Ichor And Steel

Chapter Five; Thanatophobia

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ, ʀᴀᴅɪᴏʜᴇᴀᴅ

A blue day felt so starkly contrasting amidst the stones, jutting, and pushing each other to reach the sun, to be seen by loved ones. Rosemary Winters almost felt upset that her father's, and mother's were kept on a private hill, in which Chris Redfield had invested for. Ah, Redfield, he was teetering too close—Rosemary had heard from others. She was to be surrounded, kept under a strict eye but they granted her somewhat privacy within the graveyard.

Deep in the patch of flowers, she sown for at least a decade now without her mother's assistance, she hummed the muffled tunes in her ears. Rhythmically, she tapped a pen against Village of Shadows, which had become riddled with highlight, sticky-notes and pen marks scratched within the sacred pages. Somewhere, hidden in a fine print between lines or a shadow of the pictures, Rosemary believed wildly her father had left a clue. Because no child felt at ease knowing their parents' death remain unconfirmed—she'd seen the files, passed behind backs for her by a nice man surnamed Kennedy.

Chris arrived beneath the shade of lazily postured trees, seeking out the youngest Winters. He saw the black-cap and snuck unregistered in her peripherals, encroaching slow-footed. Her reflexes faulted when he shut off her music, the phone resting unbalanced on Mia Winters' gravestone.

"You're dead, Rose," he said, blankly. Rose pursed her lips and glanced, hair icy like her father's spilling over her shoulder and delicate skin wrinkled like her mother's.

"Nice to see you too. Can't I catch a break?" she flicked her eyebrows, gathering her things on to Mia's stone. Chris had noted she'd done this before, never laying anything but herself against Ethan's. "I was studying."

"For school or leisure?" Chris tilted his head, smirking.

"Maybe both. I don't know, don't really want to think about that shithole," Rose complained, perching on her father's gravestone. Chris nodded, expressing he could relate and lit up a cigarette, shaking the pack at Rose. Her face became round with a cheeky smile, slipping out a thin rollup and lighting it masterfully.

"Mia would have my throat!" Chris laughed, the girl moving her head in agreeance. "Don't you go catching a habit."

"Too late," she joked, side-eyeing.

They smothered their lungs with smoke in silence, enjoying the peace away from mournful guests but within eyeline was a funeral, with black veils and knee-length skirts and trousers. Seemed like a big family, a lot of grievance passing around. Rose was eternally grateful she didn't endure that; Mia had a living wake, forever the woman who couldn't bare the mere thought of missing out on all the good things to have been said about her. Rose wondered if Ethan would've been like that but bit her tongue around Chris, knowing well his sadness had yet to lift. Sometimes Rose thought it was guilt, a helpless guilt.

"Why don't you want to think about school?" Chris asked, more so muttering behind his tabaco.

Rose shrugged, twiddling with the drawstrings of a coat once laid over her infant body. Chris remembered feeling Ethan's final touch, pressing his hand against his chest before the detonation of mold. He wanted to think Ethan was already cold, that his hands were pale, and the blood had stopped circling his heart. But he saw that man's chest rise and fall; breath visible in the air; and eyes flutter one last time at Rose. It was gutting—there was so much more I could've done.

"It's stressful; everyone either wants to be a doctor or a lawyer," Rose explained, pressing her tongue to her cheek. She tapped the cigarette, dots of ash flittering to the soil.

"Well, what do you want to be? You don't have to be that—"

"I want to join the police academy," she said quickly, as if to justify her certainty. She was smart enough to predict Chris would be resentful towards this choice, and he expressed it with a throaty cough.

"That's a dark path to take, Rosemary," he seethed, stamping out his light. Rose frowned and held the arms of her father's coat, pinching at the sleeves.

"That is just as bad as calling me Eveline." Rose's laughter conveyed her ire, throwing her head back and hanging it there, blowing smoke to the sky. "Don't call me that, Chris."

Chris grinned and wondered over, discarding Rose's ignorance towards the police academy subject; clearly, it could be discussed later. "Your father called you that. I don't think Mia ever took liking to it...both are pretty names."

"I'm flattered," Rose smirked and looked at her shoes, "I wish you'd stop protecting me."

"I am not having this conversation right now, Rose—"

"Just...do you ever think?" She looked to him and closed the distance, speaking softly, "Mother Miranda sounded smart...I doubt she wouldn't have a failsafe—"

"—it's best not to speculate—"

"Maybe I'm not speculating! Maybe it's something I feel...that I still feel that dad, Ethan..." her shoulders rose, tensed, and a tremble passed through her body. Chris's hand lifted to comfort, but he dared not touch her, eying the snipers and other guards who had a clear shot; so cruel, she was just a kid. "I don't think he can die twice—"

"—and not live thrice, I know Rose," Chris completed the rhythm. Mia came up with it, sometimes she muttered beneath her breath whilst staring off, absent and glazed eyes. She did it more towards her death. "How about I take you home?"

She looked to him beneath the brim of her cap and Chris pursed his lips. "Just us?"

"You know I can't do that..." he tilted his head side-to-side. "But...I might if we stop at that joint near Filly's?"

Rose lightened slightly and nodded, the man returning the gesture and swishing in his coat, hands in his pockets. He gestured to a far-off watcher, communicating she was fine.