Sublimity ? Leon Kennedy

My wound hasn't healed.

I place my knee under the bath tap, the blood washing away with the run of the water, staining it red as it fills the tub.

It's bigger now, uglier, infected and inflamed, fat tissue peeking through the red flesh underneath. I squeeze to let more of the clotted blood out, a sharp pain tangling in my bones. I wince, turning off the tap and patting it dry with sterile gauze Piers offered from the infirmary downstairs a few days ago.

It's been a week.

A week that I've been living in the safehouse amongst the other survivors. Amongst the B.S.A.A.

A week without Leon.

The mansion is big, endless from the inside, but cozy—the foyer lit up by a warm chandelier, contrasting the flood of camouflage from the B.S.A.A. people. There are different doors to different rooms and hallways, two kitchens and two dining halls and multiple rooms on all three floors. It reminds me of the mansion from Resident Evil 1—only less creepy, less like an endless maze of horror.

I haven't explored it much, only staying in the confines of the room Chris placed me in as soon as we arrived, coming out whenever they called for food in the dining area. I haven't talked to them either or seen them much. They're always lost in a sea of camouflage and rifles, gliding through the corridors and rooms, talking about rescuing more survivors from the nearby towns.

The room is small, but not smaller than the motel rooms Leon and I have stayed at—wooden floors and a queen sized bed in the middle. The bedframe is lacquered wood, the nightstand mahogany and the closet oak.

There's a certain air of fragility in it, even amidst the strict protection of the rescue operatives and the reinforced walls of the house. I'm an exposed nerve waiting to be struck.

Every night I'd wake up in a cold sweat, expecting I'd be back in my apartment and everything was just a nightmare. But it doesn't happen. I keep waking up there. On that bed, with the weight of this world on my chest and the pain of my wound.

I'm beginning to forget.

Beginning to lose the details of my old apartment. What the wallpapers looked like, the position of my TV in the living room. The color of the carpet under my couch that I slept on for weeks when I found out Elliot was getting married. And it terrifies me.

I'm not supposed to forget.

It's the only thing I have left of reality. The only thing I have left to come back on that has nothing to do with this world. The only thing that feels real.

But I'm afraid it doesn't anymore.

I wrap up my knee with a fresh roll of bandages, tugging it snug and secure.

A series of knocks rap on the door outside, my head snapping up. I push myself from the edge of the tub, limping my way out of the bathroom and to the door.

When I open it, Chris stands on the other side.

What is he doing here?

"Hey, did I pull you from anything?" He chimes.

I glance to the room, and then back at him. "Not really, no. What's up?"

"Just wanted to check up on you. Do you have a minute?"

Hesitation flickers in me.

I've been alone in this room since I was put in it, I've practically memorized every single dent and scratch on the floor. And I'm sick of it.

"Yeah, I got a minute." I step out, closing the door behind me.

Chris marches across the corridors, boots heavy on the lacquered floorboards. I limp behind him, holding onto the walls for support. The hallway is teeming with survivors and rescue operatives, ones I recognize from passing but haven't really talked to yet, the mansion buzzing with chatter and footsteps.