ataraxionlogs | letting the days go by, into silent water [open]

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letting the days go by, into silent water [open]

CHARACTERS: Murphy Pendleton and you.
LOCATION: Anywhere. This is pretty much a free-for-all of CR.
WARNINGS: Insert the usual Silent Hill disclaimer here.
SUMMARY: Insomnia hits. Friendly neighborhood convict takes a little stroll.

He couldn't sleep.

Granted, this was nothing new and exciting. If nothing else, it was fucking tedious. His brief spell of excessive sleeping habits died real fast after the jump wired Murphy up all over again.

It wasn't always this bad. In fact, he used to sleep a fair bit. There wasn't much else to do during his alone time in prison, so it had been the only resort next to going stir-crazy with boredom.

Even with Anne in the same room these days, Murphy still felt the nagging urge to escape the closing walls of his ~~cell~~ bedroom. Unlike Ryall, he could at least work off his restlessness by stretching his legs. There were still places that he hadn't yet seen, grounds that he hadn't yet covered. He could scratch this itch. He could.

So he just wandered for awhile. Aimlessly, as usual. He almost felt dazed. But it was good to be out. Not free, not safe, though close enough to settle on the fact that his present situation proved to be more favorable than where he had been coming from, in ways.

That was just sad.

Murphy, this is your life right now. Take a good long look at it.

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"Tire shredders. They were able to close off this area from bystanders comin' through, and I ran right over 'em. By then, I'd not just stolen a car, but I had endangered civilian lives, crossed the state line, broke several traffic laws, and committed a direct offense against the Boston Police Department while resisting and evading arrest."

His memory on the whole incident was fuzzy. What was ten hours felt more like ten seconds to Murphy, and even after that...

"This just... got really crazy. Felt like I had no control over anything in my life anymore, and this was the only way."

It was also the only way Murphy could get close enough to his son's killer, but that was another story.

That was... a long list. A very long list coming from someone like Murphy, whose MO seemed to be to keep his head down and go about his business, hoping nobody would notice him while he was at it.

The only way, he'd said. She knew what that felt like. She though on it, silent for a moment, her grin of amusement as his disrespect for authority slipping away and leaving a bitten lip and creased brow. As amusing as Murphy tearing around in a squad car blasting NWA might be, it's pretty obvious that's not how things went down. So when she speaks again it's quiet, concerned.

"What happened to you?"

Suppose saying that he had a bit of an anger problem would have been another understatement. Murphy always did have issues controlling his emotions. That wasn't what she was asking, though, and he knew it.

He was silent for several seconds, the feelings not just stewed right then but came to a boil until he forgot the meaning of how to exhale. Which he did then, tearing his eyes from Heather to the floor.

"My son was murdered." Never had his mouth gone dry so fast simply within four bitter words. Murphy felt his jaw lock up. "I couldn't... I just didn't know how I was supposed to move on, like everything was gonna be alright. Charlie was gone... Hell, couldn't even keep my marriage together..." He scoffed despite of himself. "Suddenly, the world was just a bullshit place to be in."

Because children died every day. While that same world went on and stopped for no one, there was still Murphy, who may as well have been dead.

Murphy's eyes dropped, and Heather's words abandoned her. It was just too big, something like that. It sucked the air out of the hallway, left her holding her breath as he spoke. When she could answer, it came on the tail of a sharp inhale.

"I'm sorry." Any concerns about grossness or awkwardness abandoned her and she reached for his hand, to take it in her own. To say... what? I'm here? I understand? One couldn't possibly help, and the other was a lie. The knowledge didn't stop her from trying. "God, I'm so sorry."

Murphy used to laugh harshly at those words. They were always spoken by people who didn't get it, had no fucking idea what it was like. Death was one thing. Everything was going to die in the end. Losing a life that you helped bring into the world, on the other hand... That was a perspective that Murphy never hoped to experience, and yet haunted him mercilessly.

What was he supposed to say now, to Heather? Definitely not chide for looking at him that way, or taking his limp hand the way she did, or for apologizing for a terrible thing that wasn't her fault.

"I meant it back then, what I'd said. That I would've done the same thing." He still couldn't look her in the eye, not when he brought up her father. "...'Cause that's exactly what I did."

Heather wasn't so subtle or so delicate. Her eyes searched his face, her neck craning to follow as he ducked his head away.

"You killed them. The person who took your son." It made sense, then. How Murphy could be so kind and so quiet but also seem so angry and broken. Her hand tightened on his as she fought down the urge to say good, they deserved it.

"You killed them and that's why it called you."

He felt her watching him, and in that moment wanted to sink away someplace -- or just disappear altogether. Murphy hated the fact that he brought it up altogether. But, for some reason, he felt like he had to tell someone, and he didn't worry about judgment from someone like Heather.

All he'd been doing for so long was running away. Even when he had no place to go, he tried to escape from the thoughts and deeds that plagued him. He never thought of it that way -- that he'd been called, but it made sense, didn't it?

"There was more to it than that... a lot more. Things that I had to do, and wished I didn't..."

He stopped himself, his eyes shifting from the ground to the small hand that Heather had around his own. Part of him struggled with it. Like he should rip it away and run, because maybe it was true. Maybe he did just destroy everything. Everything he'd done just wound up getting other people hurt in the process.

"There always is." She shrugged. Of course there was more to it; nobody lived a pristine life and then had their entire world fall apart over a single mistake. She saw his eyes go to their hands and it only increased her determination to hold on. To let go now would be to show disapproval, to disengage. Instead she thought of her father, the way he'd always taken her hand when he had to give her bad news (Cheryl, honey, we have to move. Sweetie, if you could choose a new name, what would it be? How would you like to try having blonde hair?), or when he asked her something he knew she wouldn't want to answer.

"You don't get where we've been without having a shitty story to tell." She wanted to say I'm listening. If you need to talk, I'm here, but it's so Very Special Episode, and what came out wasn't so tactful.

"Takes a lot to scare me these days."

It was funny. All that time and money wasted in therapy -- and somehow, Murphy felt as though he'd come a much longer way here and now than he ever did sitting in an office. It was all the more reason why he didn't shift away, or shove Heather aside and evade altogether. He could feel the blood rushing from his head and a sharp sting in his chest that he knew too well.

He had kept to himself for a long time, it came like a second nature to him. Maybe because Anne was right, and he really was "programmed" this way. After some time had passed, it felt a bit too much. So maybe this was what he needed now, more than ever. To talk. To have some kind of outside party to sit with, who he knew wouldn't condescend him with textbook psychology bullshit. Just maybe he could finally sort his head through this mess he'd been in...

"We should probably keep walkin'." His glanced around briefly down the hallway. While it was easy enough to wander here for a long time without worrying about other people listening in, talking openly about this kind of stuff demanded privacy.

Plus, he figured it might be a good thing to sit down after wandering around for so long. Maybe rest in one of the rec rooms or something for awhile.

"Right. Of course." Duh, Mason. He wouldn't want to just unload right in the hallway. If the layouts for the floors were the same, there should be... bingo. A rec room, conveniently empty thanks to the sheer amount of space around them and the late (early?) hour.

"In here?" It wasn't really a question. She was already headed inside. Too eager, probably. And while a good portion of that was due to her need to be there, to listen and help and pay forward some of the assistance people she barely knew had given her on Strela when she hadn't been able to help herself, she couldn't deny a selfish tint to it as well. The need for someone else to open up, to show her they were just as fucked up as she was.

Still, if it helped it helped, right?

Murphy started to answer. Then saw Heather already moving into the rec room, and he just followed her in instead.

He waited until the door was closed behind him before Murphy found a chair to kick up and plop himself down in. Normally, he could handle running for long periods of time without feeling too exerted. It didn't help that he was also running on low energy.

"Ugh..." Murphy sighed, leaning back into the chair with a weary sigh. "That's better."

He just needed a moment to get over the fact that he probably felt and sounded a lot older than he actually was.

Heather turned a chair backwards and settled into it herself, leaning her arms on the backrest and shaking her head.

"Gotta take better care of yourself, old man." It wasn't particularly appropriate, but at least she wasn't offering to get him his slippers. "What're we gonna do if you wear yourself out, huh?"

Smartassed, maybe, but she meant it. Odd as it may have been given how quiet he was, how withdrawn he could be, Murphy seemed to be an emotional rock for a lot of people. And Heather, for one, certainly couldn't stand to lose anybody else.

"Yeah, well..." Murphy stretched his arms over his head, then dropped them over his knees. He slouched in his chair; his posture was bad. It was always bad. "I'll try. But after spendin' years in solitary, I get too restless to sit still for long."

He also didn't get a whole lot of exercise in there, either. With the exception of sleeping, constructing coping mechanisms to deal with the boredom, and the constant pacing -- he didn't have much to do with his time. And it wasn't something he spoke of lightly, but at least Heather is starting to get where he was coming from. Murphy always did keep to himself. That changed after the loneliness had taken its toll on him.

Posture schmosture, that was the most relaxed she'd ever seen him. But... solitary? Years? Jesus.

"Yeah, that's... that's a pretty good excuse. I'll lay off the lecture. For now." She tipped her head to nest it on her folded arms, blinked at him. "Is that why you're so... busy?" It wasn't quite the word she was looking for, and she made a face. "I mean, you're always around, doing something."

She was trying to keep her curiosity on a leash, and not making a very good job of it. Hoping the way she slouched over her chair kept her gentle interrogation from seeming too much like a job interview. Or worse, a psychiatrist.

"Gee, thanks." Not that he didn't appreciate it. Sure, he worked himself, but he had his reasons for the things he did. And when Heather got it right on the mark, he shrugged. "Guess so. Spent long enough in there, I just... I felt like I was gonna rot away in that place, lose my mind -- didn't know which would come first. I gotta do... somethin', y'know?"

Except that she probably didn't. Not that many people around here did. Incarceration was one thing. Being thrown away and forgotten was another. Some days, it was better that way. Murphy was at least used to being forgotten, and that meant he didn't have to deal with as much of the abuse that he normally put up with.

His mouth twitched, thinking about it. "It's funny... In there, you think you've seen the worse in people... but it's not from the guys you sit and eat with every day. No. Most of the time... it's from the guards who get their kicks by takin' advantage of that power."

Corruption charges. Murphy remembered reading about that. He leaned forward, elbows over his knees and hands pressed together. He could feel his palms clam up; his stomach churned.

"I didn't really wanna think about it, 'cause I needed help, and I couldn't do anything about it. My son was gone -- I was locked up with his killer, and I couldn't even touch the bastard." Murphy barked a joyless laugh. "I mean, can you believe that they actually protect guys like that in prison?"

And with good reason, if Murphy's course of actions hadn't been any indicator.

"Guess if they're not gonna sack up and execute them, it's not a great look to let civilly-minded folk do their dirty work for 'em."

It was an effort to keep her voice even. All sorts of alarm bells clamored in her head, telling her that even if she didn't exactly know where this was going, she knew it was nowhere good. She dropped one hand to her locket, turning the ball over in her fingers, twisting the chain.

"You know you don't have to tell me any of this, right? I mean, I'm not gonna lie and say I'm not curious, but you don't owe me anything." He really, really didn't. None of them did.

"No, guess not."

Murphy wrung his hands. Part of him agreed with Heather somewhat, that he didn't really owe her an answer. The other part, however, had him shaking his head.

"I told you, there's a lot to it. My son's killer, why I was stuck in prison, why my situation here is so... tch, why it's weird to me, and sometimes I still can't wrap my head around it. I try, but... I dunno. I've tried to sort it out in my head long enough. It's not like I can walk up to just anyone and..." He was starting to feel selfish, taking up Heather's time with all of this. Murphy rubbed the back of his neck, still feeling the phantom pangs of being electrocuted there not too long ago.

On top of that, his head started to hurt. Not a good combination.

He lifted his head at Heather, with an apologetic look. "...Is this okay?"

She was still as he talked, listening. It had helped her to talk things out at somebody, no matter how badly it might have turned out in the end, and if she could be that for Murphy -- who'd already given her more help than she'd ever have asked him for -- she was damn well going to.

"Guess you don't know me so well yet," she supplied, still slouched over the back of her chair, everything in her posture indicating that she was headed nowhere in a hurry. "If it wasn't okay I wouldn't still be here."

Anyone else and she'd probably crack a show me yours and I'll show you mine joke, try to break the tension, but Murphy looked close enough to fleeing as it was. Somehow she didn't think he'd appreciate it.

The smile there was brief, humoring Heather's sentiment. He had a feeling she might say something like that. After all, here they were, and she was the one who asked.

"Well, uh... alright, then." Murphy rubbed his forehead, trying to think...

Where was he again?

Oh, right. Corruption, and then some.

"Anyway, I was approached by one of the COs one day. A guy named Sewell. Said he had a deal for me -- free reign to my son's murderer. The only catch in it all was... I had to owe him somethin' in return, but he was pretty vague about it.

"I was warned about him, though. I just didn't care. I already knew he wasn't the most trustworthy, but he knew what I wanted and how to give me access to it. This was my only shot, and I just figured... y'know, maybe it was because he'd been just as enthused to be lookin' after child killers as the inmates were to be sharin' a table with 'em, that's all." Not to mention Murphy -- he had a clear motive to want Napier dead. He didn't know how Sewell managed to put it together when no one else did. All the more reason why he seemed to be the right person to confide in at the time.

Bitterness began to rise up from the pit of his stomach. He didn't want to continue. Had a feeling that Heather was smart enough to fill in the blanks.

"He stuck by his word, though. Christ, it was such a mess... but it wasn't over yet." Murphy felt his jaw tighten; his throat hitched. "Afterwards, I was set for an early release. That was when Sewell came around with that favor I still owed him. All he said that was he had another 'monster' for me to kill. I do that, then we were square, and I could move on with my life. If I don't, he blows the lid on it all. I lose my probation, and I'd probably never see the light of day again." Murphy sighed, his gaze fell to the ground. "I mean, what the hell, right? I've already damned myself... So I agreed.

"A few days later, this riot broke out. All the guards were busy... takin' care of things. I was told to go to the showers, where I'd find the guy that I was supposed kill waitin' for me down there."

He hard swallowed then, his head dropping.

"The man was another officer. His name was Frank Coleridge. He was Anne's father."

So far, pretty much what she expected. Not that she'd given that sort of scenario too much thought, but even in prison -- even with the type of people that surely nobody could think added anything good to the world -- it couldn't be too easy just to kill somebody.

When Murphy continued, though, Heather's mood shifted. Anne's father. Her grip on the back of the chair tightened and she clenched her jaw, hard enough to make her teeth hurt. She took a slow breath, and when she spoke again the tension in her voice was probably enough to let him know just how much her opinion of both of them depended on his answer.

"You do it?"

Even before Heather had said anything, something practically radiated off of her. Murphy just shook his head adamantly. He swallowed, the lump in his throat felt like jagged rocks ripping his own skin.

"No, of... of course not. Frank was a good man. He never gave up on me, even when everyone else had... and I just..." He pinched the brim of his nose, feeling the very familiar hammering in his skull. "I refused. The next thing I knew, Sewell had struck us both. I couldn't do anything then. Could hardly move. All I could do was watch him die..."

But he didn't really die.

He closed his eyes, and he saw Frank's twisted face -- his withered limbs and pathetic body clinging hopelessly to life. Dying slow and in agony for years.

"Christ, it just didn't seem real. It felt like some kind of nightmare, and I was paralyzed.

"I didn't do it, but all the evidence pointed to me, anyway. The shiv he used, and my fingerprints..." Murphy shook his head. He didn't do it, but the guilt weighed heavily in his tones. "It was over. My chance for parole, my way out... Might as well have locked me up and thrown away the key, 'cause I was gonna die in there. Cop killers never last long, and it was just a matter of time before someone would come around to finish the job."

With Murphy's denial, her anger and tension dissipated as quickly as it arrived. Her fingers unclenched from the back of the chair, and as he continued she felt bad for her fleeting urge to pick it up and throw it at him.

No wonder he had issues. To have been set up like that, manipulated into a position where he had to either do what this Sewell wanted from him or take the fall for it anyway -- having to watch his friend die -- Jesus, it was a wonder the guy wasn't more of a mess. She shook her head, bit back another useless I'm sorry.

"How'd you end up... you know." A pause, while she made a face. The town wasn't some sort of monster that came when called. She was being childish. "In Silent Hill? If you were locked up, I mean."

"...It was Anne." Murphy's jaw clenched. "After what happened to her father, she... pulled some strings to have me transferred. I was on the bus to a maximum security prison when we... Then we crashed. When I came to, everyone was gone -- and so were my handcuffs."

In retrospect, Murphy didn't know how Anne had intended for it to play out, had there been no "divine" intervention back then. He didn't know if she was going to make it look like an accident, like Sewell did. If she was just going to kick him down and put a bullet in his brain, execution style. Hell, he didn't know if he was ever supposed to make it to that prison at all. Call it fate or whatever, but he'd taken it.

"If I went back, I would just be walkin' right into a death sentence, anyway. There was no way I'd survive Wayside, so this was my only chance to escape. But the town wouldn't let me go... It wouldn't let either of us leave."

He reached up and scratched the back of his head, remembering the sharp bang that rang out when Anne had supposedly shot him. How many times had he supposedly died, or should have died, but didn't? The thought alone, on top of everything else, was disconcerting.

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letting the days go by, into silent water [open]

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