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Silent Hill 2 Fanfic

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Author Topic: Silent Hill 2 Fanfic  (Read 17246 times)
Mutou Yami
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« on: October 16, 2010, 03:37:47 am »

Chapter One
Prefatory Matters

The drive was a long one. Maybe it was just the state of mind I was in, but it seemed much longer than it did the last few times I attempted. I think the fear and the anticipation may have played a role in that. Don’t get me wrong, I had been here before a handful of times with Mary. She loved this town to death, and while I can’t really say it had the same effect on me at first, I’d say by the end of the second visit, it really began to grow on me as well. After that, even I was excited to go, and it became an annual tradition, one that started as a random getaway and ended as our anniversary getaway.

But never did the thought of going to Silent Hill seem the way it did today, and why would it? I had not even thought about going back since the disease really began to bury its claws deep within her. Now I was going again. Maybe it felt different because she wasn’t with me. I had never come here alone before. But of course, it was more than that. Would I be alone when I got there? What was I going to find? My imagination supplied me with plenty of possible scenarios, ranging from a tearful reunion to something out of The Exorcist, but if my rational mind even bothered to chime in how utterly ridiculous this whole idea was, I guess I wasn’t paying attention. Lord knows I wasn’t in the mood to hear it anyway.

I crossed the Maine border around noon, and almost immediately after I did, clouds shrouded the sun from view. I didn’t take much notice, it was summertime in Maine, and it wasn’t unusual at all for thunderstorms and overcast skies to be prowling about. For the next hundred miles it was like this.

I stopped in Augusta, at a burger joint. I got a fairly decent burger and fries, but I ate them in an absolute daze. I can’t even remember the name of the place or what the interior décor was like. I remember stopping there, I remember eating, and I remember having the burger in one trembling hand, and that photograph of Mary in the other. I just stared and stared at it, as if seeing it for the first time.

In a way, I felt the same kind of dumbstruck when I first met her, but this was quite different, a feeling I had never experienced before and one I couldn’t even begin to describe. That first time, I was taken by her beauty, her grace. I was amazed that such a wonderful woman (close description, I met her not long after she turned eighteen) would give her attention to a quiet loner like me, but she did. That was love at first sight, so I felt at the time. I suppose it really was. John Lennon was certain that it happened all the time, I guess I could believe in it too. What I was feeling here and now, though, was a terrible, oily mixture of longing and incredibly crazy hope. I would not have ever admitted it then, but I was a terribly desperate man, and this really was my last hope.

I finished the meal, tipped the waitress my last two bucks, and got back in the car. I still had the photograph in my hand, and I sat there staring at it again, unsure of what to do with it. On one hand, I couldn’t bear to hide it back in my wallet again, but on the other hand, the more that I looked at this picture, the more I felt strange vibes from it, as if the serene, smiling face of my wife now carried a subtle undertone of accusation in her eyes that I couldn’t even think to explain. In the end, I kept it out, clipping it to the dash. As I continued north past Augusta and onto SR 201, my eyes were almost constantly taking glances at her.

So distracting was this photo that I covered a lot of 201 without even realizing it. I saw a road sign telling me that I was less than ten miles away. I guess I wasn’t much farther than that when I ran into the first of the fog, which was a little odd. Not that fog was an uncommon sight in western Maine, especially around the lakes, but it was the middle of summer. The temperatures were peaking ninety, and it was cloudy and overcast all day, conditions that aren’t really conducive to creating fog.

That wasn’t the only odd occurrence though. After passing that road sign, I did not see a single vehicle of any sort. There was no traffic at all, and here it was, the height of tourist season. There was a dread silence, and my car was a loud, singular contrast to it.

The strangest thing I didn’t really notice until I was just outside of town.

I got off 201 at the Nathan Avenue exit, one of Silent Hill’s main thoroughfares, looping all the way around Toluca Lake into the homes of the locals north of the lake in the Old Silent Hill district. Yet, at the town’s limits, Nathan Avenue was blocked off, and not just with sawhorses and barricades, but the entire entrance underpass was blocked. It looked as though some heavy-duty construction was going on. I couldn’t believe they would seal off one of the major entrances to town with the tourist season just around the corner, yet there it was.

Out of options, I parked the car nearby at a rest station, and got out. That’s when I noticed the strangest thing of all.

It was cold as hell. Not chilly, not even merely cool. It was cold. It felt like it was in the forties. Halfway to June and barely above freezing! Thankfully I had an old fatigue jacket in the backseat, another gift from Uncle Stephen. I threw it on. It wasn’t going to be perfect, but it was better than just a T-shirt.

I grabbed the map and the letter from the passenger seat, and had to double-take to grab the photo. As much as that thing had occupied my attention for the last few hours, I couldn’t believe it wasn’t the first thing I took. I stretched a bit and headed to the little outstation, for nature was calling.

The restroom was one of the absolute filthiest I had ever seen, and it looked quite neglected. Graffiti stained the walls, which were crumbling and pitted with impact damage, the toilets were stained with urine and ****, and it looked like some parts of the floor were too. It smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned since roughly the end of the Civil War. The lights were still working, but the plumbing apparently did not, as the toilet did not flush when I pushed the handle, nor did water flow from the sink.

The mirror above the sink was as filthy as the rest of the place, but there was enough clear that I could see my face. I can’t say I really liked what I saw, either. My hair was greasy and there were dark circles under my eyes. My nose was red, as the sudden cold was making me sniffle. I still had lunch on my breath. I looked like hell, to be sure, but I like to think I didn’t look insane. Doing what I was doing certainly qualified, but I knew something would come of it. I had to believe it. Otherwise, I would have realized just what it was I was doing, and God only knows what that would have done to my mind.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my jacket, twisted a crick out of my neck, and walked outside, towards the overlook.

The view from here was really quite nice, I could almost see all the way to the lake. The overlook was quite elevated, and on a clear day I imagine you could even see the houses of Old Silent Hill from here, but today was anything but clear. The fog was very, very thick. That and the biting chill I was at a complete loss to explain.

I pulled out the map and looked at it, then at the letter again. Mary did not specify a particular location. All it said was that she was waiting at our “special place”. But what was our special place? I felt more than a little crappy for not knowing, but we did come here quite often, and in our travels had seen a great deal of the town. What could she mean?

I found the overlook on the map, and from there I saw a twisted path leading into the South Vale neighborhood, which, as I remember, was a bunch of shops and a few apartments. That’s when my eye caught a name.

Rosewater Park. That was definitely a name I remember. Rosewater was a lakefront park not far from here, a nice little place with a statuary and gardens. I remember sitting on the benches with Mary, holding hands and daydreaming together as we gazed upon the beauty of Toluca Lake. I remember actually doing that on more than one visit. She did really love it there. Of course, I did too. I didn’t know for sure if that was the special place, but it was as good a place to start as any.

I walked towards the nature trail, tucking the map, letter, and photo in my pocket. There was a set of concrete steps leading down to the trail, but the fog was so syrup-thick that I couldn’t see the bottom. It was, in all honestly, quite scary to look at. I felt even then as if I were at a threshold, that right now I had one last chance to think straight, turn around, get in the car, and drive all the way back to Ashfield. I’d still be miserable, but maybe I wouldn’t be crazy. There was such a foreboding about the descent in front of me that it almost felt tangible, like it was a snake coiling around my ankles. Then I thought of the photograph in my pocket, and of course, the letter as well.

She’s here. It may have been nothing but my own wishful thinking, but I thought I could feel her presence here, in this little lakeside town. She’s here.

My brain made one last attempt to warn me off and go back to the path of reason. I ignored it. I may be crazy, I may be totally off-the-rocker batshit, but right now, crazy was sounding leagues better than the misery and emptiness that had been consuming me for the last three years. I started down the stairs, into the swirling gray fog, towards Silent Hill, and Mary.
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All Hail The Strogg!
R.I.P. Paul Gray - April 8, 1972 – May 24, 2010.


"Stay...
 I Need You Here, For A New Day To Break...
Stay...
I Want You Near, Like A Shadow In My Wake...
Stay...
Here With Me... Don't You Leave...
Stay...
Stay With Me, Until The Day's Over..."
I love you Mutou Yami... Forever.


Long Live, Mr.Yamaoka Akira, The Silent Hill Legend.


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