"All of us are products of our childhood."
- Michael Jackson -
They grew up and became men.
They grew up and found themselves defeated - broken.
They grew up and forgotten.
"I can't lose! Not against you!"
They grew up, and they remembered.
"Christopher James Redfield?"
"Yes. I'm here for the interview: Agent Burton told me about ..."
"I know what Agent Burton told you. Now sit down and let's start from the beginning, what do you say, uhm?"
They've grown, stop. And then they died.
A lonely child, forgotten.
A child sitting in the middle of a white and red carpet, with broken and already resolved games between his fingers.
A child looked as he was the worst mistake - the silent one, the strange one.
William solves his umpteenth rubik's cube and welcomes silence as the only possible answer.
The sun in her hair, on her face - in her heart.
A yellow and green bicycle, inside the basket a rabbit named Leopold.
A toothless laugh, full of life - that explodes and captures a
man who never grew up.
Their daughter will look like her; their daughter will survive.
Annette opens her arms to the sky and closes her eyes.
Big, heavy tears: that should not exist on the cheeks of such a small child.
Tears of those who know the loss, death - its cold and ruthless corollary.
She squeezes him as he was the only thing left in the world - he is - wetting his crumpled shirt.
Claire opens her mouth and releases a lump of fear and anger that most people call pain.
Shiny shoes, transparent eyes: an icy, distant beauty.
Straight shoulders, rigid back - bloodless lips, folded into a grimace without color.
Fingers hooked through her hair, around her face - where they shouldn't be.
Dirty blood, infected blood - the disease a second skin, breath and agony of a life that still has to bloom.
Alex calls into herself all that is left and burns.
Go ahead, muddy child.
Go ahead, soldier child.
Go ahead, and don't forget.
Go ahead, forward, and forward, until you fall - crash.
And he still goes on, just like a good soldier - as long as his legs hold up, until his heart gives way.
Chris embrances his sister's and promises that he will endure as long as he can.
A bloodstained teddy bear, a story already written.
A hidden vibration, a little girl who hates marzipan men - sick, like him.
"Alex is for...?"
A very hard face, already carved by hunger - from that internal chasm that evolution is digging at the center of his chest.
He closes the chemistry book, leans back in his armchair - he looks at a black, bruised sky.
Albert breathes and the world stops.
7 - 8.
Grown in a shared amnio, broken by the poor biological necessity.
There is no difference between them - distance.
Same skin, same eyes, same destiny - to reign and protect and change.
Alexia laughs, Alfred laughs - he joins that sound in an indistinguishable, cruel solo.
Terror has only one voice.
Survivor, heroine of a half story.
Different, never the same - forever infected.
Snow falls, ash in the hair - on a heart that still beats, believes.
Sherry grabs Jake's hand and jumps.
The woman is afraid -
The woman is beautiful -
She is cruel, the woman -
"Do you want potatoes chips, Nat? They are those roast by daddy, melted butter and a sprinkling of rosemary."
Natalia looks up from her plate and sees only...
No one wants to die.
No one wants to be alone.
No one wants to suffer - never.
She stretches her fingers towards one of her brothers, pushes between the synapses of the Mother, crushes those of the Father.
Black and black - a forgotten swamp, a body that gives in, melts with every breath.
Eveline is Nobody and between her small fingers drips what remains of her hope.
Snow between the teeth, in the eyes - under the skin.
Cordite and smoke - despair and hunger.
What remains of his land are just a bunch of barren ruins and stone remnants that look like decayed, rotten, putrid teeth.
They reach for a livid sky, they cling to it - walking corpses of a dead city.
Jake watches his mother's chest bend under the coughing blows and prays to a father he has never even seen.
She just wants her mother.
But no face is ever the right one.
She wants her mother, what's so hard to understand?
But nobody ever seems to learn it.
She wants her mother; she wants to be able to talk to her, confides to her like she did when she was little, when the world was not only gray and black, down the throat the slimy smell of dirty water and the aseptic of laboratories.
But the never-grown man prevents her.
She wants her mother, and that's it.
But the second man, no, beast, laughs, and extinguishes a cigarette on her tied arm.
"Is she still alive?"
"Oh, it's much more than that, Al: she is the key to the G virus."
Lisa lets her eyes roll in their now-carved orbits and see - promise.
The beast-man will be the first to die.
Crystallized in eternal time - a past that is already future, never present.
Wesker yells, challenges the hero of the story - behind the giant shadow of two men, nothing but children holding wooden swords and toy guns.
Alex brings her hands to his chest, draws out a dead heart, burns - behind her the cruel ogre of the fairy tale, between her dirty fingers a childhood never really lived, stripped of all value.
Claire fights, in her eyes the same, desperate child who had promised not to cry in front of her parents' coffins (to be strong and brave like her brother).
And history repeats itself. It bites itself. It doesn't forget. It doesn't remember. It doesn't evolve. Repeat. Like a musician caught by his own ghosts, a mourning never passed.
A song already heard.
The children of the story have grown up, and they have become the ruthless monsters: the unsuspecting victims.
In the darkness of the last page their hands search each other like the first time.
"The demon that you can swallow gives you its power,
and the greater life's pain, the greater life’s reply. "
- Joseph Campbell -