[Silent Hill] Two of Cups
Night has fallen, but the town of Silent Hill is waking up. She wishes for a return to the eerie emptiness of just half an hour ago; these are not the kinds of noises and accompaniments she'd hoped for. Groans, hisses, wet flesh flopping against sidewalks, wrecked cars creaking from some visitor inside or beneath them, she doesn't look. She especially doesn't look when uneven footsteps signal something giving chase behind her, growing louder and louder until they stop and wander off dejected. Running blindly, this she can do, especially now that she has a purpose for it.
Rosewater Park doesn't look so terribly different; something black dripping from the leaves here and there, wilted white flowers popping up from between planted bushes, cute iron benches tinged with the red of metallic decay and statues and monuments beheaded and crumbling. Otherwise, it is very much like she remembers it, and just like always, she quickly gets a little lost. Winding pathways are charming for tourists, but now, she doesn't know what might be crouched beyond any of these many corners. She calls out her quarry's name whenever she catches breath for it, though she doesn't expect that he'll actually hear her voice this time. Maybe, though. It's worth a try. And maybe he won't be as apt to shoot her if she doesn't take him by surprise again.
When she first sees the prone figure by the bench that's broken right down the middle, everything speeds up, the inside of her head a froth and frenzy of questions in fragments. What is, how did, what do, what can...? Her body, a little sluggish in reality from blood lost before the ampoule stemmed the flow and aches and creaks from Troy's beating and this whole adrenaline-strained hour, feels positively leaden.
But when she grows close enough to see the shape of him, the features of his face, everything stops. Everything. Suddenly, she can't think at all, her mind humming a nothing. No sound to thrum in her ears, her body feels empty and weightless. A strangled noise of dismay tears loose from her throat and it doesn't sound like her voice at all.
Henry Townshend lies face-up in the dirt, eyes closed, and limp.
When his name had flitted across her consciousness, she'd tried to count on his distance and his safety. She knew it was possible that he'd been ambushed by whatever is going on here, just like she had, but it made doing everything that she had to do so much easier to think that he was somewhere out and above her, probably frantic but unable to descend with her. Easier to believe that than to wonder what kinds of abominations had come for him, or what he could've gone and gotten himself into, only able to imagine what was being done to him. She no longer has that comfort to fall back on, and her thoughts skitter violently away from being forced to wonder now. Or they try to, anyways, white noise blotting out awareness of sprinting breathless down the gravel path to sink to her knees next to him.
She does nothing, at first, but gape at him in fear, hands fluttering above him but making no contact. When fingers hovering over his face feel warmth, the fog starts to clear, reality penetrating, and her stomach is free to drop like a stone. Scrabbling to press unsteady fingers to his wrist, she searches for a pulse.
And is rewarded.
Thank you. Oh Lord God, thank you, she silently chants. His knuckles are as scraped as hers and his hand chilly when she clasps one, but as she reaches for the hollow of his throat to confirm her finding, she's even graced with steady breath against her skin. He's alive, the world can continue to exist.
But now, she has no idea what to do next, and a faint rustling sound in the manicured bushes does not help her overtaxed brain. No idea what's happened to him, no idea what could still happening to him, no idea how to fix it, it was probably only the wind just now but they're both in danger out here and trying to drag him somewhere else could hurt him. Unbroken fingertips ghost bewildered over his throat, mouth, nose, cheek, before she elects scatterbrained to hesitantly give his shoulders a bare little nudge of a shake, whispering, "Henry... Henry!" Something is pulled too taut in her chest, unraveling like a snapping string, and as it's pulled apart more and more babbling starts pouring out. "W-what's wrong, Henry? Henry? Are you okay?! Oh God, please, c'mon! Wake up, please, wake up...!"
Rosewater Park doesn't look so terribly different; something black dripping from the leaves here and there, wilted white flowers popping up from between planted bushes, cute iron benches tinged with the red of metallic decay and statues and monuments beheaded and crumbling. Otherwise, it is very much like she remembers it, and just like always, she quickly gets a little lost. Winding pathways are charming for tourists, but now, she doesn't know what might be crouched beyond any of these many corners. She calls out her quarry's name whenever she catches breath for it, though she doesn't expect that he'll actually hear her voice this time. Maybe, though. It's worth a try. And maybe he won't be as apt to shoot her if she doesn't take him by surprise again.
When she first sees the prone figure by the bench that's broken right down the middle, everything speeds up, the inside of her head a froth and frenzy of questions in fragments. What is, how did, what do, what can...? Her body, a little sluggish in reality from blood lost before the ampoule stemmed the flow and aches and creaks from Troy's beating and this whole adrenaline-strained hour, feels positively leaden.
But when she grows close enough to see the shape of him, the features of his face, everything stops. Everything. Suddenly, she can't think at all, her mind humming a nothing. No sound to thrum in her ears, her body feels empty and weightless. A strangled noise of dismay tears loose from her throat and it doesn't sound like her voice at all.
Henry Townshend lies face-up in the dirt, eyes closed, and limp.
When his name had flitted across her consciousness, she'd tried to count on his distance and his safety. She knew it was possible that he'd been ambushed by whatever is going on here, just like she had, but it made doing everything that she had to do so much easier to think that he was somewhere out and above her, probably frantic but unable to descend with her. Easier to believe that than to wonder what kinds of abominations had come for him, or what he could've gone and gotten himself into, only able to imagine what was being done to him. She no longer has that comfort to fall back on, and her thoughts skitter violently away from being forced to wonder now. Or they try to, anyways, white noise blotting out awareness of sprinting breathless down the gravel path to sink to her knees next to him.
She does nothing, at first, but gape at him in fear, hands fluttering above him but making no contact. When fingers hovering over his face feel warmth, the fog starts to clear, reality penetrating, and her stomach is free to drop like a stone. Scrabbling to press unsteady fingers to his wrist, she searches for a pulse.
And is rewarded.
Thank you. Oh Lord God, thank you, she silently chants. His knuckles are as scraped as hers and his hand chilly when she clasps one, but as she reaches for the hollow of his throat to confirm her finding, she's even graced with steady breath against her skin. He's alive, the world can continue to exist.
But now, she has no idea what to do next, and a faint rustling sound in the manicured bushes does not help her overtaxed brain. No idea what's happened to him, no idea what could still happening to him, no idea how to fix it, it was probably only the wind just now but they're both in danger out here and trying to drag him somewhere else could hurt him. Unbroken fingertips ghost bewildered over his throat, mouth, nose, cheek, before she elects scatterbrained to hesitantly give his shoulders a bare little nudge of a shake, whispering, "Henry... Henry!" Something is pulled too taut in her chest, unraveling like a snapping string, and as it's pulled apart more and more babbling starts pouring out. "W-what's wrong, Henry? Henry? Are you okay?! Oh God, please, c'mon! Wake up, please, wake up...!"