Instead of studying neuroanatomy for my exam I rather play around with Jill's sanity. It's a lot more fun. Hopefully this turned out well enough to make up for the lost learning time. ;) Let me know what you think of it.

Disclaimer: Let us, once again, delve deep into the meaning of fanfiction.


sepultus
buried

It's day fifty-eight when Jill cries for the first time, but it's since the middle of day three that the tears have begun to treasure up. She's leaning against the sterile white wall of her room and feels the chilly tiles against her trembling hands. He's about to come again, to visit and make sure she's alright, to check if she's alive and see if she's found any new way of drawing attention to herself. He's coming and she thinks she can hear his footsteps sound against the floor, quiet, even, like that of a machine.

It's day six when despair takes over, as she's locked inside a broken body and forced to listen to his recollection of her demise. It's only when barely healed bones start grinding against each other and he orders his doctors to sedate her that she stops struggling against a reality that just can't be true.

Jill lets her head rock back and forth, thinking about day three-million-and-nine, when she'll finally be able to peel the device from her chest and find all the tubes that branch off in her body. She'll rip them away eagerly and watch the venom bleed out of her veins until her senses return and she finds herself back on day one, strapped to a gurney and told that resistance is futile. He'll laugh and tell her how he admires her endurance, how her escape attempts are a highlight of his daily routine.

It's day two, only day two out of eternity when she has troubles breathing because panic tightens around her throat, and she knows that she has to keep going indefinitely in this horrible state of asphyxiation.

The room has no windows, only a door. Most of the time she stares at it and imagines what could lie beyond and ponders when the door would open to reveal an end to the nightmare. It's hard to keep track. There's no telling how fast time passes, when a minute can be an hour and a day goes by in a second.

She hears the lock move and the knob turns. He steps inside and takes a moment to survey the room. There's not a lot to see. A bed and a bowl of food beside the door, a plastic bottle of untouched water. At last he looks at her, as if she's the most insignificant thing in the world.

He crosses the distance in three long strides, bending down and touching her forehead, feverish and damp. He wipes a tear from her face as if he's knowing how the sanity leaks from her mind. He takes her hand in his, pressing his fingers to her wrist in order to feel her pulse.

It's day five-hundred-ninety-eight when he disappears and Chris takes his place, touching her fragile body with a care that she can't even comprehend. She's weak now, having played the game on a level impossible to master. She doesn't eat or drink ever since day twelve has ended, because she'd rather destroy herself alone than let him and his doctors pick her apart piece by piece.

On day two hundred-and-one Jill knows she can't keep reality and hallucination apart anymore. It's Chris who tends to her wounds and Wesker who injects her with antibiotics and poison. It's Chris who condemns her and orders her to do inhumane crimes, but it's Wesker who whispers soothing words into her ear when she tries to justify her actions.

He picks her up from the ground with an ease like she's only the weight of a feather. Her head bobs against the leather of his garment. She can smell the faint whiff of cologne, a mix between clinical neatness and the acidic odor of disemboweled corpses. It's hard to focus, but when she does, it's Chris who lays her on the bed and tells her everything will be alright. One cold finger trails down her neck and over her chest. The device is killing her, so much that she's clawed and torn at it until it got infected. Her skin is red and swollen and she moans when he traces his finger along the sore patch, and starts hitting out at ghosts from the past and demons from the future.

It's day forty. Day eight.

It's a game where she loses and he wins, no matter how well she plays. He's always better, toying with her, twisting her senses and fooling her emotions until her brain gives out on overload.

It's day four that she knows Chris will come to save her. On day seventy she isn't so sure. On day eleven she's abandoned all hope. It's on day too-far-away-to-count that the thought of rescue is a distant longing, stifled to eternal silence.

It's day infinity, when Jill is granted a short moment of clarity. And so she stops counting. It's day blank. Day zero.

It's time to surrender.


Hope, withering, fled - and Mercy sighed farewell.
-Lord Byron


The End