Silent Hill - James, Henry - "A Plea for the Inescapable"

[driftinginnines]

Title: A Plea for the Inescapable
Fandom: Silent Hill
Characters: James Sunderland, Henry Townshend
Word Count: 1540
Date Finished: July 8, 2004
Author's Notes: My first story that's not a Star Wars story! :O This is a Silent Hill fanfiction – and one that doesn't really fit in with the continuity of the series, but I had to write it because once I got the idea it just kept writing itself. It features James (Silent Hill 2) and Henry Townshend (Silent Hill 4: The Room) and has some subtle slashy undertones. There's also spoilers for the second game! Just a warning! ;)


A Plea for the Inescapable

A headache. I woke up with another headache.

I thought I had just fallen asleep on my bed, while reading or something, I thought I would wake up to my ceiling fan slowly churning away at the dead air. But when I opened my eyes... I was in a place I had never seen before.

I heard a voice: deep, serious, an octave or two lower than my own.

"You're awake."

Henry Townshend's right hand shot up to his forehead, as his left landed on the bed behind him, to help steady himself.

"Where am I?"

The responding voice stayed silent.

Throwing his feet off of the bed, Henry inhaled deeply, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He could feel sweat coating his back, under his shirt, drops running down his skin and getting soaked into the top hem of his jeans. Beads of it stood out on his forehead and his neck, some also dampened his shaggy brown hair.

He lifted his eyes to his surroundings, his gaze drifting around the room. It was drab, the decor might have been more upbeat normally... but everything in this room seemed worn out, faded. Like the life had been sucked out of it.

"Hello?"

Turning his head, his neck threw out a loud crack. He winced as his eyes pulled themselves shut.

Forcing his eyelids to open once more, Henry peered around, steadying his breathing. He was seated on a bed, across from a door and some basic furniture. When his eyes trailed to the left, he saw another door - it seemed to lead to a closet, or maybe a bathroom...

His upper body twisted around so he could survey the rest of the room. On the other side of the bed sat a table, with a phone and a lamp. Behind that was a desk and beyond that, and spanning across the wall - a huge set of floor-to-ceiling windows. A door led onto the balcony of the room. In front of the glass was a television, a VCR on the ground ahead of it... and a chair, out of place, facing the empty screen.

"Hello...?"

Henry pulled himself off of the bed and stumbled to the windows. He could see the metal bars of the balcony and the faint outline of the courtyard down below...

But beyond that... nothing.

Everything past that was covered in a thick fog, a swirling mist that seemed to be alive as it crept across the outside walls of the building.

Townshend sighed. "What the hell is going on?"

He slowly dropped his forehead to the glass, resting his right hand on top of the television. He had been having these dreams lately...

This must've just been another one.

Just wait it out... it'll pass.

"It won't."

Spinning his body around, Henry planted his feet in the thick carpet, locking his eyes on where the voice came from.

The chair was occupied now, by a man a tad older than himself. He was reclining in it, his neck tilted over the back, gaze up towards the ceiling. His dark, dirty blonde hair fell in thin strands along his temples and back over his head as it lulled from side-to-side over the chair's dusty linen top. His hands were folded across his stomach, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair, while his legs were stretched out in front of him, the buckles on his boots shining in the diffused light.

"Who are you?"

The man leaned forward and picked his elbows off of the arms of the chair, placing them on his knees. He let his hands fall to rest in the space between his jean-covered legs as his heavy green jacket shifted around him. The deep gray of his shirt brought out the dark bags under his eyes. They were worn; he looked tired and haggard.

"My name is James." He paused, his eyes finally floating upwards to meet Henry's narrowed, calculating gaze. "James Sunderland."

Henry knew the man had looked familiar.

And that's when the pieces of this so-called dream tried to fall into place.

"The superintendent of my building... you're the son he lost." He spun back around, locks of hair drifting into his eyes as they scanned the foggy exterior. "We're in Silent Hill, aren't we...?"

"The Lakeview Hotel. Yes."

For a split second Henry glanced back at this man, this James Sunderland, before he looked back outside again.

The image he caught when he turned to James for a moment was one of gore, a sickly gray visage, bloated, veins visible. Drops of water streamed down his face, his clothes were soaked... like he had drowned...

"What happened to you and your wife?" Henry's voice was quiet, soft. He didn't know how to react to this man.

"She died of... of..." His words trailed off as James fell into a train of thought.

The younger man turned to look at Sunderland, as he dropped his arms by his sides. James' eyes led Henry's to the television, which flipped on and began showing a young woman.

"Are you taping again? C'mon…" She sat down by the window, the very same set of windows Henry was standing at, her sigh carrying heavy emotional depth. Such a simple action, yet it showed so much. "I don't know why, but I just love it here. It's so peaceful." Her face turned to the camera and Henry could see the cheerfulness of her face. Her eyes were hollow... "You know what I heard? This whole area used to be a sacred place. I think I can see why. It's too bad we have to leave…" She stood. "Please promise you'll take me again, James." She began to cough.

Henry looked back at James, who just motioned for him to keep watching.

The picture faded into a different setting, the image of a bright, young woman juxtaposing itself over the shell of the same being. Sick, empty, drained...

Henry watched as James showed up on the screen. He leaned down to kiss his wife on the forehead and seconds later he was covering her with a pillow instead of his lips.

Somehow, Townshend saw it coming.

The tape stopped and the television shut itself off. Henry turned to look at James.

"What about you?"

"She said she was waiting here... I came to look for her..."

"Did you find her?"

"I'm still looking..."

Henry tilted his head a bit, "How long have you been looking?"

The man sighed, pulling himself out of the chair. He topped out a few inches taller than Henry but grew shorter when he leaned down and rested his arms on top of the television.

"Five years..." His voice was hoarse and his gaze was growing hollower by the second.

Henry's breath escaped him as he stumbled backwards a bit. It was like the words were tangible, like they had smacked him in the face. Studying James visually, Henry realized he was the least bit transparent.

The poor man was stuck here, in this town, forced to wander endlessly... to find the wife he killed.

James slid around to the side of the television where Henry stood and stepped forward, towards the younger man. He brought his right hand up to Henry's face and ran his palm down his cheek.

Townshend inhaled sharply, surprised at the sudden touch of the man, this ghost. His skin was cool, ethereal... it was like the sensation of the fog outside, rolling across his skin. James' oceanic gaze locked on Henry's face, the frozen expression causing a shade of a grin to appear on his own features.

"Will you help me find her?"

Henry's main quality took over as he nodded quickly, his amicable nature snatching up his common sense.

"Thank you. You're a lot more compassionate than my wife ever was." Sunderland leaned in and brushed his phantasmal lips over Henry's, sending a shiver up the younger man's spine.

He felt Sunderland's spectral breath on him, like the mist of the city, sliding in tendrils over his skin...

With that I woke up. I was in my own bed. That whole thing had been a dream. Everything in the hotel. With James. James Sunderland.

My fingers shot up to my lips. They're usually chapped to hell, but now they seemed smooth... seamless... I could feel them tingling. My face was flushed, it was hot, like his breath was still beating on my cheeks.

I slid out of my bed, planning to get some pills for this damn headache.

And as I grabbed the chocolate milk from the fridge I swore I heard his voice again.

"Help me..."

I downed the pills, took a swig of the liquid chocolate and lugged the milk to the door, which was still chained and bolted just as it had been for two days now - I peered through the peephole.

I saw Frank Sunderland walk by, throwing my apartment a glance.

It definitely was his son I saw in my dreams...

No doubt in my mind.

And licking my lips, I set the milk down on the counter and went to stare out the window again, absently banging my fist on the glass... just another day of waiting for something to happen. Someone to get me out. Something. Anything.