A Sickly Sweet Reverie (Leon Kennedy X OC) [BOOK 3]

Chapter 31: Match and a Powder Keg

Surprise, there will actually be one more chapter. My sister and me decided there was too much left for it to all be smashed into just one part! Enjoy!

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The occasional drip of water and the fizz of the dissolving bubbles were the only sound in my dark bathroom. The water was going cold, the bubbles clinging to the last few moments of life as I stared into the water, at my grizzled reflection.

Alcohol had slowed my senses down to a snail's pace, my mind running at half the speed considered normal. My hands embraced my huddled knees, crinkled and pruned from its time in the water. Absently, one broke away from the cocoon to cradle one of the last clumps of bubbles. The moment my skin touched the fragile orbs they exploded, fizzing and fizzing until nothing remained. It left only a thin layer of glimmering residue on the tips of my fingers, and my gaze lingered on it a moment longer before a sigh escaped me and I pawed for the half empty beer on the floor.

It took two flimsy tries, but I finally snagged the bottle and brought it to my lips, letting the liquid wash down my throat in hopes it would give me the strength needed to get dressed. I drained the bottle, placing it back down on the floor a moment before I finally rose to my feet. I blindly reached for the towel, water pouring down my body as my hand made a few passes over the bar before finally getting a grip on the fabric.

I clung to the towel, clutching it in the center of my chest as I stepped onto my bathmat and glanced at the mirror. Even in the light of the lone candle, I looked different. The bruises were beginning to heal, turning into that ghoulish yellow that would eventually melt into my skin. The few minor cuts had knitted together, the scabs and few bandages the only evidence remaining. Even though the physical wounds were healing, something in my gaze just looked hollow.

I frowned at the ghost in the mirror before blowing out the candle and stepping into my bedroom.

I dressed quickly, replacing the PJs I'd been wearing with a t-shirt and shorts that had become my standard uniform the past couple days. A few personal days off, a reward for my part in stopping Simmons and Neo-Umbrella. Personal days to dwell on the lives lost, the mistakes made, and the unending ache from my limbs and heart.

I glanced toward my bedside table, a badge and hospital name tag glaring back at me. I get a week of personal days, and they get merely a mention in the speech, a name carved into stone to be rubbed away and forgotten for the next attack or fad. I pawed at my eyes and reached for the door.

I had left the TV on when I abandoned my movie in lieu of rest, and since then the midnight marathon had transformed into the morning news. The anchor, in her monotone voice, continued to speculate and ramble over rumors regarding China and Tall Oaks. Some part of me was desperate to change the channel, to listen to anything besides this, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Without the yammering news anchors, I would be left alone in my quiet apartment, which foretold a far worse fate.

Chris had been around the last few nights. The two of us barely spoke, opting to take comfort in presence as we sipped on far too many beers and attempted to jumpstart our hearts with horror movies. Even after a few days of Alien, the various sequels, and the gory slasher films, our beats only reached a few thumps a minute. We were vampires, lurking on the edge of life and death, and we knew we needed a cure, but still we sat on the leather sofa, mainly because neither of us had the strength to do anything else.

A part of me reveled in it, the stillness of my emotions. Perhaps now I could bring myself not to care. Perhaps now I could forget, but the evidence of those quiet evenings was still spread across my coffee table. Bottles, cans and a full ashtray. Smoke still drifted in the air, circulating through the vents again and again until it became nothing but a hint of what it once was. Still, even diluted, my nose crinkled at the scent. I typically didn't like when Chris smoked, but the general grievances about early graves and health died in my throat when I looked into his eyes. He needed them, and who was I to judge when I drowned myself with Rum and whiskey.