Chapter Text
November, 1994
Introspection.
The refuge of saints.
The ruin of sinners.
And in the wee hours, when it's so late it's early and so early it's late, sleepless minds tend to wander. Sometimes all it takes is a single thought, ordinary, innocuous, and everything spirals from there. Other times it's a sort of waking dream, a montage of splintered memories. Every time he's left endlessly contemplating his tumultuous life, questioning every moment of decision or indecision, questioning everything. A morass of desperate fury and regret, in which every tangled thread inevitably leads to a single point, a single epoch: the last month.
A month since he extinguished the fading light in his life.
A month since he drifted through the forlorn streets of Silent Hill and saw the face of hell.
A month since he met Angela.
Everything is still so raw, so vivid, from the moment their paths crossed in that foggy graveyard. He remembers how close she came to throwing it all away… the look in her eyes: weary, lost, and so afraid. He remembers the stairway, the abject despair as the fires of hell raged around her. And he remembers taking her hand, cold and quivering as the shadows of that town faded behind them.
Deserved or undeserved, they escaped.
Worthy or unworthy, they survived.
He opened his home up to her, and she was free to come and go as she pleased. No questions. No obligations. A reasonable courtesy. They're both outsiders steeped in the savagery of sin, after all. They both have blood on their hands. Yet despite her harrowing anxiety, despite her frequent bouts of paranoia and anger—despite everything—she stayed, and a tenuous sort of bond formed.
But then she ran away.
Three days ago.
And the moment has been replaying ever since.
A fugue of heated words and bitter accusations. He's still uncertain of the catalyst, still struggling to piece everything together, but he knows he did something… something that upset her… something that left her overwhelmed. He can't shake the thoughts of that derelict apartment complex: Blue Creek. Of the knife. Of her despondency as she beheld her reflection in bloodstained steel. He took that knife. Hurled it into Toluca Lake. As if that would erase every sordid thing it symbolized—wash away the filth of the past.
What a stupid notion.
He sways to and fro, teetering between reality and unreality. Tired. So tired. He recalls all the nights he's lain awake, praying for sleep and dreams of the sea and the sky.
Now, he only prays safety finds her well.
A saucepan lies on the stove—a medley of chicken and vegetables swirls in a creamy broth. Something Mary used to make on cold and quiet nights. A little reminder of cozier times. He spent the evening before last chopping the ingredients and cooking the soup, only to lose himself in a mind-numbing cycle of refrigerating and reheating. A great deal of effort to expend on something that'll certainly go uneaten, but doing something is better than doing nothing…
…isn't it?
Steam rises. The surface bubbles.
Reduce heat. Stir.
Deep down, he knows this is a futile endeavor. A waste of time and a waste of resources. So what, other than the fear of inertia, compels him? Perhaps it's the illusion of control it provides—an alluring fantasy. As though this dreary busywork is making a difference. It's an awfully difficult thing…
…facing the reality of your own helplessness.
He scratches his cheek. A layer of stubble scrapes against his fingertips—natural rust. Three days since he's shaved. Three days since he's put any effort into his appearance. Three days since Angela…
And he can't help but wonder, was he ever equipped to help her?
She needs someone strong in her life—someone dependable. Not a miserable wretch still hopelessly grappling with his own demons. And what of Laura? Amid the storm of confusion and doubt, one persistent question resounds: How long? How long until she runs away, too? How long until everything falls apart and he's left as broken as he was in Silent Hill?
What did you think would happen?
Was he just trying to play the hero? Swoop in and rescue the little orphan girl and the deeply troubled runaway? Or was this all done to allay his guilt—atone for his sins? Interfering with the lives of others in a desperate search for absolution…
He asks himself, is he truly that selfish?
And he answers: No.
Perhaps he's a little selfish. Perhaps he's more than a little selfish. But this isn't just guilt. This isn't just ego.
He's witnessed Angela in those rare moments when she's let her guard down. Moments when she's allowed herself to open up—allowed herself to live. He's seen her soft smiles and heard her quiet laughter. Been granted glimpses of a shy, sensitive young woman, insightful and compassionate but mercilessly beaten down by the world. If he can make some sort of positive impact… help preserve the faint traces of happiness she's held onto… it'll be worth all the turbulent days and sleepless nights.
And Laura… As precious as she was to Mary, that's far from the only reason he took her in. She's a bright and remarkably strong-willed girl. Only eight years old, but she's already lost so much. He wants to do whatever possible to ensure she has a normal childhood, to provide the care and security she so richly deserves. Whenever he knows she and Angela are safe, he knows he's doing something right. Whenever he sees their elusive and fleeting signs of joy, if only for a moment, he feels he isn't worthless…
…feels he has a reason to exist.
The tap drips. Drip. Drip. Drip. He drums his fingers on the counter, looks to the left, looks to the right. A glass lies an arm's length away, lustrous as it overflows with amber liquid. A blink, and it's empty. A mirage. A temptation. He rarely drank in the early years of his adulthood. Never had much of a taste for beer… wine… whiskey…
But after Mary fell ill, taste no longer mattered.
Alcohol became a crutch, his way of coping with the senseless cruelty of the world—seduced by promises of numbness and escape like countless others. But not…not anymore… He poured out every can, every bottle. Watched all that poison slowly spiral away.
You don't own me.
He takes the glass then fills it with water, throwing his head back and letting it rapidly cascade, cold and flavorless as it rolls down his throat.
A sudden pause. A ripple on the surface.
Static roars as the kitchen violently shakes.
And again he sees them: flashes of a forsaken town. Desolate spaces consumed by mold and rot. Pulsating figures stalking in the shadows—twisted constructs of decaying flesh. A woman in red—a phantom, a figment—fading in the fog. An executioner… two executioners.
Burning eyes. Trembling hands.
Something slips from his grasp. Crrrsssshhh! It shatters.
And water flows. So much water.
He left Silent Hill, but Silent Hill never left him.
He clutches his chest and breathes in frantic desperation. Shards of glass lie scattered on the kitchen tile, floating in a shallow puddle. He sees the totality of his fragmented reflection—a mosaic of anemic faces, spectral in the fluorescent light.
"…Sh-Shit…"
Everything spins as he lurches to the broom, convulsing, hyperventilating. He fumbles for the handle then grips it in his tremulous fingers, half-dead as he sweeps up and discards the shattered remnants.
His legs are numb. His feet are wet.
He turns on the faucet then runs his hands under the tepid water. Shhhhhhhhh. The steady drone drowns out his thoughts—drowns out everything—but it only lasts so long. He grabs a small towel lying by the sink, lets its worn material envelop his anxious hands. Warm. Familiar. The touch of an old friend.
He remains like that for an indeterminate time, hearing little but the kitchen's ambient sounds: the bubbling of soup, the whir of the electric stove, the hum of the refrigerator… then something else. Faint. Rhythmic. A distant tap-tap-tapping. And perhaps it's only his imagination, the product of an overwrought mind…
…but it's something he can't afford to dismiss.
He covers the soup, switches off the stove, then sprints out of the kitchen, driven by nothing but instinct and a faint flicker of hope. Irrepressible feet carry him closer to the door, closer to the truth.
He grasps the knob. It's cold. So cold.
An unsteady twist. The door slowly creaks open.
And the likeness of a ghost stands in the doorway.
Angela.
She staggers in place, a mess of disheveled hair, sunken cheeks, and listless eyes—an echo of how she was in that lonely cemetery. Her sweater, once thick as a quilt and white as snow, is threadbare and ashen gray, while her lips are marred by scabs and strips of peeled skin. She shivers, arms wrapped around herself, overcome by the bitterness of the November night.
And he wants to reach out, touch her hand, touch her shoulder, just to prove she's real, just to prove she's there. Wants to smile, lead her inside, and say:
I missed you.
But uncertainty reigns, and all he can manage is a weak, "Hey."
Her response is equally brief, her voice low, hoarse. "…Hey."
He steps aside and gestures for her to enter. The door swings shut. Feet shuffle across the carpet. He flicks on the light.
And the wariness in her expression is clearer now—the unease, the fear. "Are you gonna ask where I've been…? What I've been doing?"
The questions swirl in his mind, echoing again and again, and his initial instinct is to simply say yes. Of course he wants to ask, wants to know if something's happened to her, if she's gotten into any trouble, if she's been hurt. But his more rational side urges him not to pry, screams not to do anything that might jeopardize whatever fragile relationship they share.
So he just sighs and asks, "Do you want me to?"
And silence falls, short and tense. She chews her lip. "…No."
"Then I won't."
And with those three words, the exchange ends. He studies her face, unsure whether it's relief he sees, disappointment, or sheer apathy.
"I've got some soup on the stove. You want some?"
She fiddles with her sleeve, tugging lightly on a loose thread. Her eyes flicker to the analog clock hanging on the wall. "…You were cooking at two in the morning?"
He runs his fingers through his hair. "I did the same thing yesterday." A weary sigh. "I guess a part of me thought… just in case."
Her eyebrows rise as her cracked lips quietly part.
Seconds march past as the clock tick, tick, ticks.
"Soup would be nice," she murmurs. "…Thanks."
He hesitates, looking to the kitchen then back to her. "Don't mention it." Then he turns, dazed and thoroughly disoriented as he drifts onward.
"James!"
He whirls back. Angela reels as she stares at the floor, one hand clutching her stomach, the other clasped over her mouth. "Your f-foot… It's bleeding…"
A small wince. "I, uh, dropped a glass," he says. "A shard must've cut me." And now he sees it, too, the fresh blood seeping through his sock, the red stains trailing across the carpet. The wetness he's felt… That wasn't just water? "…It's not a big deal."
Their eyes meet for an unfathomably fleeting moment, and in that fraction of a heartbeat, he notices something faint… a nearly imperceptible glint…
…sympathy?
Neither of them speaks.
When he returns to the kitchen, he spreads his arms out—spreads his arms out and just breathes. His head may be throbbing, his foot may be bloodied, but right now… he feels so weightless.
She's back.
She's safe.
"What do you want to drink?" he asks over his shoulder, startled by the evenness of his voice, the resonance. Please don't wake Laura…
"J-Just water is fine."
He fetches a bowl and uncovers the saucepan, grabbing a nearby ladle and almost filling it to the brim. He finds a cup—plastic this time. Shhhhhh. Two-thirds full or one-third empty. A drawer shoots open. He rummages through a clutter of silverware and clasps a soup spoon, dropping it in the bowl, watching it sink.
Exhaustion leaves him stumbling to the dining room, where he lays everything out on the table then pulls back a chair. Angela stands mere feet away, fidgeting with her hands one moment and her sweater another.
The clock ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick.
She slinks closer. Lowers herself onto the chair.
"Well…" he says, "…enjoy."
And quietly he turns. Better to leave, he thinks. Better to spare her the burden of his dismal company. Fatigued as he is, it's only a matter of time till he does something foolish—something he'll regret. He just got her back. He can't afford to make any more mistakes. Can't afford to do anything else that might push her away.
Besides… he needs to take care of his foot.
"James."
His gaze flickers back. Angela sits still, arms folded on the table, eyes fixed on the soup.
"Sorry," she says. "Sorry for worrying you."
"It's alright." His voice cracks. "You're okay." And then he smiles. A small smile, but a sincere smile. His first in… too long. "That's all that matters."