The Last Door

This was originally written for two theme communities on LJ: The 31_days prompt "a mountain of violent sins" and the 30screams theme "Time's Up." Thank for reading.

The Last Door


There have been so many doors, and he hopes this is the last one. It has to be; he can't see anything else anymore. And it opens without trouble this time. It's a tiny room which was once white but is covered with smoky stains. And there is nothing there, no other doors, just the thing James knew he would see. It wears the apron, stained with everyone's blood, and the knife is lying in the corner as if it isn't important anymore.

"MARY ISN'T HERE JAMES" the wall reads, as if he didn't know that already.

Its past time for running, maybe it always was, and James just walks in and shuts the door behind him.

He's still wearing the helmet, though James is certain now what's underneath. And his skin is covered with blood, the same blood that it on James's own skin... Or maybe it's all James's own skin, but that thought doesn't fit in his head yet, so he pushes it away.

The thing could still kill him, but in fact it probably already has. In this place James has lost track of alive and dead and what that means. So James just sits in the corner and stares.

"What happens now?" he asks. And the thing turns the helmet toward him but doesn't answer.

James could go and see if there's a town out there, but there probably isn't, and he doesn't want to bother. Now this is all about the creature before him, just like it was meant to be.

He gets up, walks toward it, knowing it would probably rape him or kill him but not really caring now. He looks at that white stained skin, looks through the helmet into what surely are his own eyes. He might as well admit it now.

"I know what you are. You’re me, my guilt, and I made you. Isn't that right?"

The thing tilts the helmet slightly, as if considering the question, and shakes its head. And then James feels it all. A mountain of violent sins rushing into his mind, a pile of corpses, bodies of monsters raped and dismembered by this thing, other sinners caught and punished. And James himself runs through the town and hides in its shadows and feels the lust for blood and flesh, so much worse than what he felt for Mary, and it makes him hard even now.

"No! You're me. You're my punishment," he says. And the thing nods. James can't leave it there though; he has to say the final truth, though it proves that even here the truth is always worse.

"But you were here before I came to this place! That's what you're telling me?"

And it nods again, and then James understands and it's not what he wanted at all.

Because he isn't really James Sunderland, punished by a beast from Hell for what he did to one small woman. He was always this thing before him, always.

One day this creature was born into Ashfield and it was a baby named James. And then it grew up and it was a man, with thoughts and a face and a past but it was still what it always was. And it tried to be human and tried to have a wife but it killed because it always does. And then James came back to meet himself, but not only because of Mary. Because of Silent Hill, because he came from here, because he was always meant to go back.

And that’s the part that suddenly hurts. Because it wasn't about James Sunderland, it was about this damn town after all.

"Why? How could anything like this happen?"

The thing shrugs, and holds out its arms as if in welcome.

"I don't want to be you!" James says, and he rushes for the knife, runs at the helmeted creature but he knows it isn't afraid even though he can't see its face.

It's too late, though. If he stabs it, kills it, he'll still be what he is. And even if only one of them walks out of here there's nowhere to go.

"YOU CAN'T KILL YOURSELF WHEN YOU ARE DEAD ALREADY," the wall reads and it makes more sense than anything else in this town.

And then James does what he really wants, drops the knife. He runs at the thing, buries his head in its neck and licks the dried salty blood, bites down and tastes its flesh. The helmet scrapes his scalp and brings fresh blood down his face and he licks that up too.

He can feel it, he can feel everything, the pain of his own teeth in its neck, the hardness that is both of them, the need to fuck and hurt. And there's nothing left but himself, but there's enough fucking and pain there too.

"I hate you," he says to it. And it's true, but it really doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't matter who will fuck who in this place, who will end up bleeding on the floor. James pushes the apron aside, reaches for the thing's cock, and feels it heavy and scarred in his hand. He's so damn hard, and he needs this, just as he needs the taste of that skin in his mouth as he bites again on its chest.

And he pretends this isn't him, that this isn't his own cock he is stroking but of course it is. He can feel it from the other side, too, as he grips himself, hurts himself, makes himself think of Mary and her flesh instead of nameless monsters but that doesn't work either. The heat just increases and he moves his hand faster, screams obscenities in his mind and trying not to remember everything.

"I hate you," he says again as he his body shudders, as the liquid spills over his hand. And it's still true, but it still doesn't matter. Now it's only pain, just like always.

"YOU ARE THE HILL JAMES SUNDERLAND," the wall reads, and that doesn't surprise him anymore.