Stuck Between Living and Dying

"Grief is the price we pay for love." - Queen Elizabeth II

That day, the rain fell hard.

Of all the people in the world, Claire had heard the news from her brother. Over the past months, she had poured her efforts into her work with Terrasave but half of her mind would always wander the deserts of Africa, where she last heard his voice before things went dark. She could never forgot the way Chris had smiled when he told her, "Jill's alive." She drew up the corners of her lips, but it wasn't a smile-not to her.

Then he said, still smiling, "He blew up. He's down in hell and he's never coming back out." She got it. For him and the others, it was repose from a ten-year long war. But or Claire, it was the end of something… she didn't know what to call it. Despite the carnage, she hid the tears behind glowing eyes and buoyant smiles.

She had never realized the price of Jill's life and Chris' happiness was her own happiness.

Claire met Ada, not a first for both of them. Claire had known who his shadow was back way in '98.

"He left this for you," she said, sliding an envelope across the table. The elegant script in which he'd written her name, "Claire," stood out in the café, a depiction of how far his world had always been from hers. He lived in a penthouse, with exquisite tea served in porcelain and dreaming goals attainable by him alone, she in a run-down house, living on cheap coffee in paper cups, running from monsters that roam the night.

Ada stood up. Her voice offered no comfort, her body language likewise. Emotions on the field were a risk and playing around was never her style, preferring to be elusive and evasive. That's what Leon had told her anyways. And she believed it.

"Miss, the shop's about to close." The waitress' voice drifted through her thoughts. Ada had left a long time ago. Claire figured she should as well.

The rain was pouring. She didn't mind being wet, even welcomed the cold, but she didn't want to risk ruining the paper, smearing the ink in which he'd last written her name. It was all she had left of him now. Her footsteps splashed water across the asphalt. Hugging the papers tightly across her chest, she pulled the door and threw herself in, carefully placing everything on the passenger seat.

Inside the enveloped contained official documents. He had left millions in twelve banks, each under different name, all of it bequeathed to her. That excluded the expensive presents he has given her in the past few years.

She threw her arms across the wheel, took a gulp of air, and the tears she'd fought so hard to hold back finally came, flowing over her cheeks in hot streams. The money was enough for two or three luxurious lifetimes, but it would never be enough to bring the dead back.

A lawyer arrived at her doorstep a few days later, claiming he had known Albert Wesker personally. He was given a job to make sure things would go smoothly, the papers, the bequeathing. And even though Mr. Anderson, like so many other lawyers, was paid a high amount to fulfill the wish of a dead man, it drew a faint smile on her lips. Wesker knew her so well, sometimes better than even she knew herself. He knew how much she hated dealing with papers and that she had enough of it on top of her desk. She was gripped by another wave of tears. No man could ever claim to know her like he did, not even Chris.

Claire didn't think a grave would be erected for the world's most notorious bioterrorist. But there she was, standing in front of his death bed, plain and ordinary like any other, but existing nonetheless. Probably an image of profound respect or mockery, maybe both. The tombstone was mundane, eye-catching only to those who were specifically searching for it. Was Albert Wesker meant to be forgotten, even after everything, a man of such caliber and intelligence, fearsome but great?

The autumn wind bit her skin harshly. She was seemingly numb to it already. Secretly, she was hoping he was alive somewhere, recovering from another death he escaped. Six months had passed; the trees still swayed in the wind; and life continued. Her fire was slowly dwindling.

The silence was loaded with a heavy weight but her words refused to come out. She barely spoke these days, could barely face Chris or anyone in her current condition. The doctor had said it was due to depression and had given her medicine for it. Claire knew it was more than that. It didn't have a name, much a less a cure.

"...I guess…." What? What did she guess? All of her emotion has been thrown into disarray. Her eyes were red and the November season didn't help. She didn't know what to do with a life of no purpose, soulless and empty.

The world kept turning, and she knew she had to keep turning with it. No matter how painful or unbearable it might be, she had to keep going.

A Redfield never gives up. Never.

"Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way."

- Anne Morrow Lindbergh

AN: Thanks to Caitlin. I owe her a lot of thanks. She's really good at what she does ^_^