"… Albert Wesker's wife. His wife."

"So it really doesn't matter how she comes back. 'Long as it's alive."

"Who says we're actually gonna give her back?

"'Think if we cut off an ear it'll grow back?

"It's just cartilage. Probably."

"So her nose to then. Right?"

"I think there's a bone in there."

"So, the tip?"

What a disgusting and horrifying conversation that was brought to an end only by the sound of metal scraping against the cold, worn concrete floor that continued to sting my feet no matter how long I stood upon it. The close of my captors' intentions did not bring me relief, however. It only meant that the possibility of this becoming worse was very, very viable. I did not look up, too ashamed to stare into the faces of the men that held me against my will while I was stripped down to my underwear and made to stand in the middle of a room that held not even a chair. Faulty, fluorescent lighting above caused a noisy, constant hum that sounded like heaven in comparison to the plotting of my captors, and the sole window that held nothing but blackness on the other side gave me hope that there was another way out. Actually, I had hoped that this was another way in for the man that I knew would come to my aid. My salvation was coming, I knew it.

Albert Wesker, where are you, I thought to myself as I covertly tugged my hands apart in a vain attempt to break free of the skin-piercing ropes that bound them together? Whenever I tried though, the splintering material reminded me that it was a hopeless effort that if noticed would anger the men that had been guarding me. Above me hung a hook, rusted but sure to do the job of further containing me if needed. I told myself that I needed to keep from being put up there; I'd never get out. And now I had plenty of reason to escape. Sherry was waiting for me, for Al. We couldn't leave her alone even though she was doing such a good job. She was rivaling me in-

Stop it, Claire. You'll become upset, you'll become frantic, and you'll ramble and threaten them again. Then they laugh. They laugh and you spit in their faces. When you spit in their faces they hit you. When they hit you, you waste energy to heal because they're men. They're big, burly mercenaries that just talked about slicing you up because they know that they can. You're the perfect victim for men of their art; they feed you and you just become a blank canvas. And your wounds will heal but you'll remember every bit of pain inflicted, you'll steel yourself because you and your body remember what happened before. Then, when you can't take the constant pain you'll start bargaining and begging, only stopping short of giving up some real information because of- SHUT UP!

A/N: I haven't updated this in a year so I figured I'd give a glimpse into what Claire is in for in the future. I haven't been able to write –I believe- because of my job. I add and multiply all day at my job. Millions of dollars. The better and more confident I become with math, the worse my ability to write becomes, and I've been doing this for two years but the capacity to which I'm doing it has increased. That whole right brain, left brain thing I guess. I'm trying to escape though so hopefully I can come back to doing something that I love. I'm sorry I've left you all hanging for so long, but I'm working at it. I'm okay, everything is well. I've had many changes occur in my life and many things have remained the same. If anything, the changes that have occurred are pushing me to chase what I want, and I do want to write. I hope this is enough for some of you for now. I'll be back, I promise.