Lost Days

A hand so hot held his own, pulling him away from the blood splattered mattress. He could barely see or breathe, and felt like he was dragging himself along after whoever was pulling him.

That was then.

This was never.

"I don't even know how long it's been," his companion remarked, voice crackling, so old and dry and brittle. "But I never found a way out. I tried everything. Everything."

"Guess that means I have all eternity to figure this out." Harry smiled wryly.

-=-=-

As he progresses, it's colder and colder. Hell, Harry hasn't even gotten in very far with the hospital. He's been walking slowly, hesitant, wondering exactly why he's in this place. A part of him can't help but think of Lisa and...

And then everything else.

God damn, what a failure he's been in the past. To everyone possible, and he can't do a damned thing. Now he isn't even so sure about Heather or much of anything else. Originally, Harry came back to Silent Hill to learn the truth about himself, but now he's trying desperately to find James again.

This is just nuts.

He swears he sees his breath. As if every time he has to think of James, it gets that much colder.

(I have to find him.)

He wishes he had help.

He continues down the hall, trying doors. Some are locked, of course. Some have nothing left behind but empty rooms. A part of him hopes to find Lisa still inside one, having waited all this time, but he doesn't see a single sign of her. No blonde hair, no red sweater.

It's mostly empty, he finds, and there aren't any hints for him. There's nothing here to indicate where James is, or to tell him what's wrong with himself--

But he does stop, staring at the ceiling, crudely written in dark red ink that maybe perhaps is blood.

MOTHER OF GOD
DAUGHTER OF GOD
DAUGHTER OF MAN
FATHER

...As Harry expects, nothing makes sense. He lets out a ragged sounding sigh.

Even as he takes another step, his head starts throbbing a bit. As if he knows where the reason or source is from, he turns his head to look down the hallway--

The short black hair is what catches his sight. The figure of someone down the hallway, arms crossed maybe, moving strangely.

No. Not a person. Some kind of monster.

Yet, he approaches--

(I have nothing to fear.)

--and he sees it more clearly, as his eyes adjust to the dark, and he needs no light (but I always need the light). It's not one of those nurses, no. It looks like some kind of woman bound up in bandages, cleavage obvious, but the short black hair stands out the most. Its mouth is covered with blood, but eyes masked away by the bangs. Her hands are long and bony and clawed, and she stumbles towards him.

(I have nothing to--)

But it's coming closer. Harry should be running, but he's completely still as it nears him.

As the creature gasps and shudders, nearing him, her teeth bares and fangs are obvious. Suddenly, she's jerking towards him, mouth extending like the muzzle of a beast, biting at him.

Of all things, he lifts up his arm, letting it bite him.

(Is that all?)

Abruptly, he pulls his arm free, teeth leaving scrapes into his skin. He feels himself grinning (why?) as he reaches out, grabbing her face, digging his fingers into flesh that's too shiny and too plastic looking but feels like skin anyway and.

He pulls.

He tears her face off.

(You listen to me.)

No no no no and he starts to approach the body as it falls to the floor, and he throws the bloody mess in his hand aside carelessly. Crouching, he grabs the corpse by the shoulders, leaning down, about to take a NONONONO bite.

Somehow, his teeth can dig in without much effort. The blood is the worst, a bitter and foul taste that fills his mouth and he swallows anyway, greedily, even though he hates it. He doesn't want this, he's doing it anyway (HUNGER). He bites and tears off meat, chewing and swallowing (THIS IS ALL I NEED OF THEM) and blood is getting smeared all over his face. He works up, from the stomach, tearing off the bandages, biting between the bizarre creature's breasts, digging in for something (HEART) HELP ME STOP ME. (I DON'T NEED YOU ANYMORE)

He hears footsteps, like high heels clacking on the floor.

Harry drops the body, thankfully, and pulls himself away.

(I'm so hungry.)

"Hello?" he calls out, desperately, wanting to vomit. God, get away from that thing.

He almost wants to cry.

He tries to follow the sound as he wipes off his mouth of blood, follow what he hears (footsteps daintily going) and he turns a corner in the hall until he finds it. A patient's room with no numbers to it.

But there are footsteps.

Taking in a deep breath, he opens the door, stepping inside--

No one.

Harry stills a moment, then laughs quietly, bitterly. God, what he wouldn't give to talk to someone, anyone.

It's a plain hospital room. A bed and all. About as plain as this place can get, anyway; it's atrociously filthy, rust covered and all, but it's almost normal. Almost.

He turns to leave, but... hesitates. He sees something under the sheets...

Harry pulls them away.

What's underneath isn't scandalous or anything like that. Just strange. He's staring down at a pair of woman's pajamas, and taking note that the pillow is splattered with blood.

If anything, it's just unusual.

Still, morbid curiosity manages to win him over, in spite of everything, like wanting to vomit. Harry picks up the pillow, finding a message written with blood.

before you can go up
you must go down

Go down...

"Not the basement again," Harry mutters to himself, fingers trembling enough that he drops the pillow. No, why does he... Is James there, or something else?

He turns, only to lean against the wall, muttering to himself, "I need help. Damn it, I need help--"

He can't keep doing this alone. Somehow, it feels like every moment here, every cold, freezing moment, he's becoming less of himself, and it's too much to bear.

To no one, he whispers, "Help me, help me."

There's nothing to answer him.

(I'm right here.)

The writer pushes away from the wall, and stumbles back into the hallway. The headache starts to return as he walks down, biting his lip. The basement. Why in the hell should he go there? What could be waiting?

The hallways are... mostly quietly. Mostly. He trembles, his body aching in some way as he sees another strange bandaged monster again, the urge to tear it apart rising in him. Not that he's sure how he could, but what with the way he acted earlier--

Maybe he could. He shudders.

He feels sick, just remembering it, and he tries to wipe more blood from his chin he knows he's missed.

The door to the basement is cold, even as he touches it, colder than everything else. He pushes it open, slowly descending, tensing for any signs of... well, anything that could crawl after him. He has no weapons, yet he knows at the same time he can't seem to stay hurt for some reason.

Eventually, he's quickly met with a small room. This is different than years before, but he supposes even in seventeen years Silent Hill would change. He hesitates, seeing no other door. Just... a freezer locker.

With no lock.

Harry hesitantly approaches it. There aren't any other doors here, so ... what could this mean?

Slowly, he grabs onto the handle. He gives it a tug, swinging the door wide open. Mist pours out and the chill hits him, hard enough to make him shiver already. But as he looks down, the depths of the locker don't seem to end. Like... it's a door or a hole in the floor.

No, no.

"I don't... Please, not in there." Too cold. Too damned cold. Harry holds his forehead. "Not there."

(But where else can I go?)

That's the truth of it. Where else can Harry possibly go at this point? What other clues does he have?

None. Nothing. Nothing at all.

He gives a sigh, caves in. What else can he do?

Turning, he grips onto either side of the damned cold freezer, and jumps down inside of it.

And he falls

and

-=-=-

"You left me to die," he said bitterly. "You didn't look back, even once."

Harry sighed. "No," he agreed tiredly. "I didn't. I..."

"You might as well have shot me."

-=-=-

f
a
l
l
s

all the way down, until he hits the floor, so cold that it immediately bites into his skin that it feels like it burns. Harry groans and shivers, seeing his own breath. This isn't the basement, is it? Then... where is he, exactly?

He hears something swinging.

He jerks; Harry gets to his feet quickly, looking around. It...

It looks like a meat locker. Of all things in a hospital.

(Or maybe this isn't the hospital anymore.)

Rotting, putrid meat are on hooks, dangling and smelling absolutely rank. As if Harry doesn't already have a million reasons to want to vomit, this tempts him even further.

Yet, he steps forward anyway, glancing around--

Something blue catches his attention, out from the corner of his eye. Turning, he starts towards where he's about certain he'd seen it. Harry slips by the other meat hooks, circling around a maimed piece of flesh until he sees it.

An obese young man, hooked onto one of the chains. A seemingly very average looking dead man, that is.

No one he recognizes, though--

(Eddie. Somehow, that's the name, that's the man I'm looking at. Eddie.)

Circling around the front, Harry glances over the body briefly, frowning. The head is tilted forward, so he can't really get a good look at the face, but the appearance is apparent enough. Overweight, maybe in his twenties. Blue striped shirt, cap, and shorts. Very dead, as if the hook through his back and sticking out in his chest isn't obvious enough.

Harry frowns and turns away, looking around the freezing room. He can't stay here, too cold -- where's the door?

"So, you're gonna leave, just like that, huh?"

Harry jerks. Did... did that corpse just talk? He turns his head slowly, staring at Eddie's body.

The head is up, staring back at him, wearing a downright disturbing grin.

"I... um, sorry," is the first thing that comes out from Harry. "I don't... I mean. You're... dead, aren't you?"

"Wasn't my idea," Eddie replies, scoffing a bit. "I got shot and left down here. That son of a bitch shot me--"

"I... I see." Not that Harry was shot; he'd been stabbed to death, but it's still murder all the same. Oddly, he thinks maybe he can relate. "I'm sorry. I..." He lets out a nervous sigh, tucking his arms against himself, desperate for warmth. "Is your name... Eddie?"

The man gives him a look. "Who's askin'?"

"My name is Harry. Harry Mason." Sometimes Morris, but Harry is starting to stop caring about hiding now. "This is going to sound crazy, but... I don't know, for some reason, the moment I looked at you, I knew your name."

Eddie just laughs, and it's in a way that makes Harry jerk back a little, as if he'd been struck.

There's the sensation that Harry gets that says he really, really doesn't want to be here. Still, he dares to ask. "Look, I'm... I'm searching for someone. He's a little younger than me, a bit taller. Blonde hair, green jacket--" The description seems to catch Eddie's attention, and he stares at him. Harry tries to not think of it as disturbing. "--his name is James."

"I haven't seen him in a long time -- not since he killed me." Eddie's tone of voice suddenly develops an edge to it, snapping at Harry. "Go ahead and laugh! It was one way or the other -- we're both killers! Both of us!"

James did what?

Harry backs up, scowling. "Why would he...?"

"And what does that make you, huh?"

He turns his head away. Harry knows he has no illusions about himself. Not when he killed Cybil, or that cult member who was too damned young to die. That was years ago, but he still holds onto it -- onto that guilt. That and other things, of course. None of it ever goes away.

(Don't talk about him--)

"Don't talk about him like that," Harry says coldly.

Eddie begins to sneer at him, but without saying another word, Harry shoves his hand forward; somehow it's with enough force that it breaks into the dead man's stomach, through flesh and all. Grabbing onto intestines, he yanks them out, letting them hang out of the overweight man.

As Eddie vomits onto the floor, Harry keeps his glare, speaking lowly, "Dead or alive, I can make what's left of your existence absolutely more miserable than it's been."

(yes yes yes yes)

What is he saying? What did he just...

(And isn't it warm on your hand?)

Harry backs away, turning and scrambling to find a door, and he hears Eddie's gurgling laughter echoing after him,

"Yeah. Yeah, I knew it -- you're just like me."

-=-=-

"Did you hear me, Harry? You might as well have shot me."

"I know." Harry winced. "I know. I... what can I say other than I'm sorry? I had... I had to get out of there."

"I'm not even dead, and I might as well be -- I sure as hell wish I was. Thanks to you."

-=-=-

Alchemilla Hospital.

To be honest, James has never been here, but he can't think it'll be too different from Brookhaven. No reason why it ought to be. That same discomforting presence is bothering him, and hell. He's hated hospitals ever since Mary.

Now he's here, because of Harry.

...Because, it's his choice. It's not like he'd go to the ends of the Earth for the other man or anything ridiculous like that. He has his reasons, and hell, they're completely selfish. James accepts that completely. It's not as if he really knows how to be any other way but to find what'll benefit him.

What'll make him feel better.

(And feel good.)

He presses a finger against the wall as he walks down the hall, frowning to himself as he feels the familiar rust roughly brush against his skin. Familiar feeling, familiar setting, yet he can't shake the feeling that there's always a new trick around the corner.

There's that sound he's heard before in these hallways, the clicking sound of high heels walking against the hard floor. He stills, and his thoughts immediately go to (Mary? Maria?) unknown and he stills a moment peering down the hall.

At the very end, he watches. He watches, and he sees her.

It's a young woman; blond hair, red sweater. Pretty, normal looking, obviously a nurse--

James curls his fingers against the wall.

She's walking down, and already out of sight.

"Hey!" he calls out for her. "Wait a second!"

No surprise; she doesn't stop for him, disappears around the corner. James lets out a frustrated sigh and starts after her, running down the hall and turning the corner. He glances around; for a moment, she seems to have mysteriously vanished, but he notes -- a door shuts.

An examination room.

Honestly, exploring a hospital is bringing in all sorts of memories. None of them that he wants.

He opens the door; it's a little office, just before the examination room. Not much inside of the room, except for a mess of wood on the floor, a small portable TV settled on a rack, and some old drawing book chucked in the corner. Shaking his head, James just reaches out for the only other door available.

And it's locked.

Big surprise.

James snorts.

As he turns to exit the room, the door behind him slams shut suddenly. Not good. He hurries to the door (this is a familiar scenario) and tries the knob.

Locked, too.

A horridly familiar voice is behind the door (except it sounds a little too old), "You don't deserve to be around him, James! She told me all about him."

"Unlock the door," James snaps at her.

"Nuh-uh. I know what you did, and I hope Harry never, ever finds you."

He hears her run off, and he tenses up; he doesn't get emotional, not often, but hell if he doesn't feel angry that she's done this again. Slamming a fist on the door, James yells after her, "Damn it-- Laura!! Get back here!"

"--Wait a second. I'm just a --"

James jerks his head, turning; the sound of static hissing from the TV, images flickering by. He doesn't quite recognize who's on there (but the brown leather coat is a hint) and there's a woman (police officer) that he doesn't know.

"I came here -- -- I just -- -- don't know what happened. I'd like to find -- myself."

The images blink out, start over again, with something else. Still static, partly in the way of a clear view, and slowly he finds himself sitting down (when did that armchair get there it looks familiar it looks bloody but), watching.

Watching a younger version of Harry, driving, with a little girl beside him (isn't Heather blonde?) and he doesn't. Get it.

But he figures...

(That he will.)

-=-=-

"We have to split up for now."

"Are you an idiot?! Do you even know what that thing was? They call it Valtiel!"

"I'll be fine. But I feel like I need to go after it. Look, give me fifteen minutes, I'll come right back for you."

"I find that hard to believe."

-=-=-

All of them...

(Are nothing to me.)

...smeared across the walls and floors. As he remembers, the nurse monsters haunting this place, and he has no problem initially tearing them apart. The stench is foul, horrid, but he storms through anyway, he thinks--

(Tear them down!)

--he feels a smile on his face. When he takes them apart.

They're all over the place. A leg there, a head he crushes under his foot, blood dripping down his arms. He's sickened by it, shivering cold in the midst of the dead heat.

(Hungry)

Yet Harry holds up his hand to--

(HUNGRY)

--lick off the blood.

Stop stop stop

(MINE)

Harry shakes his head. God, he can hardly concentrate on moving forward.

Trying to stumble away from the remains in the hallway, Harry manages his way down, further into the dark, further into being cold again. He tries not to think of Eddie or how much colder he feels or how much he's begging, begging the nothing in the air to help him. Help him. God he wants help somebody help.

Eventually, he finds himself in front of a pair of doors. He lets out a soft hiss, sees his own breath in the air.

He tries the door.

Locked.

And he trembles.

(Can't KEEP ME OUT)

Harry lets out a frustrated yell, slamming his fist against one of the doors. To his surprise, it breaks at the force, tearing from the hinges and slamming into the floor.

How did...?

(nothing can keep me out of my)

The room, like any other, is dark, the light dangling from the ceiling swaying and blinking in and out, yet his eyes are so adjusted to the darkness that it's the light that, oddly, bothers him. As Harry looks around, he notes a filthy mirror on the far side of the room, so dirty that he can hardly even see his own reflection. Slowly and hesitantly, he steps inside, noting another door in the room.

Yet he continues to explore, for the sake of it, for any sign of James or some kind of answer to his own damned mystery.

(kingdom)

He turns, and he sees a table full of needles, flies buzzing around the tray full of used tools, rusting and covered with gore--

And finally, it catches his eye. How did he miss it before?

Strapped to a gurney, writhing, is a creature. Harry flinches back; it doesn't make a noise, but its struggle is obvious. From what he can see, it's wearing some kind of butcher's smock, but its helmet is an usual shape -- if only for the fact that it seems to cover all but half of its deformed face.

When Harry gets closer, it suddenly stops wriggling, and from what he can tell, the thing is staring at him.

"Uh." Harry jerks back a bit, frowning. Why was it looking at him...?

(STAY HERE FOR)

It doesn't look helpless, but. Trapped. That seems right. Trapped.

(EVER)

He starts to wring his hands together, biting his lower lip. It's probably not a smart idea, freeing the damned thing--

(STAY STAY STAY STAY STAY STAY)

--but it feels right.

(NO)

He winces, holding his forehead; a headache is starting, but Harry shakes his head. Ignore it. Carry on. He reaches out, hesitantly, starting to undo the bonds the creature is stuck with. After one hand is free, it reaches up abruptly to grab onto Harry's throat.

He tenses.

Yet, in a skewed way, he feels terribly calm.

The writer glares at the creature. "Is that how you're going to thank me?" Weird thing to say. Harry isn't even sure if those are his own words.

The fingers on his throat twitch, almost hesitantly.

"That's right. Let go of me, if you know what's good for you," Harry tells it coldly.

It lets go, staring at Harry intently.

He's even more surprised it obeyed.

Harry sets back to what he was doing, freeing the thing of its bonds. It moves, sitting up slowly, reaching down over the other side of the gurney. It pulls something free--

A really. Really. Big cleaver.

Hell if that doesn't make Harry uncomfortable.

He waits a moment, watching as the monster stands up, practically towering over Harry. It doesn't move to attack him, which is relieving. He seriously doubts this thing is harmless, but just as much as Harry doubts it could do Harry any lasting harm. Not with how he seems to rapidly recover from every injury he's been put through so far.

It watches him.

Harry is staring back.

The silence is really, really awkward.

"Uh. So..." Harry suddenly feels nervous, rubbing his arm. What the hell is he doing, helping another creature in this damned town? "Guess you're... free?"

The thing just tilts its head, peering at him.

"Great; what am I doing, even talking to you," Harry mutters. "I don't even know if ... if Valtiel -- is that even his name? -- understands me, and hell. Eddie scared me more than half the monsters in this place--"

He frowns, sighs, and presses his hand against his forehead. "Now I'm rambling. Terrific."

Turning away, Harry finds himself glancing at the dirty mirror. Something catches his eye, somehow. This creature doesn't seem to match its own reflection, but it's too filthy to quite tell. If anything, its reflection seems human.

Harry raises a brow, and raises a sleeve, trying to clear away the grime.

And he doesn't notice in time, there's someone else at the doorway, he looks familiar--

BANG

Harry jerks, watching the mirror split and crack after the bullet passes through his own body. He stumbles, turning around, pressing a hand to his stomach.

"Fifteen minutes, Harry? Try two whole months. I kept count. That's all I can do in this place -- keep count--"

More gunfire and Harry's certain that all of the bullets are hitting him, and he slams up against the mirror, choking and curling onto himself.

He stares up, his vision getting blurry as he watches the man turn around, in a pathetic excuse of what remains of a gray suit and carrying a pistol, slamming the door shut.

Harry can't get up, not yet, he feels his own body, oddly enough, start to put itself back together, slowly--

The creature is slowly stepping towards him, and whatever it might do, Harry knows he can't stop it. Yet, it doesn't move to attack him; it reaches down, grabbing him by the waist, slinging him over its shoulder. Harry puts up a pitiful struggle.

"P-put me down," he groans; still in pain. He's recovering, but still in pain. "Damn it, put me--"

It doesn't listen, it starts to move, heading out of the room.

(the butcher)

-=-=-

"Dad, I’m home. Listen.... Something really crazy is going on. I think we should... Dad?"

Six years ago, James vaguely remembers a little girl. Polite, cute, blonde. Didn't look a thing like her father, but her mannerisms were clear enough. He remembers two names, anyway. Heather, and then Cheryl. Harry said both, and never explained who Cheryl was. Said his daughter's name was Heather.

But now he knows.

It's too much, and yet he couldn't look away. Not for a second.

Too much to know -- was any of it true?

(Yes. Of course it was. Why else did you watch?)

And he watched what happened, with him and Harry, six years ago. And then some, his murder--

He isn't sure how much he actually cares, but. Hell if he didn't make things a bit worse for Harry.

James sits, and he sits, and he watches the screen full of static, and he sits.

Maybe his expectations were too high.

He hardly even notices it, a door creaking open. Slowly, he glances up, looking at her. The woman he was trying to follow down the hallway before.

"Your name is ... Lisa." That's what he watched, anyway.

She hasn't aged a day.

Slowly, Lisa approaches him, offering a hand. "That's me." She smiles faintly. "I'm not entirely sure what's going on, but I think we have a similar goal right now."

"What do you mean?" James frowns at her, but he takes the hand anyway, helping himself up.

"You're looking for Harry. Aren't you?"

"I guess." James glances away.

"I want to find him, too." Lisa lets go of his hand, turning and starting for the door. "I'm not sure where to find him, though. I just... woke up here."

James starts after her, scowling. "Just woke up here?"

"That's right." She nods. "It's hard to explain, but I've been here so long. All I can remember is being in pain. Then I saw Harry, and everything went quiet. I woke up in the hospital."

That catches his attention easily. "You saw him? Where?"

"I'm not sure. But I know he wouldn't be there anymore, anyway." Lisa shakes her head. "Don't worry. Just let me help you find him."

It's ridiculous, but as per usual, nothing around here makes any sense. Just how is Lisa here? Still looking human, no less. And hell if James doesn't know how to let everything sink in, what he watched, what he witnessed. When he thinks about it, he knew next to nothing about Harry before this whole thing. Now it's...

It's getting to a level of being too personal.

(He's not ready to start giving a damn, is he?)

They're walking down the hallway. Lisa is, oddly enough, taking lead, as if she knows where she's going (but then, she's worked here for awhile, she would know).

And abruptly, she asks, "This is going to sound a little strange, but... James, right?"

"Yeah."

"James." Lisa glances over her shoulder. "Why do you want to find Harry so much?"

"I don't know how to answer that." James is doing his best to not look her in the eye. "But a few years ago, I tried to kill myself. I was ready to die. But Harry dove into the lake after me, without knowing who I was--"

The twitch on Lisa's lips seems to indicate she's not very surprised.

"--I guess I never really understood it. And I never had the spine to try to die again, yet... I can't let go of anything." James shakes his head. "I'm not out to try to understand Harry. I know I wouldn't be able to. But I guess I'm hoping... I might be able to save myself from everything I've done, if..."

He doesn't think he can finish. He knows he sounds like an idiot. And all of this is for a selfish reason.

"Everyone wants to be saved, James," Lisa says quietly. "And I know Harry tries to save everyone, except for himself. Just be careful."

It's all about salvation.

Because James knows, he's a damned mountain of sin.

(If he could somehow stay by Harry, maybe he could finally...)

"Harry can't save everyone," Lisa tells him.

Yet, it's what James wants. It's (stupid) a high expectation, to think that somehow, Harry can get him salvation from everything James has ever done, but there's that hope, that by coming here, it'll happen--

But he knows. Only a moron would help James now.

-=-=-

That had been...

Harry is bleeding. Slowly, he's healing, but faster, and it's colder, and he's being carried by this (BUTCHER) thing. He's given up struggling. It just carries him, taking no effort in cleaving the monsters in half that may come across it.

That man who had shot him had been--

(never get your wish)

Kaufmann? That couldn't be right.

(TOY you're not allowed to die)

He stops bleeding.

"Put me down." Harry grumbles and starts to struggle again, but the damned thing won't let go.

Great.

They turn a corner. The Butcher is shoving a door open, and finally the damned thing is letting Harry stand on his own two feet. He sways a moment, holding his head.

A hand rests on his shoulder, and he knows by the weight of it, it sure as hell doesn't belong to the Butcher.

Harry tenses, then slowly looks over his shoulder and.

Even though they've never met.

He knows.

She smiles at him.

He tenses.

(mary)