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“Won’t you be good?”
Right now, you’re placed on Wesker’s lap. Your fingertips dig into your sides in an attempt to soothe yourself, put an end to the overflow of tears rolling down your cheeks that have grown to become sensitive. You’ve been crying for the better half of an hour, maybe more. You’re fatigued, and behind your eyes, a dull ache sets and makes itself at home. Likely a result of all the emotions that have been freed from within your chest, now wrecking your form.
You’re in shambles, essentially.
Wesker bounces his knee, the one you’re sitting on. It feels condescending. He rocks you like you’re an infant needing to be comforted, but you don’t complain. Your legs hang off the side of his other thigh, while a heavy and warm hand runs up and down your back in gentle strokes, in rhythm with the way your body trembles with every heartfelt and distraught sob escaping your form. Clothed in what was once a fresh hospital gown that has now been coated in your sweat, you feel the pressure of his touch against you. It exposes what remains of your bottled up emotions, providing reassurance as you cling to him like a lifeline.
You’re seated against him in his office. He’s still wearing his white coat. You hate it.
Hate how he blends in with the other doctors—akin to the psychiatrists and psychologists who examine and analyse every part of your brain and how it functions. Or the ones who restrain and subject you to what can only be described as pure torture, injections prodding and breaking your skin, metaphorically ripping apart layers of your being to analyse what grows within.
Hate how when he’s wearing that white coat, he’s nothing more than another culprit in your suffering. Complicit in your agony and trauma.
But, he’s far more than that. Somewhere to run off to when the examinations and experiments take a toll on your body.
Like now.
Your body aches with a tingling sensation, thighs beginning to go numb from a lack of movement. You don’t bother shake them. They plead with you to put some weight on them, bring them back to life. You’re a corpse against him, so it feels. Stripped of the life you once had, of the light that once shone in your round eyes. Your skin is clammy, a common side effect from the concoction of medication they prescribed you with long ago. You’ve grown used to it, familiar with the nausea they provoke, but you can’t forgive nor forget.
Can’t forget how once upon a time, life wasn’t like this.
You were more than an experiment to subject to various forms of examination and medical malpractice.
But that’s a thing of the past.
Now you’re Wesker’s patient, and he holds you against him in attempt to calm you down.
“You’re doing so well. Deep breaths, follow my lead.”
Arranging your limbs like one would do with a doll—because that’s what you are nowadays, a puppet to be orchestrated—he places you so that your chests are pressed together. You feel him take in a deep breaths, in for four, exhaling for four. You copy, like you’ve always done. Obeyed the rules, never stood out of line. Never given a reason to be punished. You breathe in harmony with him, feeling the way your cheeks grow dry with every sharp intake.
You can feel yourself growing lethargic the more time passes on. Your body feels as if it’s melting, slowly becoming liquid in his arms. You don’t mind it. The chemical and sterile scent he has to him has become a source of comfort for you, and you breathe it in like its oxygen. His familiarity brings you peace. Attaching yourself to someone who views you as an extension of his research.
He likes you well enough to keep you around like this, bend the rules slightly and allow you to have more personal and intimate relations because your cooperation is necessary in producing accurate results.
A part of you knows it’ll never be more than this. But when your fellow patients experience similar breakdowns to the one you just endured, they’re met with an increase in observations and restraints. White coats surround them, poke and prod like they’re nothing but a puzzle to solve. You’re an exception.
Your body goes slack against his at some point. The medication still courses through your veins, pumping through with every beat of your heart. A little drool leaves your lips, seeping into his godforsaken white laboratory coat. You feel no danger, you’re accustomed to this.
Beginning to accept that in this facility, your own purpose is providing more insight in their research.
Accepting that you’re Wesker’s subject. His to own.