ataraxionlogs | SILENT HILL PLOT: NIGHTMARE FUEL

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SILENT HILL PLOT: NIGHTMARE FUEL

CHARACTERS: ALL OF YOU SICK-MINDED MOTHERFUCKERS.
LOCATION: THE TRANQUILITY: OTHERWORLD EDITION.
WARNINGS: SURE IS RUSTY HERE, HUH?
(Also expect violence and unhappy things because haha survival/horror. Yeah.)
SUMMARY: YOU'RE WALKING ON THE SHIP;
THERE'S NO ONE AROUND AND YOUR COMMUNICATOR IS DEAD.
OUT OF THE CORNER OF YOUR EYE YOU SPOT THEM...

OOC: Congratulations! You've made it to Hell. It's not just you, either. It's this whole ship -- it's being invaded by the Otherworld. A world of someone's nightmarish delusions come to life. Little by little, the invasion is spreading. Trying to swallow up everything in ~~must be on drugs~~ darkness.

Now that I got that out of my system... Also note that communicators will not work in the Otherworld. They will, however, emit a static that will warn you when monsters are nearby. You might find this to be pretty handy.

There will also be "safe rooms", or areas that are seemingly devoid of monsters, so don't worry about it being constantly infested. However, I wouldn't bet your life on staying in one place for too long, because they'll probably hunt you out sooner or later. The goal is to get out of the Otherworld and back to a safer place (i.e. the Fog world). How do you do that?

Gee, I don't know. Got any pent-up issues that need sorting out, I wonder?

Crawl through a hole, maybe?

Collect puzzle pieces? Rubix cube?

Riddle me that!

Did you stock up as well? Very good.

Again: If you plan on shifting between the worlds in the middle of a thread, you cam link when starting a new thread in the other log. But again, it's up to you how you want to doit, and totally not mandatory. Just go have fun!

For information/questions, refer to this post.

THAT LOG WITH LOTS OF FOG IN IT

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Glancing down, Anne watches as his head fell into his hand, and it makes her chest seize up a bit, makes her almost choke. There's a sense of guilt there, over them almost heavy enough to make a crack in her very soul, she swears. It's devastating. For a moment all she can do is keep pushing, keep going down that long and familiar path of inevitability. Pushing the wheelchair toward the final and painful end. No... wait... this isn't back then. It takes her a moment to shake herself back into what's really happening, look down at Murphy's head and remember that it's him. That this isn't that same walk, that Murphy is not doomed to die.

"It's okay. We all screw up. Just... forget it. I forgive you."

Or maybe he is doomed to die. Maybe they both are. Maybe they're both so broken that the cracks in them will fill with the pain and blood and decay in this place and split them open. Maybe she's doomed to walk this path forever. She doesn't know about Murphy, but she hasn't given up her ghosts. She feels like maybe, she's doomed to repeat all this pain, doomed to curl up in the dark with her ghosts and let them devour her bit by bit.

Something has to happen. Thinking this way, they maybe they're doomed, that Murphy is something that will always be doomed to slip between her finger makes her feel like something has to change. Maybe if she just makes one small push, in the direction of something warm even as their physical bodies move toward whatever darkness is in the direction they walk, that it'll change this pain. Maybe they won't be pushing at this metaphorical wall that seems to exist between them. Maybe they won't let their shared pain hurt each other.

In the dim and the bloody confines of this rusty personal hell Anne tries to ignore the squeaking of the wheels, the horrible stink of rot and death, of medicine, like painkillers that won't do anything to stop what's happening, the inevitable death of a beaten cripple...

Murphy is really the only thing to take her mind off of it, off of the unpleasantness and the pain. In a way, he always has been, even when it was because of her hatred. It's what causes her to make that push that she considered before, swallowing, and stopping momentarily in her movement so she can place a hand on his shoulder.

"Murphy I... I don't know what's going to happen. I don't know what this place is going to do. But I know that... we might not make it. I can't pretend that I know for sure we'll be okay. So I... guess I'd better say this now, just in case I never get another chance." a deep breath, and she braces herself for whatever unhappiness might come from her next words. She needs to say them. She can't let them never pass her lips in case this is her last day, her last hour... maybe even her last few minutes. She can't predict this hell world. "... I love you."

Edited 2012-09-27 04:00 (UTC)

Murphy opened his mouth to respond to her forgiveness, but anything that he said at this point didn't feel like it would be enough. It never felt like enough. Much like how he can't ever make it up to her for what he did. He could never take back the deal that he'd made, or how he stood by and watched her father get beaten. He could never give back what he felt she and her father deserved, despite how much Frank had given to him.

Which was why it felt wrong for him to say a damn thing. What right did he have to tell her that it was going to be okay, when he couldn't even convince himself of that?

He didn't try to stop her from what she was about to say. Murphy just lifted his head, tilted it so he could see Anne out his peripheral vision. As if he had to make sure that he didn't just hallucinate what she had said, but her expression suggested otherwise.

"Anne, uh--"

There was going to be a reply. Something more coherent than the incoherent screams that actually followed. And for a reason. From Murphy, who jolted in the wheelchair, hands slamming over the sides of his head as a sonic vibration started ripping his eardrums. His vision of Anne faded and instead flooded with red as he shut his eyes tight. He coiled, trying to shake off the rattling tinnitus that now forsake any hope that Murphy had of uttering an actual response.

The reason crashed through the door in front of them. Teeth and claws, a flesh-made dress and dark hair. Her screams resonated from her, jaw unhinged, throwing a nasty wave that rippled through the air and incapacitated Murphy even more than he already was and could ever hope to be. The drugs that ruined his focus only made the situation worse, which might have been the idea all along. He started gasping, like a goddamn hemorrhage was coming on. Any concerns that he might have had prior was suddenly justified in one fell swoop.

When the screaming stopped, it came -- bolting towards them.

Jesus, not now. He couldn't fight. Not like this. Murphy felt his skin burn up, boil right off of him. He found himself too busy trying to shake this deafening rattle in his skull to hear the clacking footfalls of the dark-haired creature hurdling swiftly from the opened door.

Anything that may have happened between them, anything bad or good that may have come to pass because of her words is cut off by the sound of the scream. It's a familiar one by now but it doesn't mean it catches Anne any less off guard. It's more than she can do not to scream herself at the sound of it, letting go of Murphy and the chair to clamp her hands over her ears. She can't even go for her gun while it's doing this, not with the way it seems to tilt reality, the way it's breaking her focus and making her see splashes of color that isn't there.

What she can do, however, is stumble toward it, clumsily plant herself between the Screamer and Murphy before it starts to come forward, before her incapacitated companion can be in any serious danger. The pain it's causing him is very real and she can tell, but she's not going to allow it to do him any more damage as long as she's here.

Still keeping one hand over an ear just in case, Anne fumbles for her gun, still thrown off balance by the scream. God, she hates these things. The gun clatters from her hand and she looks down at it and then back up just in time to see the Screamer sprinting toward them. Anne does the only thing she can think to do until she has time to grab her gun when she's put some distance between the creature and the two of them; she punches it in the face.

It was happening again. Useless. Unable to fight or even crawl, and this time he couldn't even watch when there was nothing to see. All he could do was hurt...

At least Anne warranted a fighting chance. The creature was no calculating sneak, but a mindless thing that lashed out without consideration. It didn't hesitate. Just pure instinct and a desire to kill and destroy anything human that it came across.

Though it probably wasn't anticipating a punch to the face, so... brownie points to Anne Cunningham for that.

Unfortunately, it wasn't an effective killing method. Which would be come obvious; thin arms flailing, it reeled back and caught itself before pitching again. Claws swiped over its head. It aimed for her chest.

Anne doesn't really pay much mind to the claws that graze her chest, barely registers the feeling of blood as it starts to run down her skin and soak through her shirt. Stumbling backward by reflex she stops to ease Murphy's wheelchair back a little bit, just to get him a little further away from the Screamer. Then she forgets about that and goes for the Screamer again, a left hook to the side of the head before she takes a moment to reach for her nightstick and clock it sharply on the other side.

Anne isn't exactly a skilled fighter. She's had combat training, preventative training. But even after Silent Hill she's still not used to fighting something with claws like this. An inmate with a homemade shiv is one thing. Plus it doesn't help that she's not a particularly graceful fighter, either.

A quick glance to her gun. Still no time to get it. She'll get her ass sliced up by claws if she bends down. She just has to get this thing on the ground...

Murphy hands remained clamped down over his ears, eyes shut. He could hardly hear the muffled scuffle, or take in much of anything that was going on around him. It wasn't like this had never happened before. In Silent Hill, he was faced with these things countless of times. Blew his eardrums out.

Unfortunately for him, the damage was significantly worse this time.

Lucky for Anne, monsters simply fought like monsters. Grace and skill were hardly considered a prerequisite here, though it did help.

A strong arm was all one needed, and that one counted for Anne. It wasn't exactly what you'd call a ballerina boxer when it came to fighting. Fueled purely on animal rage. Just like the rest. So when the heavy blow of the nightstick swept its side, it responded in pain. And more anger. There was definitely that as well.

A garbled growl escaped its oversized mouth, with razor-sharp teeth. Its jaw snapped, decayed gums exposed. It was nothing more than a beast, but beasts knew pain. And it wasn't very tolerant of it, either. So those teeth were fixing to sink into a nice spot on Anne's throat. Only if she was slow enough to allot it that opening.

Anne can sense Murphy behind her still, and it gives her that much more of a reason to lash out at the Screamer with everything she has. Somehow, protecting him makes her feel all that much more desperate to kill this thing, to escape this place. For them just to be normal again. Anne isn't a very optimistic person, but she still feels that somehow, someday, they could be happy together.

It is just a second too late that Anne is able to comprehend that the Screamer is going for her throat; those bitches are fast for monsters. Jerking slightly to the side is all she can do, and she winces as the teeth sink into her shoulder. Instinctively she pulls away and a few teeth move with her, jerking out of the Screamer's mouth.

Further enraged, Anne brings down the nightstick, onto the top of the Screamer's head. She's fueled by the red rage that a monster causing her pain unleashes and she strikes again, equally as hard. Suddenly she's barely able to see the monster; she's seeing something else. She isn't entirely certain what it is, but it just makes her strike harder still.

Back so soon, sweetheart?

The monster didn't process anything. It wasn't cunning or conniving. The only plan it had in mind was to dig and claw and teeth and kill kill kill.

Though its prey didn't make things much easier. Oblivious to the triggering effect, the unpleasant flashbacks that it wrought on its quarry, it hissed. The top of its head cracked, and again. And again. Until there's no fight left in it anymore.

Arms flailing, its claws aim to make a final swipe, only to inevitably collapse onto the ground.

Not dead yet, though. Not able to move, either. Instead, the creature just flailed lifelessly, its agonized shrieks dying into pitiable noises and sad attempts to get back up. It may be over, or it may just wind up getting back up and finishing what it had started.

Breathing heavily, Murphy finally dropped his hands from the sides of his head. The buzzing in his skull was an ongoing tune that wouldn't stop, long after realizing that he was staring dazedly at a writhing creature and hearing virtually nothing, as if he was trying to figure it out.

Somehow, monsters were that way, and Anne actually appreciated it in a way. Monsters didn't have logic, didn't have the ability to use or blackmail or bribe. Monsters just lashed out with reckless abandon at whatever threatened them. Anne understood monsters better than people, sometimes. Maybe Anne was more like a monster than a person.

When the creature collapses to the ground, Anne breathes a sigh of relief, wiping sweat that she hadn't even realized had collected there from her brow. Watching it twitch, Anne considers stepping on its head and smashing its skull to pieces, but she thinks better of it, decides to just let it be. She turns to face Murphy, breathing as heavily as he is. For a moment she just stares at him, and then she moves over to brush his cheek lightly, just a small affectionate gesture.

"Are you gonna be okay?"

Murphy's head jerks as he hears the stifled wails of the fallen creature, and then again when something touches his face. It's warm and caring, and for a brief moment he forgets that there is something that's dying, writhing on the floor. He forgets the walls, the sick smell, and the heavy air that makes it so hard to breathe.

Instead, his eyes lift drunkenly to the face of the woman who had once told him that she loved him. And for that brief moment, he recalls when the only kinds of monsters he'd ever dealt with were the ones that lived next door.

And it hurts.

"It's alright." He mutters, close yet distant. His hand is like stone, placing it over her own cheek. He looks at her then, though he doesn't see her. Much like how he listens, but doesn't hear Are you gonna be okay? and it's something else entirely. "It's alright... It's alright, I won't sleep, not 'til I find him. I'm so sorry. I'll fix it. It's alright. I'm sorry..."

You can knock but no one's home...

For a moment, all is well, but then Anne's mind goes blank momentarily. She takes in his blank stare, feels his hand cool and limp against her cheek. It's almost like he isn't even aware he's touching her. His eyes look at her, but she's almost positive they're just looking through her.

"What are you talking about?" she asks him, a shade of panic finding its way into the tone that was supposed to be calm. Those words make no sense, and it terrifies her. With one hand, she shakes him gently, struggling not to fly off the handle. Because he's here and not here and for a moment she feels like she's losing him somehow.

"Murphy," she says emphatically, her hand still on his cheek, and she moves her fingers a bit like motion will spark his awareness. "God dammit Murphy I'm right here. Stay with me. Or... come back, I don't even know at this point..."

And then something clicks. She remembers after he was attacked with the cattle prod, about the time he was bedridden and she cared for him, and about how he confessed to her the story of how he lost his son. There's a jet of pain for him that courses right through the center of her being, and the hand that's shaking him leaves his shoulder and moves to his hand, holding it gently.

"Murphy, you need to snap out of it. I think I know where you are, but it's not really where you are. You need to come back to me now, alright?" her attempts to sound sturdy are failing miserably.

He's been used to the cold; he almost doesn't know what to make of the warmth that invades his space when she reaches out to him...

At first, Murphy is distracted by the pained wails of the writhing creature, collapsed in a pathetic heap over the floor. He stares at it. There's a frame in time which Murphy doesn't see a monster. It's something else.

A woman, much like the one in front of him. A mother, a wife, curled up and wearing black clothes and a veil. His attention is drawn to her broken sobs as she wails over the pictures of her lost son. And there is guilt and there is failure. Failure to protect his son. Failure to console his wife. Failure to fix things.

i won't sleep

"I'm sor--"

"Don't touch me!"

Murphy blinks, and the woman he really sees now is Anne.

Anne's words register. He looks back to her as he lets his hand drop from her face. He's so tired now, too tired to feel anything anymore. He just slumps forward, pressing his forehead over her collar.

It's dark. It almost seems like a nice idea, falling into that black...

"Let's get outta here." He finally breathes with an air of reason.

When Murphy blinks and drops his hand and actually moves, Anne breathes a heavy sigh of relief. He slumps forward and when he leans against her she doesn't even stop to think, just wraps her arms around him and wishes she didn't have to inevitably let go eventually.

There are words on the tip of her tongue, but they don't come out. She just keeps holding onto him and feels, for the first time in such a vivid way what the possibility of losing him feels like. It was in an indirect way, but it felt like he was slipping off to someplace else, like he hadn't been here at all.

God dammit, please don't ever leave me...

"Yeah..." is all she says, though she doesn't move just yet. Instead she lowers her head and kisses him, not really caring where her lips land. "If there is a way out of here, we should probably find it before we go crazy."

She doesn't say it, but she worries maybe Murphy got dangerously close to letting this place shatter his sanity for a minute there.

Murphy can't tell if it's Anne's words or her embrace that starts to ground him. Maybe it's both. He keeps shifting back and forth between this terrible pain in his head, this ringing in his ears. He feels useless, and he is. Can barely move.

For as much as he wants to return her embrace, there's no way he can coordinate himself to do so. He just leans into Anne, feels her kiss on his head and it's nice. There aren't that many nice things to think about here -- except for her, and the hope for escape, for things to go back to being as normal as they could be for them. And it's enough.

"D'you think you can... with this chair, I..." Even to Murphy, he has issues making sense, but he keeps going: "I don't think I can walk."

His voice breaks, again with the hopeless despair that he's just dead weight to her now. If they get attacked again, he'll just slow her down, maybe even get her killed -- get them both killed.

And then there's the sickly dread of forcing Anne to put up with the awful memories of what she went through with her father all over again. Suddenly, it just seems cruel to ask her to keep going with him like this.

He wants to tell her that if she leaves him, he won't hold it against her. That it's okay if she just runs. He opens his mouth to tell her this, but he can't. She'll just hate him for it, anyway.

Edited (speaking of typos in tags A MILLION YEARS LATER I NOTICE THERE'S ONE IN THIS don't mind me just fixing that la la la...) 2012-12-26 19:25 (UTC)

Anne just keeps holding onto him, just keeps him there in her arms. Because there's the strange, idealistic notion that as long as she holds him he's safe. He's okay. Nothing can get to him and that's the way she wants it. She's never wanted to protect anyone quite so fiercely before, and it scares her. But not as much as it relieves her. Because she loves him, and the scary part is over with now. She already told him.

Shit.

She told him.

There's not much she can do about it now. Nothing but move forward. And she does. Reluctantly, she starts to pull back. But when his voice breaks, she just comes back to him without ever having really let go, moving so his head falls back to the dark spot at her collar.

"Yes. I can. You don't have to walk." She's just answering his question, but still there's a comfort, she hopes, to the words. There's certainly something tender to her tone, at the very least.

"... I just need a minute."

A minute to just be exhausted and sore and bleeding but glad. Because they're okay. At least for the moment.

He hates to say it -- he hates to even think it, but the words come out: "Not safe to stay and wait." His own voice is hoarse; it's difficult to speak. But he's trying between ragged breaths. "I'm gonna... slow you down a lot..."

The state that he's in, Murphy's as good as dead, anyway. And that's what he truly believes. He also believes that if Anne doesn't move now, he'll only wind up taking her down with him. Murphy can't stand the thought of that, even if what Anne just confessed to him was true and not just a spur-of-the-moment thing.

Whether Anne hates him for it now too, for thinking and even speaking it aloud... that's her prerogative. He'll understand either way.

Sorry in advance.

Slowly, Anne nods. She knows he's making sense, even though she's loathe to let him go right now. She does, however, slowly pulling back and straightening into a sitting position. It occurs to her that it might be a good idea not to be too affectionate as it is; she's sure she made things somewhat uncomfortable by confessing her feelings to him.

Well that was a smooth move, Cunningham.

"You won't slow me down. You're fine." Her voice is as sturdy as she can make it right now, and she glances down at him, a bit worried by that ragged breathing. "Are you going to be okay?" there's a firm, desperate tug of worry that nearly shakes her off her feet. As she moves behind the wheelchair, slowly, and takes those damned handles in her fists, she has to steel herself for the creak of the wheels. It comes, too. Rather loudly at first, but then levels out.

The weight of Anne's previous words hadn't quite sunk in yet. They will, but at the moment all Murphy can do is barely lift his head to look at her. His eyes can only blink slowly.

Against everything he wants, the words leave me don't come out. Not because he's afraid, because Murphy is beyond fear. Whether it's from the drugs or the fact that maybe, deep down, some part of him still wants to die, is anyone's guess.

"Don't know..." Murphy answers in a slurred voice, and that's all that can really come out. Will the drugs wear off anytime soon? Will they ever? He hates the thought that he'll be stuck like this, a near-dead cadaver that's just wishing for it to stop. "Please, don't..." die, but the sentence never finishes before Murphy droops his head.

He's not unconscious. He can still hear the world around him, though it's more like a dream than anything else. If something happens, at least he'll be practically catatonic when it happens. No pain, no suffering.

That almost sounds nice...

As she begins to push the wheelchair again down the long, wet corridor, it's more than she can do to ignore the smell of blood. That heavy, almost melodic creaking pulls at her mind, struggles to pull her back to a time and place that's even darker and more daunting than this hellworld.

The 'don't know' makes her blood run cold, and all of a sudden everything around her is rendered far more terrifying by that thought. She swears there's even more blood dripping down the walls after he says it, though it could just be her imagination. Somehow it feels like the wheelchair doubles in weight.

"Don't what?" she asks him, rather gently. Though it's obvious that speaking takes a great amount of effort on his part, it sounded like something important and she doesn't want to end up not hearing whatever it is, in case this is their last few moments alive. She doesn't want to think that way, but Anne has never been an optimist. She's far too realistic.

After a pause, she lets on hand stray briefly to his hair even as she's continuing this long, painful walk. "I'll do what I can to keep you safe," she says in as comforting a tone as she can.

It's like a light has shut off and no one's home. He's listening, but staring off into nothing, the same rows of corroded tiles repeating themselves. Off in the distance he can hear things, moving within the walls. Feet shuffling, or maybe it's just him.

This place does shit to mess with your head, and Murphy is slipping deeper into that empty space. Inside, there's that sinking dread, like that void is what's been chasing after him for so long, tearing him apart inside. If he doesn't run, if he doesn't keep running, it's going to destroy him.

The walls have been bleeding. They may even be tearing apart. It's hard to tell.

Can't see anymore. Can't hear anything, only the shadows. His head tips forward; he can say nothing to bring Anne any peace of mind, or return the favor.

Or to warn her that he can feel as though something is coming for him.

He's listening, but not responding. Slumped limply in that wheelchair like he's off in some silent internal world. Like he's... a fucking vegetable. And that thought, that sickly accurate thought, makes her heart wrench. What if, if somehow they're able to avoid death, he's always like this? What if this is permanent?

Jesus Christ.

Choking momentarily, she doesn't want to let go of the handles of the wheelchair even long enough to wipe away the tears that are starting to slide silently downward, because letting go means risking losing grip, means risking losing him more than she already has and she doesn't want that.

Around them, the heavy dripping of the blood, like the sound of rain, echoes off of the empty corridor from the walls that ooze the fluid like it's normal. The acrid scent of medical waste and blood fills her nostrils more with every step as the twisted metal around them bends, lifts, peels, she swears. And in the center of this horror show she stares hard ahead, tries to ignore the sounds of things moving and dragging, shifting and shuffling. Bloody feet and hands. Cracked teeth.

Rotten flesh.

Whatever it is that's coming, she can feel it. She can sense it as easily as she can sense the cold of the handles clenched in a death grip in her fists. Trying to focus on Murphy and not the unspeakable horrors around them, she swallows hard.

"Murphy..." she mutters, not because she has anything to say, but because saying it makes her feel a bit more grounded.

He tries to speak. All that comes out is a slack-jawed sound that utters from the back of his throat. Not comforting by any means. Disturbing if nothing else. Can't move at all now, either -- not even speak. Too much effort. So tired. Sleep sounds nice. If something happens, he'll never have to know...

Will it always be like this? Murphy can't even muster the strength to hope or be afraid anymore. He is down there, in a place where whatever happens, happens, and there's not a damn care in the world that can save him from that. Not even Anne and her words.

Something begins to tear away at the walls behind them, as if the corrosion is following. It's catching up to them now, in a hushed whisper.

The whisper almost becomes like a familiar voice, saying "Run!"

i'll slow you down

There's a thickness to the tension around them, the kind of thickness that is almost palpable. Anne swears if she tried she could actually touch it. In the foul dimness of those twisted corridors that mirror the darkest parts of her psyche, the most horrific moments of her life, all she can do is keep pushing. Helplessly pushing the wheelchair like she has so many times before.

The longer she pushes, the less everything around them makes sense. The less she's able to feel and the more she's able to just get caught up in the terror of it all. The tears stop eventually and so does everything else. She's just blood and flesh and bones when it comes down to it, she thinks. She's nothing that this horrible world can't erase in a single moment.

And it wants to. It's hungry to. Behind them that whispering horror... she can feel it creeping up on them, fast and slow all at once. Automatically her legs move faster, pushing the heavy wheelchair at a faster pace with some effort, but she doesn't let up. Not when her muscles and bones scream with the exertion or when she nearly loses her footing because the floor is slick with shower water and blood. All she is now is monotonous pushing along with the numbing terror that is starting to bore its way into her skull.

It's not a light that approaches from behind now. Not the same light that Murphy knows so well. This is something else. A darker vacuum that's a mean to self-destruction.

Murphy can't turn to warn her, but he can move slightly with a twitch of his own muscles. He's much heavier than Anne, and she's hauling both of them along in the panic. He might as well be dead weight to her now. Useless to her, even if it's true when she said that she loves him.

If he felt even an ounce of that same feeling in return, and Murphy is sure that he does, he wouldn't want her to die this way. Torn up and turn to nothing by the same nothing that's coming to finally claim him.

You don't belong here, Murphy.

Of all things that could pose a threat in their current predicament, it's a maze in a hospital. Anne would have that to look forward to -- twists and turns and obstacles obstructing their path. And the hush and groan of something else coming in closer, a hair's breadth behind them.

Body screaming in protest, Anne just keeps going. She pushes onward mechanically, unwilling to give up and even more unwilling to just leave him behind. The weight of Murphy and the chair combined make it a grueling trek, traversing hospital corridors. Blood and rust everywhere. Rage and pain in the form of a world that's twisted and unfathomable. That breaks apart all around them and yet stands still and does nothing at all.

As they move it's increasingly obvious it is coming, though it's less obvious what it is. And whatever it is, she wonders if it's unavoidable. This run is prolonging their lives, pushing back stubbornly against the inevitable and painful end.

With the thought of death, her mind turns to Frank. Of Sunday mornings watching the rain and reading comics together from the newspaper, making hot cocoa in the winter, catching raindrops in their hair while they went fishing together in the later years. Of him teaching her to fix her ex-husband's car for his birthday. More things. Endless things. Things that mean life. Then she thinks of what Murphy told her, about his little boy at the bottom of that lake. Of the deadness in Murphy's eyes. A different kind of death, in those eyes.

There's no way in hell she's going to let him die thinking it's his own fault.

That gives her the motivation she needs and she pushes forward on shrieking, flaming joints, sweat beading hard on her brow. Her breathing is hard and shallow but she can choke out a few words between them, though it's a labor at this point.

"Don't give up."

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yardbird - 2013-06-16 08:59 (UTC) - Expand

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savethebullshit - 2013-06-16 18:13 (UTC) - Expand

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SILENT HILL PLOT: NIGHTMARE FUEL

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INTERRUPTING SCREAMER

SHE'S WORSE THAN THE ANNOYING ORANGE

OH YEAH also didn't you learn anything from the loading screen hints, turnip head?

in her defense, those hints were for Murphy 8U

oh right. otherwise she'd know when to stay calm when crossing a balanced area...

Anne doesn't know the meaning of "stay calm"

...touché

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