tell me that something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.

-Soren Keirkegaard

Have you been to Walmart lately? Go there sometime. Listen to the angry wails of children, the disgruntled waiting in lines, see the empty eyes of the cashiers. Look at the whales of humanity. Pinnacle of evolution.

Do you feel dirty yet? Looking at this filth?

Do you see beauty here? Are you proud to be a part of them?

This is where it begins. With beauty and pride. For a few it begins with a catalyst, a man who would be God. Would cull the weak from the strong. For more it began with a low moan in the shadows, the sickly smell of decay. A shambling thing biting an artery, sucking down hot blood.

For the sly ones who know it began with a strange man in a mansion with children and leeches who wanted a better world.

It began with a dream as old as time, a philosopher's idealistic vision: a better world, filled with worthy people. Older than you or Umbrella itself.

Shhhh. Don't object. You think humanity deserves this. In those moments when you were screaming at Irons and frantically telling everyone who would listen there's fucking flesh eating things in the forest, your squad is gone you saw them die horribly and all you got was laughter and derision.

Cracked under the stress they said. No evidence. Perhaps delusional.

They deserve this. They had a chance to do something, to leave, to prepare, to hold someone accountable for the people you watched die screaming. But Racoon City was at Walmart. At the mall.

Has the price of milk gone up? What about diapers? Did you preorder that videogame?

No one listened. It came for them. And now the world isn't listening while you watch again.

It's more than you can bear.

You're the one who remembers the screams. The child begging mommy to stop I'm scared mommy why won't you say anything mommy what's wrong with your eyes stay away – and then the screams. Remember the sound of flesh being ripped from bone, of sinews snapping under pressure. The smell of rotting flesh growing stronger as shambling limbs come closer. The moans of the infected.

You can't forget. Your dreams won't let you.

You knew those faces. Knew the little man who owned the corner store where you got the paper every morning. You blew his face off with a shotgun as he lunged at you.

The little boys you taught to pitch and bat at little league? You saw their sharp little teeth in a screaming woman's entrails as you threw the grenade at them.

You wake screaming from dreams of a town gone that will never leave you.

But don't be bitter. You have no right. You have more than so many others.

You are the lucky one. You survived.

No you didn't. You just died in different ways.

You fell. Like in your dreams.

Your booted feet moved with the speed of desperation as you forced air past your aching throat into overworked lungs. You had to save him. Chris. You had no weapon, gun and knife both gone but your body was all you needed.

Muscles ached as you forced yourself faster, not thinking of anything but the moment.

Not of who you were going to hit or how you were going to die.

Glass sliced your hands making you bleed but Wesker was screaming and falling with you. Triumph was a hot rush before you hear Chris calling your name in agony.

You will never see him again. You hope he knows how much you loved him. Pray he knows as you fall too quickly and yet slowly grimly grasping a warm leather coat with both hand. The coat of a man you trusted.

A traitor.

You are a blade forged in his furnace, trained and molded by his hand. His own creation stabbing him in the back. So like him. Its fucking poetic.

The thought bothers you. He's not something you ever want to be or see things in common with.

You twist and grasp. You will looking in the eyes while you fall. Your eyes will be the last thing he sees.

His eyes are red-gold, pupils slit.

His face reminds you of a past you remember so well but feel so far from. Sharp angry features, glaring confused eyes. You have seen this face before. The day he found out the cat's name.

His eyes remind you of the cat. A cat named Albert who lived in the Raccoon City station and had the same name as a Captain there. A cat you forgot.

Your lips quirk in a smile as hysterical laughter bubbles in your throat.

You wonder if he survived or if he caught a zombie mouse.

Hellfire eyes stare in confusion as you hold his face in your hand.

Perhaps you are mad. The whole world is mad what does it matter?

All you can think of is how Wesker has Al's eyes.

You hit hard.

The water killed you. Your very bones remember.

At the moment of death you became a window and shattered, every shard reflecting your face. Each a piece of your memory, your life, all the things you hold so dear. After what you've lost you can't bear to lose even one.

You can't bear to forget what no one else seems to remember.

The glass cuts your hands and your blood is the mortar as you brick yourself back together.

What you see is a face you don't recognize.

A sallow blond face with your eyes. Blue windows to a different soul.

The blood from your hands is like a rope and you can't break free, can't leave.

Life is not done with you yet again even if Jill Valentine died in the Spencer Mansion long ago, died with her dreams and her faith. And died again the sacrifice to cleanse humanity's soul.

You are just a creature of vengeance. You are a Fury.

And this is the story of your new life.

Dying is a wild night and a new road. - Emily Dickinson