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Music was blasting through the door when Claire arrived at Chris’s apartment, and that meant something.
Still hope.
She knocked; he didn’t answer. The music was loud, this could be it, fortunately he kept a spare key under the loose tile underneath the doormat.
Claire let herself in, then, and was immediately welcomed by the stench of stale cigarettes, booze, and rain-drenched clothes left to rot in a corner. Sparing a glance from the foyer and down the the hallway, only the kitchen lights were on, so she flicked every switch as she moved to make her way there.
“Chris?” She called, as if afraid to hear an answer—that actually never came.
The kitchen was empty, just the white wash of the fluorescent lamp washing over appliances buzzing quietly. The fridge was leaking, having been forgotten open, the stove held remnants of a meal that must have occurred two or three days ago.
He could be out, no reason for panic. There was still half an apartment to look for him.
And she was afraid to find him.
She started by the spare bedroom, the one she normally occupied when she was in town. Nothing. Untouched, if not a little dusty; the bed was made, even her fuzzy house slippers were posted at the edge.
His own bedroom looked like it had been hit by a natural disaster: you could barely see the floorboards under the piles of clean and dirty laundry mixed and tossed, the sheets were torn off the mattress, and blankets twisted in unnatural shapes.
Still not there.
No wrists cut in the bathtub, Claire thanked heavens; that left the laundry and living room.
Claire turned on the living room lights, and found Chris lying on the floor between the coffee table and the couch, immobile, an empty bottle of whiskey by his side, and his handgun tight on his grip. There was no blood pooling underneath him, but the shock didn’t let her notice it—she just launched herself on her knees, pried the weapon away from him, and started to shake him with all her might.
“Chris!” She called, a catch forming on her throat. “Goddamn it, wake up!”
He did give signs of life, and quicker than she expected: a loud grumpy groan came first, then his arm, shielding his eyes from the lights, and his hands groping her own arms, trying to blindly identify who was the intruder in his house.
“Claire…?” Chris’s voice was a deep baritone of alcohol haze and sleep with hangover undertones.
“Why didn’t you pick up the phone when I called?!”
Inadvertently, she slapped him. It wasn’t intentional—just instinct—but it was still enough to put him sitting straight against the foot of the couch, ignoring the bright red handprint on his face in favor of feeling the heaviness in his head.
Chris didn’t speak, just breathed, as if trying to steady the world spinning around him. Claire started to feel exasperated; watching her big brother go on a downward spiral of guilt and self-destruction wasn’t what she had hoped for his future.
But things were what the were; the best she could do was try to salvage the situation.
“I’m sorry, Chris…” She said, posing a hand on top of his while still on her knees. “It’s been a year that she died… I just didn’t want you to spend the day alone.”
“Jill is not dead.” He said, full of resolution and resentment.
He was still at it. One year later, and still hadn’t moved on. Claire took his hand off his face; inspected the mark she left. His eyes were sunken, outlined by deep dark circles, the whites bloodshot, and a slight, still swollen bruise that could only mean he had recently been in a fight.
He was shirtless, muscles still massive, but it was clear he was dehydrated and malnourished. Probably had been feeding on that empty bottle of whiskey for the past day or two.
In the end, Claire decided not to argue, just to focus on more pressing matters. “God you stink!” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “How long since you last showered? And how about food? And water? Fuck, Chris, you slept on the living room floor with a gun in your hand, did you want to kill yourself?”
The anger in her voice surprised her; still, she did not regret it. Chris’s answer was like being hit with a brick tot he head, though: “Yes!” He shouted, spit droplets flying everywhere. “Because it doesn’t matter how hard I try, I can’t find her!”
“Chris…” The twinge in Claire’s heart was too much to bear, and she finally succumbed to tears. The next words came as if spelled to a five year old: “Jill is gone. There’s a grave with her name on it—we have all been there a year ago. I was hoping we could go there now, to leave her fl—”
“I’ll believe it when I see a body, Claire.” He cut her short.
Chris buried his head within his hands, but Claire forced him to prop himself back up, and look at her.
“They looked for her, Chris. But the ocean is too big! The currents can vanish with a body! There’s plenty of stories about it, we can look it up together!”
Her plea fell on deaf ears. Chris simply reached for the bottle again, found it empty, and angrily tossed it across the room: it shattered against the window sill.
“Why did you have to come…?” He muttered under his breath, and tried to stand, but struggled.
“Because you’re the only fucking family I have, and I know this date would be difficult for you.” She said, taking absolutely none of his bullshit. “Because you used to be there for me when I needed, and I wanna do the same for you. Are you even listening to me?”
He wasn’t; Chris was actually stretching toward the liquor cabinet, and grabbing a half-drunk bottle of tequila.
Claire immediately stood and took it away from him.
“No more drinking. Please.” She put the liquor bottle back where it belonged. “At least while I’m here.”
Chris curled himself into a ball and sighed. “What the hell do you expect me to do, then?”
Slowly, she sat by her side, and put an arm around his shoulders. Back when they were kids, she had done that many times: the quiet touch of her hand and the comfortable weight of her head over his shoulder meant to make him feel needed; important. Most of all, loved.
“Be my big brother.” Claire said, her voice small with emotion. “Talk to me. Cry on my fucking shoulder! I’m not gonna tell anyone! Just stop carrying all the weight alone. It’s too much for just one person.”
Silence. His breathing turned heavier.
“I miss her too, you know.” She kept going, sharing her own load. “Her jokes, her burnt pancakes… Her playing the piano when everything else was quiet.”
“That piano used to drive me crazy…” Chris finally made himself heard.
“You still have her things in that deposit?” She nudged him.
“Yeah,” he gave out a nod.
“Maybe we should give the piano a Viking funeral!” Claire attempted a joke.
Chris let out a bitter chuckle. “Can’t.”
She squeezed him tight for a second. “You’ll have to let her go at some point, Chris.”
He shook his head in negative, vehement and adamant as only Chris Redfield could be, and Claire just let the silence stretch, for as long as he pleased.
“I’d have nothing else to live for if I’d let go of Jill.” Chris finally said, after minutes who looked like hours.
“Of course you would. Don’t you wanna see your nieces and nephews grow up?” Claire teased.
For the first time since she had arrived, Chris actually looked at her. “Why that talk now? Are you seeing someone?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, smiling. “You’ll only get to know if you live long enough for it.”
Chris didn’t smile, but looked slightly more at ease, both with Claire and with himself. He rubbed his face awake, wrapped his arms around his knees, and launched forward a thousand yard stare that told Claire the obvious: he was tired and lost, and needed help.
“Go take a shower. Please.” Claire rubbed his back gently. “I’ll order us some takeout, and tidy up your room, so you can sleep in a real bed. Tomorrow, we have a real talk, but small steps.”
He tensed up his shoulders, and peeked over toward her. “Why are you being so nice?”
Now Claire was the one bracing her own knees, in a defensive stance she’d only take when vulnerable. “Because when I was little, and scared to be without mom and dad, you were nice to me and told me you would always protect me. I’m just returning the favor, Chris. All you have to do is let me in.”
His eyes turned away from hers, but he still nodded in agreement. It wasn’t a yes, but it was a start.
Soon enough, Chris stood. Stumbling, still feeling his head, he made his way to the bathroom. Water soon began to fall, and Claire rose herself, walked to the phone, and called the local Chinese place for their usual order of pork lo-mein and fried rice.
She finally dropped her purse and her jacket over the couch, kicked off her boots, and mustered the courage to brave the chaos of Chris bedroom.
It would take some time.
Just like with Chris himself.