Master Crocuta is back! –throws confetti- And this time it's not a one-shot! I hope I'll be able to finish this…'tis a good idea, so far, but I don't have this one all planned out yet…always, any criticism you have is welcomed, though please restrain yourself from leaving messages such as "OMGZZZ YOU SCK BIG TIME!111" Yeah. That doesn't help me much. XD But so far, all the reviewers that have left feedback for other pieces have been wonderful. THANK YOU! –waves tissue- I love you all. Maybe I should stop rambling now. Yeah, that'd be a good idea. Anyways, I feed off of reviews. So feed me, or watch me starve. Horribly. Writhing and foaming. And I'll shut up now.

Oh yeah, disclaimer: I do own Emma, and all of the rest of the characters in this fanfiction as of yet, but I do not own Silent Hill, the town. Konami has that credit!

Oh, Momma, I'm scared…'cause you told me it'd be all right, and you told me it'd soon be over…that'd I'd get better and come home…but things have only gotten worse. I'm so frightened, Momma…it started with an innocent night, an innocent thought, but now… there's no turning back…

Emma Tayton shot up from her hard little bed, damp with sweat and chest heavily panting. The words that had been previously floating nonchalantly around her head moments before were now echoing with an unbearable boom. She reached up to brush a few massed, curly chocolate strands from her clammy face, the touch of dry skin causing her to shiver uncontrollably. Everywhere. Everywhere her skin was terribly arid, and as much as she rubbed, as much as she scrubbed and washed it, the rough texture still remained.

What time was it…? It couldn't have been too early in the morning, for there were no lights outside her cell door. Two, three O'clock perhaps…yes, she assured herself, it was probably around that time of the night—er, day…she was starting to get used to this horrid schedule.

"Horrible," she murmured to herself shakily, holding back the tears that were about to pour. This place was absolutely horrible. The food was unpleasant, the place itself, although new, felt somehow old and ghastly, and the people terrified her…being around diseased souls petrified her, and yet she had still not accepted the fact that…she…she, Emma Elizabeth Tayton, was one of them. She was here for a reason, and she was here because Momma didn't want to see her die.

The tight string clinging to her hair began to come lose, causing a few loose curls to fall out of place. Her vision was blurry with tears of pain, and her stomach tightened as another flow of vomit spilled from her lips and into the backyard bush. Something in her gut began to ripple as Emma heard her mother's call from the back of the house.

"Emma? You out here, hun?"

"Yes, Momma, I…" she stopped herself short with a silent curse. The whole point of being out here was to hide. She'd just broken that purpose. "…I was out here playing, Momma, that's all."

Footsteps. Her mother halted in front of her, bending down to feel the girl's forehead. "You don't feel so good…you shouldn't be roughing around outside if you don't feel good, Emma." She helped her daughter to her feet, and led her inside silently. Not a word slipped as Emma nodded obediently, holding back the urge to throw up her body's contents once more.

"So, how's Thomas Aikerson?" her mother walked back to the rusting pot burning over the fire, eyes focused, as to not stray to her daughter's stressful face. Emma could have sworn that her mother did not even want to look at her anymore.

"Tommy…? Oh, he's fine. Just fine," Emma murmured back absentmindedly. "Looks at me lots, when we're at school. We don't talk much though. He's a real shy boy."

"I see."

Silence.

"Momma?"

"Yes, dear?" Her mother's gaze didn't even budge.

"Why don't we talk about Grace anymore?" There was a long pause.

"Because, sweet Emma," her mother's words came out quiet, unstable. "Your little sister is dead. She died from the— "

"I know what she died from, Momma," Emma interrupted, somewhat coldly. She quickly apologized and went on. "I know what she died from," she repeated, softer this time. "No one can hide what's going on in the town, as much as they'd like to try…even the school has given us an excuse on how come so many students are missing. Many of the younger ones believe it, but I don't. I know."

"Come here. Let me see your face."

"I'm not crying, Momma!" Emma almost screeched, but in truth she wanted truly to just sob her eyes out. Her pretty deep blue eyes, which were now only deep in the way that the skin under seemed to sink…she had such sunken eyes that she no longer looked at her reflection, not even in the water she drank. "Tell me…tell me what it's called. What's killing everyone in the town?"

"You are always asking for something to drink…" her mother whispered, stirring a large wooden spoon in the pot repetitively. "You never dance around like you used to…your bright eyes are no longer shining…your skin, do you not see your skin? Look how it flakes. You're always sleeping, always trapped in dreams. It's called cholera, my dear…the same disease your sister died from. The same disease that is sweeping the town." A single, glassy tear broke against the dirty floor noiselessly.

The young girl's head rocked lightly, and then began to shake right to left on her neck, faster and faster, wilder until it felt as if her head were about to fly off and splatter against the opposite wall. "No!" she screamed, hands clutching at her hair, pulling out thick, soft chunks. "No! No, no, no! You're lying…you're lying to me!" the volume in her voice increased. "Stop lying to me, Momma! Grace wouldn't like that! Daddy wouldn't! I don't wanna die…I don't wanna die like they did!" The images flashed through her mind, the pictures of her father, of her little sister, lungs worn from earsplitting yells, their skin shriveled like prunes, the next day their bodies curled tightly into motionless balls. She didn't want to die like them—she didn't want to die at all.

Her mother's hands gripped her shoulders. Emma looked up into the older woman's eyes—eyes flooded with sorrow, and eyes that had seen death more than enough times to count. "Emma," she whispered. "Emma Elizabeth, don't raise your voice to me. The town…there's a medical place here now, child, a hospital…they will help you. Brookhaven Hospital, it's called…I'll take you, and I promise, child, you'll get better…you have to get better, so you can come home and take care of me. I won't have no one once you're gone, so baby, don't worry…that disease will go away soon enough."

She blinked away the sadness that was threatening to moisten her cheeks. Momma, how was she? Thomas…was he still the shy boy he was in school? Had he changed? And did he…did he even care if she had been struck by the disease?

"I shouldn't have drunk from that cup," she coughed out, biting her lip tightly until a drop of blood began to color her chin. That cup—if she could have gone back and made sure to throw away that cup, everything would be different now. Things would be the way they had been. But Grace had drunk from that cup, and dear Emma, unknowing, as a big sister would, took it and sipped some afterwards.

"Such a plague has struck only the weakest of souls," she quoted one of the priests in their town. "Their hearts have not chosen the right path; may merciful Metatron be with them when the pain hits." At times, they took some of the disease-ridden beings to the prison—they were insane, and also cursed by the devil, some had accused and believed. These prisoners claimed to have seen signs…messages that only a demon would give.

Cholera did not cause madness, for that was certain. Many of the patients in the hospital did not have such illusions, or dreams, or prophesies. They could not see the future, and they were nothing too terribly special—just people patiently waiting for a fate they did not ask for.

But Emma…did not speak of such things. The strange dreams she had whenever her eyelids grew heavy made her shiver in panic. Did she talk in her sleep? Did she mumble or grow restless, and if one of the patrollers were to pass by her cell at night, would they think anything of it? All she could do was sit there and wait. Sit there, and wait to be caught…sit there and wait to be cured…or sit there to rot until they buried her a hole in the ground.

"Silent Hill," she brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them tightly and feeling the hard corner of the wall against her back. The firm pillow atop her bed gave little comfort. "Is no longer the same…but…is the plague really doing this to us? Or is it…something else…?" her grip tightened. "Can a disease really create such tragedy…such fear…and such ultimate transformation, all at the same time?"

She began to weep mutely to herself, burying her face between her folded arms so that she did not have to see the outline of a wraithlike face staring back at her from the cell's little window.

"Momma…Thomas…I don't think the plague is the only thing stealing away our sanity…"