Blue Mercy

"I once asked Mom how much she loved me. She smiled and gave the typical mother-answer all moms would have said.

"More than anything. More than my own life. More than the world and all my friends."

Then the smile widened to balance out the sadness in her eyes, the tears that spilled more truth than her words. I never brought up this question again.

As a child, I was taught to never question, just do what I had to do, and accept what could be explained but wasn't. Why do we live alone, in the middle of nowhere? How come I wasn't allowed to have friends? Why don't we ever go out? Where's Dad? All the questions were carefully avoided, and it hurt to be kept in the dark, to not feel the love that was overly emphasized to compensate for the lack of affection from the missing parent. Mom tried too hard…but then she just stopped trying altogether.

A few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, I couldn't contain my frustration anymore. I was days away from legally becoming an adult, yet, I didn't feel like one. Being sheltered for so long, I grew up needy and dependent. I felt like a boy when I should have been feeling like a man, and I ended up blaming Mom for that. The love and respect I had for her turned to resentment and disgust, and I said a lot of things that drove us apart, but thankfully, later brought us closer.

Now, you might be thinking, what exactly did I say to get her to talk? Well, after a slew of hateful words, I asked if she knew what it felt like to be controlled, to obey for all the wrong reasons, and most importantly, to feel like a prisoner in your own body.

I was surprised by her answer. She simply nodded. She wasn't angry, and from the calm look on her face, I knew she wasn't going to elaborate. But, her lack or response infuriated me. I had the right to know, I deserved to know, and so, I called her a liar. It was meant to provoke her to open up to me…I never meant to harm her.

You couldn't even begin to imagine the guilt that was eating me inside when I discovered the truth. It was more overwhelming than the fear of not knowing who I was, because, I really didn't know who I was anymore. I hated that…I hated knowing I was the product of Evil, that I didn't deserve any love because of who I was, but most of all, I hated not being able to get rid of the one thing I could never change—that the man who did this to Mom lived inside me, and would continue to until the end of my life. Before Mom's confession, I thought I knew myself like the back of my hands, but when I stared at them after knowing the truth, I only recognized them as hands that had committed murder, rape, sins I couldn't believe had been real.

I was a wreck, and I think I still am today as I tell you this.

She made me promise that I wouldn't go looking for you. When she ran, she left with only one regret…that I would never meet you-the person who would have been my real father had things turned out differently. But she was scared, afraid that you and the BSAA were going to take me, take my life before I could even live it. So, for twenty years, we lived in seclusion.

Two months ago, the traces of the P30 left in her body killed her. If I had spoken sooner, taken initiative, maybe I could have saved her, but I don't think she wanted to be saved. I…I think she knew her death was coming.

I feel terrible for breaking my promise, but I'm tired of running. I don't know if I'll regret this, after all, I don't even know you."

I stopped, took a deep breath, and feeling like this was the appropriate moment, I offered the man standing next to me what I had kept hidden beneath the giant bouquet of sunflowers. "But after reading about you, I would like to."

I was careful to make sure our hands wouldn't touch the slightest when he reached out to accept the blue leather bound diary and Mom's BSAA cap that had aged with her. No ring on his finger, I noticed.

"They're yours now, Chr-" Something didn't feel quite right. "Mr. Redfield," I amended.

Don't think he heard me. I watched him stare intently at the objects in his palms -the sunset casting faint shadows of them across his face as if to shroud his tears- and realized he was just as handsome as Mom had described him. Chris Redfield was now fifty-five, but the details Mom had written for the same man twenty years ago were still apparent. Toned body, thick mass of hair gelled back, chiseled face, the five o'clock shadow she sometimes hated, and the fierce set of eyes promising pain on the battlefield and anything but that when he was with her, alone.

Finally, he looked up, and with a weak laugh, whispered, "Call me Dad."

The knot of tension in the pit of my stomach found its way to my throat. "Dad…"

'Dad' placed the diary and the cap on the grass-covered ground before he helped me lower the bouquet of Mom's favorite flower before her plain tombstone; there was no epitaph—that was written in our hearts, too long to be documented with words. Neither of us felt compelled to break the silence. Maybe we were both trying to hear Mom, listen for her approval, as silly as that may sound.

A strong arm slid over my shoulders, inviting me to lean in. I had never expected our family reunion to turn out like this.

It was better than I'd imagined; and I knew I was going to be okay.

-End

A/N: I'd like to dedicate this story to The Magnificent Kiwi, who is an awesome writer and friend. The idea for this story came to me last year, a few weeks after completing RE5, but I honestly didn't know how I wanted to write the story then, so I put it off. After reading Kiwi's amazing Chris/Jill stories for about a year now, especially the darker ones, I found the motivation to start and complete Blue Mercy. Thank you, Kiwi! ^_^

I originally wanted to write this from Jill's pov, but last semester, I read a few memoirs in an English class that had the mother's story told from the son's perspective. I liked the method a lot so I decided to apply it here. Chris wasn't included in the original plan, but I was thinking back to some earlier RE5 images, and the one where he's kneeling before Jill's tombstone caught my attention. In a way, this is a re-imagining of that image. And finally, I guess Wesker deserves to be hit with a rotten egg, maybe multiple rotten eggs.

Thanks for reading!