Disclaimer: Nope! Left 4 Dead isn't mine, it belongs to VALVE.

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-Act II- Memoirs of the Witch
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How long had she been crying? How long had she frozen over her father's corpse, tears pouring from her eyes, her hands buried deep into his gut? How long had she remained in this position, shuddering as the blood bubbled and pooled over the carcass, spreading onto the old wood?

How long had she wished for this day?

Bitter, shamed satisfaction welled up in her throat, forcing a brittle sob from her throat.

“Don't you cry, bitch. And don't look at me with those eyes, don't you fucking look at me with those eyes!”

His bellows were echoing in her ears, in her head. Her breath began to wheeze in and out of her lips, her shoulders started to tremble as she realized her hands were buried wrist deep in her father's chest. She'd killed him.

Oh god, she'd enjoyed it.

With a strangled wail, she wrenched away; with a building, sickening sense of horror, she realized that her hands were stuck.

Oh my god, oh god, oh fuck fuck fuck fuck!

She shrieked, pulling harder—why was he still controlling her life like this, why!? Why did he always have her stuck to his side, why did he have to be her father, why why why why!? He was dead! He was a corpse, now, struck down by her own fucking hands, so goddammit, why couldn't she break free of him!?

There was a sick, squelching noise as her hands were ripped free from his chest—and she looked at them in horror. These weren't her hands; her hands were just...just normal, human hands. Attached to her wrists were long, bony fingers; the nails of which were now curled, sharp edged, four inch claws.

She let out sharp, loud scream and stumbled to her feet, back pedaling. Her back hit the wall of her room, her head hit the wood of the window. Sucking in mouth fulls of air through her lips, she couldn't pull her eyes away from the disgusting sight before her—her dead father, mangled by the claws she had. She tore from the room, sobbing out half hearted apologies and prayers. She stumbled and tripped down the hallway, into the kitchen—blood dripped from her claws and holy god were they growing? Unable to look, she smacked into the back door of her house and found that she was unable to grasp the handle to the door, thanks to the claws. She screeched curses, and decided--

Fuck this.

She pulled a clawed hand back and swung—the wood of the door creaked under her attack. Half frenzied with a sick sort of fear, she began to tear at the door—the walls seemed to lean inward, the roof trembled, her house was working against her. In her mind, she could hear him, barreling down the hallway with his innards spewing from the gaping hole in his body, blood dripping, flying everywhere as he came toward her with eyes full of rage.

Just a—just your imagination. Imagination! You're thinking of things that aren't true—oh, god, Jager was right, I'm so fucked up—I'm so fucking screwed up!

Soon the door gave way to her frantic clawing, the wood splintering and falling away. She shoved her shoulder through the wood, managing to fit her torso through it—she flailed, screaming, tears and mucus running down her face. Her muscles strained with the effort, and then—she was free, finally, finally free of the house, of her father, of everything. She fell to the grass of her back yard, kicking her way out of the wooden remains of her door; panting, she pushed herself to her knees, supporting herself with her hands pressed flat against the grass between her legs. She looked over her shoulder at the house, at her prison—and then it hit all at once.

She'd killed her father—torn him to shreds with her bare hands, hands that had claws.

And oh, lord, in a sick way, she'd been waiting for this moment ever since her mother had left her with her father.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph...

She was a murderer. She went to her feet again, using the shoulder sleeve of her shirt to wipe at her face. She couldn't cry now, no, not now. She had to keep running, she had to get away—right now! Before the police came, before anyone came—but her fingerprints were all over the crime scene, she'd probably need to bleach the entire thing and why the hell was she even thinking about that!?

She ran. She spun around and peeled off the drive way, clutching her bloody, clawed hands to her heaving chest and just ran.

–

Hell greeted her. Soon after she'd torn out of her neighborhood, she'd wandered right into hell. People were mobbing people, tearing at each other in a blind rage and biting each other. She let out a shrill scream when a group of people jumped upon an old woman and starting to eat her alive! She ducked into an alley and went to the very end, squeezing herself into a corner and holding her clawed hands over her ears. Her heart was pounding against her ribs, and the tears continued to pour out of her eyes—the screaming still echoed loudly in her ears. And they were going to find her there, curled up in that little ally with her sullied hands and kill her too. The pressure built up in her gut, finally exploding so that fire seemed to wrench upwards into her chest. She let out a sob—only one. And then, another. And another. She tried not to cry, she really, really sis, but suddenly, she...couldn't stop. The fire burned inside of her lungs until she practically howled her sorrows out into the air.

She could dimly hear awkward shuffling; wavering growls and moans cut into the air, drowned out by the sounds from her own throat.

They came closer—her eyes snapped open, and she snarled out curses and threats, almost feral with her demands. “Leave me alone!”

The people—shit, they were gray and their eyes were all white, that wasn't normal—wavered in their steps as they gazed at her. They growled and shuffled closer together, unsure.

One took a step closer.

“I said leave me alone!” She stood again, lips pulled back to bare her teeth at them. “Go away!”

One yowled in terror and fled—the other two seemed shaken. Still, they wanted...something from her. Something she was sure she wasn't ready to give.

Her life.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” she screeched at them. Still, they weren't leaving—and now, she was terrified, enraged, and eager to survive all at once. She cast a glance down to look at her hands—the claws were still there, long and curled and deadly. She'd killed a grown man with these hands; damned if she couldn't scare a few freaks away with them. She charged, arms spread wide open screaming a war-cry that made her feel a hell of a lot stronger than she really was. The two not-people let out barked cries of fear and scrambled to get away; she chased them out of the ally, then stood at the mouth of it, breathing harshly through her teeth.

They're afraid. They're afraid of me.

Not surprising; she was terrified of herself too.

I can scare them away. They won't come near me!

She could live. She clutched her hands to her chest again, slinking into the shadows of buildings as carnage was wreaked all about—she fled, ushered by the screams of the dying and the sounds of ripping flesh and cracking bone.

–

It was by pure luck she had found the old tenement house. It had been three, long, horror-filled days of stumbling around the French Quarter, snapping and screaming at a few of the—oh, god—zombies and scaring them off. It felt good, almost, to have something of power held over them. Not that she could do it often, nor could she do it to a large horde of them. She might be able to scare off a few—two or three at the most—but apparently strength in numbers meant a lot to them. She picked her way into the building, frowning at complete darkness of the night and the inside of the building—as well as the wooden door hanging from its bent hinges. Bent inward. Some of the—fuck, she hated to use the word—zombies had gotten in. They'd probably killed any of the uninfected survivors that remained in the building...

A loud chorus of hissing voices rang sharply in her ears.

She froze, tensed—and squinted her eyes furrowing her brows. She'd found out that, if she tried hard enough, she could actually see in the dark. After a few moments of intense concentration, heat built up from behind her eyeballs, then seemed to encompass them. Red colored over her eyes, and, like a fucked up version of night vision goggles, she could see perfectly in the gloom of the building. How she had gained this ability, this inhuman ability...it was something she preferred not to think about.

It was third on her list of Never-Think-About-This-Again. Right after murdering her father and scaring off zombies.

She wandered further into the building, hissing sharply at a few of the shuffling, undead creatures of her home-town. This wasn't needed, however—they seemed to ignore her presence, as if she didn't exist. Well, she could deal with that. The more they ignored her, the longer she lived. She could deal with that. She scoured for an apartment to finally rest her weary body in, avoiding the rooms that smelled like fresh blood, or old death, or had too many zombies for her taste. She managed to find one such room on the third floor—very little of the infected were here, and she could only smell the thick layers of dust and grime on this floor. She made her way to the end of a the hallway, just before stairway leading up to the fourth floor.

Dammit. She grimaced when she saw a door blocking her way into the room. She hated doors now.

Especially since she couldn't turn the handle.

She'd found a method to solve this before—she'd just do it again. First she scared the stragglers wandering the hallway off, made sure the coast was clear, and tore down the door. For a moment, she held her breath and waited for the infected to burst in again, growling, thirsting to end her life.

They didn't.

She sighed in relief and shuffled to the middle of what looked like the living room—she collapsed to her knees in a boneless heap.

To her disgust, she started that damned crying again.

And it went that way for hours. Days. Weeks. Her routine was pretty simple—cry about absolutely fucking nothing, go into rabid fits of rage and tear up the living room walls and the floor, cry again, and, her favorite, go bat-shit-fucking-crazy by scratching up the walls of the living room with scribbles and doodles about her drunken-asshole of a father and long-gone mother. And the hallucinations didn't help at all. Every night, every morning, it seemed her mind was progressively spiraling down further and further into her own madness. She had visions of her father, as predicted—and visions of....

Of her brothers.

She had visions of them turning out wrong. She had vision where they would break down her door, eyes white, and going for her throat.

Jager was always the one that tried first—mostly because the dickwad had said she was a whining, little bitch who was fucked up in the head or something stupid like that. She'd told him something was wrong, dammit she'd told him!!

But did he listen? No.

Soon, a month passed; she hadn't eaten anything, she hadn't managed to sleep a wink...and, shit, she really was insane. Her claws, still caked in her father's blood, were a good six inches long now, and showed no signs of growing. Her body was too think, dangerously thin, bordering on celebrity-on-diet-pills thin. Not a good sign.

Then, Jager made his way into her life again.

At first, Lamia had though it'd been another hallucination. But no—this Jager looked different from the Jager in her nightmares. That Jager had looked the same, wild brown hair in his white eyes, foaming at the mouth with rage, etcetera. This Jager looked skinnier than when she'd last saw him—without his hood, his shaved head seemed so unnatural that Lamia had doubts that anything was real anymore. Still, when Jager had whispered her name so softly, when he'd looked at her with his crimson eyes (which had been hazel once before, but obviously, he didn't escape the infection either) she'd known it wasn't a dream. What had been said had been said—what was done was done. She was willing to overlook the past, she was willing to overlook Jager's cruel words, because, really, what was the point in holding that grudge now?

Jager, Ryge, and Lacus had been her real family. And now, Lamia thought in disbelief as she sobbed into Jager's chest, she had a piece of it back.

And with Jager, Lamia would make sure their family would be back together again.

Or she'd die trying.

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Notes: God, this was fun-as-fucking-hell to write.