Resident Evil Oneshots

Forgetting them

The memory of the castle feels distant, almost like a dream slipping through your fingers. You wake in a room unfamiliar to you, with the scent of lavender lingering in the air. Your head aches, a dull throb that only intensifies as you try to recall how you got here, who you are, or why you're even here at all. The ceiling above you is high, ornate, adorned with intricate designs, and the walls are lined with heavy curtains that block out most of the light. You know this place, yet nothing about it seems familiar. A soft creaking sound pulls your attention toward the door, where a tall, imposing figure enters. Her presence is magnetic, a mix of elegance and menace wrapped in an air of authority. She approaches you slowly, her eyes—deep and searching—fixated on you with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

"How are you feeling, dear?"

Her voice is smooth, almost tender, but there is a hint of something else beneath the surface. Concern? Or perhaps something more calculated. You try to respond, but your voice catches in your throat. Who is she? Why does she seem so familiar, yet utterly foreign? Your mind races, searching for a name, a memory, anything that might anchor you to reality. But all you find is emptiness. The woman—no, Lady Dimitrescu, your mind supplies from some deep recess—seems to notice your struggle. Her expression softens, and she kneels beside the bed, her tall frame towering over you even in this vulnerable position.

"You've taken a rather nasty fall,"

she explains, her tone almost maternal.

"It seems it's affected your memory."

"Who... who am I?"

The words come out before you can stop them, and the vulnerability in your voice is stark, raw. The fear in your chest tightens like a vice. She hesitates, and for a moment, you see something flash in her eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it's gone as quickly as it came. She reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness.

"You are mine,"

she says softly, almost a whisper.

"You've always been mine."

The words should comfort you, but they only deepen the void where your memories should be. The confusion must be clear on your face because she offers you a small, sad smile.

"You worked here, in Castle Dimitrescu,"

she continues, her voice more measured now.

"You were very dear to us—my daughters and me. You were like... family."

Family. The word feels heavy, weighted with meaning you can't grasp. You want to believe her, to trust the kindness in her eyes, but something deep within you screams that you're missing something vital. As if on cue, three younger women enter the room. They move with a grace that belies their youth, and they too look at you with a mixture of concern and something else—something darker. Each of them radiates a unique presence, and as they approach, they exchange glances, their expressions unreadable.

"Mother,"

one of them speaks up, her voice laced with a mix of curiosity and caution,

"Is she...?"

Lady Dimitrescu stands, her tall form commanding the room's attention.

"She's lost her memory. The fall was... severe."

The three daughters—your mind struggles to place them as such—regard you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. They seem familiar, their features striking something deep within your mind, but no names come to you. No memories rise to the surface. The youngest steps forward, her eyes filled with an emotion you can't quite name.