"It's all a dream, you're going to wake up soon, and you'll be lying in your bed, with the sun shining in through your window." Eileen once thought repeatedly in her mind. It was a thought, rather, a wish that had been popping up less and less lately. She had lost count of the days, lost count of the weeks, even lost count of the months that had passed since that day in April that she was beaten into a deep sleep from which she had yet to awaken from. The source of her torment? The very man who lay silently beside her in the bed that once belonged to her quiet neighbor.
At first, she fought to escape the confines of Room 302. But no matter what, no matter where she ran to-- the locked door at the bottom of the lobby, the dark and hollow memory of her bedroom with the bloody stuffed animal, he always found her. He always brought her back, and the little boy, his younger self, was always there. The little ghost was always happy to see her return, and referred to her as the 'living' mother, where the room itself had always been in his eyes, the 'holy mother'.
Despite all of her anger with the man in the long, blue coat, she couldn't hate the child. After all, the child frequently protected her not just from the demons that roamed the twisted wilderness of rust and wear outside of the safety that was Room 302.
Yes, she knew, the will to fight was dwindling but the process was so very long and painful. It was a matter of accepting her own death. She only slowly came to a painful realization that there was nothing to return to should she escape the hellish world created by the killer. This was her after life, this was her hell, and despite her body remaining intact at the wishes of the little boy, she truly was just another ghost. Just like Joseph Schreiber, just like Richard Braintree... even just like the bloody corpse of Henry she had seen once, standing outside of the door and mumbling in tongues for hours.
Days were always bleak and monotone, but she got used to it, she found.
The radio was often always static, but she had noticed that when the boy was happy, she could make out faint music coming in. What had become of the world she once knew? It made her wonder. Her parents had both died before her, and she only had a small circle of friends. She wondered if anyone even held her a funeral. It was only in the afterlife that she realized how lonesome her life had been.
Breathing softly, she turned onto her side. The gray bed beneath her that had once been Henry's was uncomfortable and stiff. But she got used to it. She was facing him, now, that man with the long, dirty blond hair. His eyes were closed, and she wondered often if he even really slept. Although, she thought, she still slept every evening despite never being physically tired or drained. Perhaps she was still clinging to her humanity in a sense. She wondered if he did, too.
"Of course he's sleeping... He would be staring at me right now, like a creep, if he were awake." Eileen thought, reassuring herself. Despite the many months that had passed, she was still wary around him. He was still as stoic as ever, yet she recognized that he was trying his hardest to show affection to his 'living mother'. It wasn't something he was well practiced in, she could imagine, knowing what kind of solitary life he led. Yet she had always found it odd that he wanted to sleep beside her as such every night. Even the little boy opted to rest comfortably on the soft sofa in the living room, but she had come to the conclusion that the child was more attached to his spiritual 'holy mother' than the adult who showed more attachment to her, the flesh 'living mother'.
Just slightly, ever so faintly, she could hear a soft snoring sound. It amused her slightly. Something about people snoring had always made her laugh, even though she knew she probably did it too. Eileen was always described as, "easily amused" by the people around her.
Even though the room was so very dark, she could make out the features of his face clearly. At this point, sleeping beside him every night, at first, turned away, but more recently turning to face him, she was beginning to know every blemish, every wrinkle, and even the scars on his neck like the back of her own hand. At first, it had scared her, the way she had suddenly taken an interest in knowing him-- but it comforted her enough to chalk it down to boredom.
He didn't move around much when he slept, although there were the rare occasions that she woke up in the ever-foggy mornings with his arm around her waist, pulling her body close against his own. The first time caused her to panic and stumble away from him, leaving him looking down at her with slight hurt in his eyes. At that point she couldn't have cared less whether she hurt his 'feelings' or not. But as of late, she began to wish that the morning would come with his arms around her.
It had been so long since she felt another human hold her. At this point it didn't even matter if it was him.
On nights she couldn't sleep, she often resigned to listening to him breathing. It was steady, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale... sometimes, when he was dreaming, she could hear just the faintest moan. Something pained and sad, telling of an unpleasant memory or dream.
He lay on his side, facing her, and she lay on hers, facing him. At any uninformed glance, they would have looked like two lovers. In the most remote part of her mind, beneath all the hate and anger she still harbored toward him, there was something that wanted to move closer. He was asleep after all, she thought. He would have never known that she made her way closer to him on her own.
With a shaky breath, she shifted her body closer, closer, until she could gently bury her face against his warm chest. He had fallen asleep with his jacket on again, and the plastic-like material was painfully loud in her mind. She wasn't ready to wake him up with her body so close to his. But still, he didn't stir. She listened close-- he still breathed long and slow, lost in sleep. As she closed her eyes, she felt him sleepily move his arm around her, trapping her beside him. That's the way things always were-- he would always lure her in, then trap her. But now, she had simply gotten used to it.