Chapter Text
"Are you sure this is what you want? Because there's no going back."
Frank Sunderland meant well, James was sure, but this was the fifth time he had heard this question in a half-hour, and he couldn't take it anymore.
"I said I want it gone, and I mean it," James answered, his tone cruel, reflecting the frustration he felt.
At current, he, his father, and a team of movers were gutting his apartment. One by one, items were being boxed, moved, or thrown away, primarily the latter. Anything of Mary's, anything of theirs that held too many painful memories had to go.
"Listen, I understand how hard this is," Frank said kindly, letting James' meanness slide. "We all loved Mary. I just don't want you to have any regrets, that's all."
That was an ironic statement. James' life was nothing but regrets. He regretted not doing more to save Mary while she was still alive. He regretted killing her, more than anything. And lately, he regretted going to Silent Hill.
He had thought, somehow, against every shred of fabric that comprised sanity and reality, that somehow he would be able to find Mary, even though she was dead, wrapped in a blanket covered in forget-me-nots in the backseat of his ancient Pontiac Ventura. At one point, he had actually believed he could resurrect Mary, as implausible as any sane person realized that was.
His going to the town was inevitable; there was no way he could receive a letter from his dead wife and abstain. But even the letter was a figment. James was still struggling to decipher what else from his time there had been equally imaginary, but he feared the vast majority of it was.
"It's a little too late for that, Dad," James said, forcing himself to focus on the present, as futile as it felt.
He had been back from Silent Hill for only a week, but in many ways, he felt as though he never left. More and more, he realized it wasn't only a place, but a frame of mind, and one he couldn't shake off.
Everyone in his life had accepted James' absence as mourning the death of his wife. He was welcomed back with open arms, as though a life of normalcy was ever possible for him again.
Nobody but the few inhabitants of the town he had met knew what Mary's true fate was, and he intended to keep it that way.
"I get it," Frank said, further tethering James back to reality. "If this is too hard for you, we're just about done emptying this place out. You can go take a break and come back, or why not drive over to the new place and start getting settled?"
The new place in question was a cushy room at the South Ashfield Heights apartment complex, at which his father worked as the superintendent. James wasn't thrilled about living in such close proximity to his father; it made him feel like he was going backward in life, not forward.
Then, he'd think about everything he went through and consider how trivial that thought was. If anything, he was looking a gift horse in the mouth. Cash was tight; he would be paying off Mary's medical bills for the rest of his life. That he was offered a place to stay with slashed rent (it was going to be free, but James couldn't let himself agree to that) was a godsend at this stage of his life.
"I think I will step outside for a minute, thanks," James said, grateful to be relieved of this situation.
As he hustled down the staircase to the ground floor of his apartment complex, their apartment complex, he was increasingly glad to be away from the fray unfolding in his room. Their room. On the ground level, James lit up a cigarette and stood leaning against the building's foundation, eyes seeing without really focusing. His mind was a million miles away.
James took a drag on his cigarette and tried to calm the tension in his muscles. He was standing as rigid as a board, on red alert even though no threats surrounded him. It had been years since he felt like he was truly able to relax, and that didn't seem like it would change anytime soon.
He wasn't sure how long he was out there smoking, but it was long enough for the sun to begin shying away, deepening in the cloud's embrace, and for the movers and his father to come back down. The cacophony of voices, truck backfires, and thuds from heavy objects broke James back through to the surface of reality, like a pick piercing a shard of ice and causing fine spiderweb cracks.
"You alright out here? It's a little cold," Frank commented.
It was, but James had hardly noticed. "I'm fine," he said, refocusing his gaze up the block. Early into the evening, with rush hour past and the night young, there was a consistent flow of foot and vehicular traffic. And James couldn't have cared less about any of that, but he saw—
"I'll be right back," he murmured, or at least he thought he murmured it, because Frank was calling back after him.
James tuned it out, his mind going a thousand miles a minute as he considered what his eyes had just perceived. Sure, dusk was approaching, but there was enough daylight. The blonde hair with the pink tips. The red clothes. Who else could it have been?
But how? His brain asked as he ran up the block. It wasn't normally a long trek, but it felt like he was running a mile. Finally, at the curb, he turned and looked in all directions. There were still people in throngs, laughing, smiling, waiting for the light to turn red, ensconced in a bubble of warmth and happiness.
James felt like he was another species as he stood there. He considered how he must have looked: crazed, feral, panicked. He quickly scanned about one more time but saw nobody matching the description of the woman he had just seen. Whether it was happening or not, he felt like more and more eyes were trained upon him, even though he was ultimately no one and was usually rather good at blending into a crowd.
Feeling the kind of panic that caused bile to tickle the back of his throat, James turned and walked solemnly back down the block. Frank was waiting for him, looking a cross of bewildered and frustrated.
"What the hell was that?" he asked.
That was a good question. James turned wistfully up the block again, this time just watching, becoming surer with each second that whatever he had imagined he had seen had been just that. Imaginings.
"I...thought I saw someone."
Frank seemed even more bewildered, the distinct lines between his brows deepening as he furrowed. "Are you sure you're okay, son?"
No . But he didn't say that, even though he could have and no one would have held it against him. His wife had just died, and before that, it had been three long, hellish, nonstop years of watching her worsen in a sickbed. So no one would have blamed him for saying he wasn't okay.
Yet after his visit to Silent Hill, James had become even more insular. There was no one left in his orbit who could understand the horrors he endured, so it was better to just seal himself off.
"I'm just tired," James said, which wasn't that far removed from the truth. It was a fraction of the truth, and it would do just fine.
Frank clapped a sympathetic hand on James' shoulder. "Well, this place is all but empty, and save for a little bit of cleanup in the morning, it's good to go. So, why don't you get out of here?"
"I think I will, thanks."
Into his car and up the familiar streets James could drive with his eyes closed, he couldn't help but peer again at the crosswalks, in which the activity had faded as dusk now crawled across the horizon, spreading inky black fingertips.
Nothing. No one.
Just like usual.