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SEPT. 13
My name is Albert Wesker.
I am a barista at Reach for the S.T.A.R.S. Coffeehouse, an upstart yet struggling business located in Raccoon City’s foremost shopping district.
This position was dealt to me by a hand dictating that study in the biological sciences alone is not enough for one to survive well. Today, an effective researcher must choose the way in which he ought to utterly debase himself for the sake of earning a living wage. I was not torn between the choice of food service, nor retail service, nor a true combination of the two. I determined that they are all equally revolting occupations. Few options laid before me.
Indeed, following a hypothetical reality where there was no other choice but to incinerate the city and every single sniveling rat skittering about my place of work, I would not hesitate to hit the button. The only difference between Reach for the S.T.A.R.S. and other, dreaded culinary institutions is that the city values this one most of all. I am frequently brought into contact with the very people whom I study underneath. But others less useful to me filter into the mix. These others, more like specimens, are a prime example of why Raccoon City is a stain on an otherwise serviceable county map.
And it is a useful stain. Advantageous.
I take my inspiration from the most motivated young employee, Rebecca. She has an infectious manner of creating beverages. So much so, that many of the regulars allow her to do what she pleases, regardless of how inefficient the process becomes. Foam animals and affirming messages are meticulously sculpted and handwritten. Regular orders become spontaneous works of art. Such joy can be held in the palm of your hand. Unfortunately for Rebecca, and the strangely devoted customers of S.T.A.R.S Coffeehouse, I gather that I am also permitted to do what I please.
I clench my fist around that joy and smash it to pieces.
It is then reshaped, improved, perfected. In an occupation where a dominant image is the hapless barista being told exactly what to do at all times, I begin to exercise my preference toward self-assertion.
Today, a man about my age approaches the front counter. He asks for a latte with remarkable simplicity for this establishment. I send him to his table and repurpose the techniques I absorbed during video training. Perfectly symmetrical lines and lettering... The finished product is a cream-colored reproduction of the structural formula for CAFFEINE, floating elegantly on the latte's surface. I regard it for a moment. It brings warm feelings. Scalding, even.
I carry my proud work to the customer and place it before him... though not by any means for his approval, or anyone’s. He regards it for a moment. I regard him. The effect is like a man studying a man inside of a glass tank. Removed, distant, I close the silence. "If you require anything else, our staff will take care of it." The man doesn't have the opportunity to come up with questions. He begins to produce noise instead. "I went to school here. I think I remember your face." A tentative statement, as if speech does not come naturally to him. I once again ask if there is a problem. He shakes his head like a wounded animal. Anticipating this response, I turn away and impartially consider leaving spit to dissolve in his coffee next time. Small talk doesn't pique my interest.
The cycle begins. Uroboros, gnawing forever on his own tail.
SEPT. 18
In five days I have discovered that there are certain people who will receive abominable beverages and continue drinking them, despite all common sense. More's the pity on their behalf.
The business model of S.T.A.R.S. Coffeehouse incorporates a novelty combination of counter service and table service. This means that I occasionally spend time beyond the counter to serve beverages and collect checks, mingling among customers, although the collective work is divided between Rebecca and I during most shifts.
I have made particular notes regarding the regulars of this establishment.
Jill is an unusually competent employee from the accounting firm downtown. She appears to have organized regular work outings to S.T.A.R.S. Coffeehouse, a mistake that will now cost this woman and her fellow office mice more than weekly sums off their debit cards. Jill's lone cohort of the day, Carlos, asks what I recommend. I allow him to process the idiocy behind this question with five seconds of silence.
"I recommend an iced tea with hibiscus and rosehips. Rosehips have medicinal properties; purchasing an espresso will never increase your metabolism in the same manner. Over-reliance on caffeine comes with additional consequences."
"That's, ah.. That's not on the menu? At least, I don't think—"
"If you're going to waste my time yet again this week, Carlos, it won't bode well for you." It is already preposterous to assume I would ever order from here.
Jill interjects and attempts to look me in the eyes. Need I mention that it fails in every respect? "We're just going to take two hazelnut lattes. Nothing else." She has played this game before, certainly, and Carlos saves his comments for after I've informed them that the order will be out shortly. He hopes for Rebecca next time. He tries to find it funny . I find it funny when I abundantly substitute Splenda into both of their beverages.
I held no sense that crossing Jill would result in anything consequential. She is an accountant. Nothing more, even if many of her colleagues remain dependent on her for assistance. Truthfully, I also knew nothing of how the company Jill tends to keep is another matter entirely.
Three days pass before Jill returns again.
It is a clear morning, with a crisp breeze. The same man from all that time ago is overstaying his welcome at the counter. A former classmate. He insists on speaking to me, uncharacteristically so, and possesses little to no concept of personal space. His wife, glaring daggers at the impropriety, has to order in his stead. The niceties suffice for responses, as respect from one researcher to another is best served with chill.
It is then that Jill returns. And Jill is not alone; although, Rebecca greets them all as a friend and takes their order faster than I am able to get Birkin—yes, that was the man's name—and his wife out of my line of sight.
They have ordinary requests and are far more likely to understand my personal touch than the average customer. I care not for this and simply return to CAFFEINE, completing the rudimentary procedure and taking a brisk walk out from the counter. It is the simplest task. A chimp could do this. Every step. If I—
He catches my sleeve as I walk past his table.
Otherwise negligible force causes one quarter of the caffeinated concoction to spill over, onto the saucer, the napkin, and my exposed arm.
No-one has ever had the audacity.
I snap my head toward him immediately. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Chris. My name is Chris. I'm so sorry, if you want me to just go ahead and pay for that, I can—"
"That doesn't answer my question, Chris. " Faced with seething rage and the possibility the rest of this order could be thrown at his face, Chris pauses for only a moment. Yet somehow, he does not shrink away in defeat. He stands up. His eyes are innocent, searching. Our slight difference in height doesn't deter him at all.
"Your name's Wesker, right? Albert Wesker? You were so focused you almost tripped over my chair. If you didn't slow down, that mug of coffee would be all over the floor by now." Horrifically well-meaning Chris attempts to brush off my front side as if I had fallen. I grab his wrist with my opposite hand, rejecting the gesture. He frowns. "...I'd hate to see anybody put up with that."
We stand for a moment. I've been humiliated in front of several other people, more so than if he had sat and patiently allowed me to fall. I want to make Chris feel pain. I want to reach out and choke Chris by his stupid, absurd neck. I want to drag Chris outside and throw his head against the pavement. I want to do a number of things that would result in my instant and irrevocable termination from Reach for the S.T.A.R.S. Coffeehouse located in shit-fuck miserable Raccoon City.
Still, I drop his wrist. I push my sunglasses back where they have always belonged, gather my speech, cease trembling with Herculean restraint. "Listen well, Chris. Your sympathy means nothing to me. I am going to serve this order, and you are going to sit down and behave yourself. Make physical contact with me one more time and I will send you to the I.C.U., likely carrying far more than minor burns. Stay quiet.”
Before Chris can say whichever irritating comment comes to his mind first, I leave him standing there. I return to the counter and replace the soaked napkin on the plate. The routine is calming. I address two words to the room in general after setting the fixed order where it belongs. "Stop staring." They seem to understand the intent.
I leave to survey the damage, as the burn sets in and requires medical attention. The men's washroom will never know a soul in greater turmoil before the sink.
SEPT. 22
"I hope your immediate family perishes in a fatal car accident, and that the oncoming driver lacks insurance."
Ordinary people would hear comments like these and feel grave concern for their well-being. Under realistic conditions, they would fortify their own safety and report such behavior. Chris exhibits neither of these qualities when he arrives the next day and receives my deepest wishes after ordering a large-sized vile, caffeinated, saccharine sludge. I realize substituting in artificial sugar would be a blessing for what little good health he has.
"Thanks, Wesker." Chris laughs, nods his head, the entire display, and leaves to find his table.
His absence of a taken aback response brings me to further jaw-clenching irritation. If my eyes alone could burn through him, he would have long been reduced to ashes. What is wrong with him? Why doesn't he feel shock? Doesn't the sight of the bandage on my forearm cause him to feel excruciating guilt and fear?
Chris even seems to be in a better mood after that. Repulsive. Following several repetitions of this living nightmare, I realize I must take to more drastic measures to communicate how much I completely loathe him. His thick skull can't comprehend much of anything, unless it is expressed in the absolute most obvious terms.
My communications with less baffling individuals are always kept concise and straightforward, without explanations. I decide to attempt this approach and simultaneously make him rue the day he decided to enjoy little kitschy designs on his beverages. There would be no kittens today.
In an unusual fit, I have long decided I do not care about the repercussions from treating another customer in this manner. Chris is Chris. And Chris needs to learn a valuable lesson. My hands move of their own volition. I leave a handcrafted, flowing message on the surface of this beverage, almost like calligraphy, poetic in its brevity. Kill yourself. I write the first three initials. They stand out so clearly that not one person, I believe, would be able to mistake my intent without doing so on purpose. Good. I am nothing if not a faithful messenger.
Chris looks daft as usual while waiting for a corruption of what he tried to order. I really have no idea how or why he leaves his place of residence in the most informal attire imaginable. The occasional flannel shirt is a mercy. But I need no further reasons to dislike him than the incident the day before; any more only serve to amplify the feelings gathered from disdaining him. Impossible, impossible Chris.
I bring the so-called beverage to him. He is shortsighted enough to have come alone. Faintly, assurance comes over my features.
"Enjoy, Chris. And don't burn yourself."
SEPT. 26
"What do you think it means, Claire?"
There is a long silence.
"I think he's telling you to kill yourself."
"Okay, maybe it looks like that. But I'm thinking about it this way. Just take a look. ‘K.Y.S.’,” Chris enunciates. “ Keep yourself safe , right? Since he's already threatening me all the time, I'm pretty sure he wants me to look out for myself. This is his way of saying that. Anyway, Wesker would never want me to end my life."
Claire can’t take it anymore and lifts her voice.
"Chris, I'm serious! It means kill yourself. Have you seen the way Wesker looks at us? At you? He's not trying to send you anything positive. This is the kind of thing some people get sent to prison over. He’d end on an episode of ‘Dateline’. He's crazy."
My eavesdropping of this quite titillating conversation is impeded upon by a customer who has taken the liberty of coming behind the counter. Touching my wrist. She must have been attempting to speak to me some several minutes prior. This is a frequent occurrence.
I provide a muttered response. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”
“Oh? Then you are not interested in me? Because I am certainly interested in you. Since learning your name, I have always—” She is correct. She is of no interest to me. In fact, she is of so little interest and so nameless that I stop hearing anything she has to say.
All that matters in this moment is the man across the room.
“—come on, Claire. He’s looking at me right now. You don’t think that means something?”
I scowl.
Chris smiles and waves.
This proves so disconcerting that I cannot keep the scowl on my face. It wavers, grows weak, leads into twitching disgust. Several days of sincerely threatening Chris, and he still does not know when to give up. He persists. At that moment, between the customer clamoring for my attention and Chris so unbothered in being told to remove his presence from the Earth, I understand I may be developing a burgeoning acceptance of Chris Redfield. It is horrifying and utterly confusing. What is there to accept? To my knowledge, he is an incompetent accountant and an even worse mathematician. Further, as the natural sciences almost invariably involve applied mathematics, he is guaranteed to know next to nothing of what I’ve studied. Virology to him is a strange and unusual combination of syllables. We are diametrically opposed. And yet…
In an attempt to staunch these conflicting emotions, I produce an iced coffee for no-one in particular. Idle hands make poor thoughts.
I complete the preparation of this beverage and then drain every drop down the sink, and I release anger by crushing the plastic in my hands. “Make yourself useful and throw this away,” I tell the false customer after she has made several visible, futile attempts to intrigue me through adjusting the fabric around her cleavage. She more or less slinks away.
I cast a glance toward the clock. My shift is almost over. I briefly consider taking a brisk walk afterward, before it dawns upon me that it has been nearly forty-five minutes since serving Chris one of many failed doses of suicidal inclination in several days. To say the least, it feels unbecoming to lose track of time in such a manner. Time to urge him out.
His sister ordered nothing. The check falls to Chris, and I receive it from him with little fanfare. But I am not going to let him leave. I stand by his table and stare him down.
“Chris.”
The smile falls from his face. “Uh… what’s wrong?”
“You’re forgetting something.” I expectantly tap the tipping tray. “Something very important.”
Perhaps Chris realizes the error with relative quickness, but it means little when he is caught between an immediate family member and myself. The conflict is plain on his face. His opinionated sister would clearly not want him to provide additional funds as due recompense for my service. She sits with her arms crossed, and it so happens that I do not move either.
“ Chris. ” Admonishment by name causes him to look at me. As he should. “I took your order and served you. Do not tell me you are not going to tip me?”
To my surprise, his sister’s scoff of disapproval falls on deaf ears. He coughs up what little he has remaining in his wallet for the sake of tipping me, mumbles an apology to what could be any combination of one or both or neither of us. I am pleasantly amused by this development.
“Excellent. Now run along.”
“Wesker…” For some odd reason, he says my proper name out loud, as if the sound will assist him in the complicated task known as articulating his emotions. But he only shakes his head in the end. “Forget I said anything. See you soon.”
Chris departs alongside his recalcitrant sibling. And good riddance.
OCT. 1
Work begins on this day as the sun cracks the clouds over the horizon. They scatter outward as if they have been disrupted by some force, a hand intent on breaking them into the slightest wisps and whispers of vapor, the firmament ablaze. A world on fire. My routine is such that it isn’t an issue when I briefly stop to look up and appreciate the view. Men may build cities in an attempt to reach that far-off place; it remains untouched and pure at its core, forever unsullied by human hands. Few appreciate the sight. Even fewer deserve it.
I look forward to the time when the world reclaims what rightfully belongs to itself and a select, ideal few. The thought arises that it will likely be a day hundreds of thousands of years in the future, when I am no longer there to witness such an event, but it is a brief comfort nonetheless.
The illusion is shattered ten minutes after I have checked into work and Rebecca accosts me.
“Someone complained.”
“Did they, now.”
“I mean complained, Wesker. Really complained! ” Rebecca stands with her hands on her hips in some form of assertion, a useless gesture considering that I stand head and shoulders above her. “And I know I didn’t do anything.”
I gather it wasn’t the ordinary sort of complaint that most have, but a complaint filed in formal writing and procedure. I respond while cleaning one of the coffee machines. “This is a situation best discussed between our manager and I. Implicating me as part of the problem isn’t very becoming of you.” I say this knowing full well that our manager scarcely makes an actual appearance. He is as remote and distant as the prospect that Rebecca can successfully arrest my conscience about anything.
“You should go back to entertaining our customers with little foam cats and dogs, Rebecca. What’s done is done.”
Our poor conversation does not have the opportunity to continue.
Chris comes again today. It either happens more often than before, or I have simply grown too aware of his presence. I am already poised to tell him what I think. “You’re going to become diabetic if you consume too many of these beverages on a daily basis. I would watch your intake, if I were you.”
Chris scratches his cheek and thinks about that for a moment. “Yeah, about that… I’m already a smoker. I think I’ve got worse intakes to worry about.” This explains volumes. Whole tomes.
“Actually, I don’t think it can get worse than this. Hook me up with an extra sugar packet?”
“Fall ill, Chris.”
A strange feeling descends upon my shoulders while Chris turns to claim his usual table. Of course, I am once again going to tell him to end his infuriating life by means of the waste he orders. There is no denying this. But something is not quite right. I hesitate while preparing a terrible concoction so familiar to me by now that I may as well be able to prepare it without the use of my eyes.
I realize precisely what the issue is when I hear the bell chime at the door. The atmosphere of the room becomes claustrophobic in an instant.
The first of them knocks its bald head on the doorframe with remarkable speed. DOORS… It rumbles in complaint, displeased. The second is shorter and has slightly less difficulty standing at full height, his hat also dwarfed by the sheer bulk and muscle mass of his frame. They both seem as if they’ve been through separate chemical accidents, although I feel the limitations of my knowledge setting in. Even extreme burn victims scarcely resemble them. This has not been the first time they’ve been deployed for… tasks, of some dubious nature, at this establishment. I jerk my wrist to a rough and painful stop immediately before I finish writing the initial “K”, sweat gathering at my temples.
Health inspection.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I have to devise some other message to put on this latte. I also have no way of knowing whether or not the health inspectors were sent as a result of the complaint, or by chance. Rebecca doesn’t seem to know. She smiles and welcomes them. I will not debase myself by smiling. I completely and utterly refuse. If there is any employee in this godforsaken coffeehouse who will escape having to provide a mandatory customer service charade, I will not be the one to sacrifice his dignity for—
WHAT ARE YOU MAKING. AND WHY ARE YOU NOT SMILING.
I grit my teeth with creaking force. Each word becomes stilted.
“This is a hot latte with decorative flourish.”
It stares.
I DO NOT LIKE THIS.
You don’t like it? My hands tremble. What manner of handicap do you suffer from? Should I, Albert Wesker, care a whit for what you like?
MAKE ANOTHER ONE. WITH LOVE THIS TIME. OR I WILL RIP OUT YOUR TRACHEA AND USE YOUR BLOODY REMAINS TO DECORATIVELY FLOURISH THE CEILING.
I am made to demonstrate what a nice and happy message looks like, and smile under the pretense of enjoying this treatment. I am filled with loathing, an unadulterated hate burning hotter than the Sun. The residual effects of being burnt have long outlasted the wounds themselves. I do not want to tell Chris something nice and happy. I want to tell Chris that every single breath he draws unnecessarily detracts from the limited sum of oxygen in this atmosphere; for him to stop breathing my air would be a true kindness. I hate Chris. I haven't the slightest idea of how I would go about being nice to Chris. The very, damnable thought… The next beverage I make for him will be the sum of all my hate.
But this health inspector, this nemesis of the establishment, wants an expression of love. I am sorely tempted to show it by evacuating the contents of my stomach into this cup of coffee. Disgust notwithstanding, I produce a particular rendition of a human heart. It is strictly anatomical. The basic rendition favored by rookie employees will never suit my tastes. Creating the ventricles and atria takes a considerable amount of time and attention to detail, and recollections of the dissections I've performed in the course of my schooling. Though, even this calming work fails to detract from the spirit of being made to suffer within. Now of all times. Filth crawls through my skin.
My jaw remains clenched such that I am astonished there is no blood drawn.
GOOD.
Silence descends.
“Nothing more?”
There is the instant, heavy realization that I am being forced to deliver this beverage to Chris. This was a production for the health inspector’s merriment. As far as the health inspector is concerned, the first half-finished beverage suffices, its hands already dwarfing the cup, sharing said sludge with its mute lackey. This was a thoughtless display of dominance. The monitoring persists.
At least having it inside me to stay thankful for the continued concealment of my eyes, I glance across the room to where Chris has been waiting. He is incredibly distracted by his friends. They laugh, enjoy each other. If looks could kill, Chris. If looks could kill.
I attempt to bore a searing hole into the back of his head as I approach. I set the cup and saucer down on the table with a gentleness that defies the enmity seething in my bones, kept from bubbling to the surface and boiling over only by sheer force of will. I clear my throat. “Chris.”
There are a number of things I wish to say to him at that moment. My mind swims with expansive vocabulary including phrases such as kill yourself now, die with expedience, have a terrible afternoon, and break your own neck before I do it for you; I suddenly have nothing to tell him. In front of his dear companions as well, these statements would reach their highest magnitude, providing further incentive. And yet I still cannot bring myself to say a single one of them. I do not know whether it is the sudden inspection or an unexpected development of an unwanted personal boundary that caused this squandering of an opportunity in full bloom. At last unable to tell Chris to act upon any terrible decisions, I am forced into a state of paralysis. Fatal inertia.
“Hey, hold on a second.” The sound of his voice causes me to stiffen. Concerned. I have stood for too long. “Wesker? Are you—”
“I distinctly recall telling you to stay quiet.” I do not want to hear the rest of it with such incredible violence of impulse that I refuse to linger in his proximity any longer. The shift is irrelevant to me. Anyone standing in my way as I exit will be shoved aside.
The circumstances that created this nightmare no longer exist if I do not acknowledge them. I turn around and take the back door out of the building. Welcome seclusion.
The middle of the afternoon.
The garish sun hangs high in the sky, obscured only partially by an opposite building. Severe enough to blind anyone who does not perpetually cover their own eyes, despite the mild demeanor of the autumn season. Not that concealment mattered today. What emotions I have reached a dangerous threshold. I stand against the back brick wall at an angle blocking the sun and fold the sunglasses in one hand, index finger and thumb maneuvering to pinch the tender indentations they’ve left on the bridge of my nose. This does nothing to relieve the tension pounding behind my eyes.
Miserable.
I drag my hand upward, pushing back hairs that have fallen out of place. It lingers there.
Yes, Chris. I am miserable.
Since that day you made yourself known, I have felt nothing but the worst concoction of feelings brewing inside my chest. You humiliated me in front of so many people. Events that would have been contained within a single day have now stretched for weeks beyond. Each time I received a question about the bandage on my arm, I was reminded of what you had done to debase me. Yet, I've begun to notice something else. There happens to be more inside me than sickness at seeing your face. For every bone in your body I want to see broken, a thought persists that your intentions come from somewhere clueless. Childlike. Puerile. You ignore any immediate threat to your safety. You are an accountant because you were told accountants can do anything. Most of all, you wish to know me. Perhaps it is true that you are one of few people whose fear of me I can't sense in an instant, if you even know such a thing as fear. There lies the conundrum. I want you dead more than anything, Chris, but you are also one of few people—no, perhaps the only one I would care to see alive—
I take my hand from my face, turn to gather myself, and imagine for a moment that Chris happens to be standing there by the exit. I gnash my teeth, then feel a sudden resistance against my wrist as I move to put my sunglasses back on.
I have not imagined him. He stands beside me. I have no way of knowing if he heard that.
"... I knew something was wrong when you didn't tell me to kill myself, Wesker." Chris shakes his head. The sorry fool then takes my sunglasses from me, rights them on my face before I can strike him for that. My hand won't move. It twitches.
"I get it. I know you just want me to fuck off and leave you alone. Everyone tells me that. But you go out of your way to make me feel special. And if that's how you feel… I don't think you're really telling me to kill myself at all, deep down. I think you want me to keep myself safe."
Impossible Chris. Befuddling Chris. Those searching eyes again, as if being able to drink in mine has renewed his confidence. I remain as silent as the grave.
“If there’s anyone who knows the answer to that, it’s you.”
I manage a single laugh. Weary, abrupt, in his face. Ha . “Are you trying to flatter me, Chris?”
“Yeah, maybe so. Got a problem with that?” He gives the slightest smile and cants his head.
“Don’t be so timid.” I cut him down with a sharp glare. Felt more than seen. “That won’t work on me. If you are so interested in how I feel, the cards have already been laid out before you several times. I shouldn’t have to explain this.” Apparently, even in the express laying out of those cards, my feelings toward Chris have not been as simple as I would like them to be. Of course, I withhold that information from him. “You figure it out yourself. It’s child’s play.”
“That’s okay, Wesker. I think I already did a long time ago.” One might expect Chris to move closer after saying such a thing. Instead, he keeps his respectful distance. An unusually wise choice. “... I just told you that, didn’t I? You think too much.”
I cannot keep up the harsh look, and my eyes drop from his rather soon.
“Wow, your face is burning.”
“Shut up, Chris.” Not enough vitriol. One part vitriol and one part more than a little begrudging acceptance appears to produce a chemical I am not ready to know intimately. He chuckles again.
“Sure, when I’m dead. But, uh… Wesker, I really came out here to ask you something else.”
Chris glances away for a moment, swallows. He puts his hand to his chest before speaking.
“What’s your number?”
Those moments passed at light speed. I brought him to the ground faster than he was able to react. I almost lost hold of him when he slammed his elbow into my abdomen, a move quickly robbed of its fire when I gripped his short hair with fury and laid his face down against the curb. Much to my delight, blood dripped down his forehead with every consecutive hit.
“Five!” Slam. “Six!” Slam. “ Eight!”
“Wesker…” Chris groans, attempts to push me away with his remaining strength. I bear down further and hiss directly into his ear.
“You wanted my number, didn’t you, Chris? Don’t go unconscious now.” Slam. “One!”
Ten strikes of his head against the sidewalk for ten total digits.
I left him there and allowed his friends to find him afterward. Poor, concussed Chris. What did he even say? How come he couldn’t fight back?
Chris awoke in the hospital and had to receive several stitches. When he was lucid enough to tell left from right, a process that undoubtedly took some time, he found several items at his bedside. One was an admonishing letter from Jill disguising itself as a get-well-soon card. Flowers from Rebecca. Claire wasn’t in the room — she had gone out for a moment, and would undoubtedly be back to show her incredible gratitude that he was alright. But most importantly, I had used some ins of my own to get a handwritten card delivered.
To Chris Redfield—
Get well soon. I look forward to witnessing your recovery, and what you’ve learned from the experience of being severely beaten. It will happen again if you are not careful. This is not only a warning; it is a certainty. Watch your tongue. But in the event you have forgotten all I said to you, I have left enclosed something you may find very interesting.
(XXX) XXX-XXX.
Take ten minutes out of your day to personally inform me of your condition.
—Albert Wesker.