Chance
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.
O O O
He was awkward. Clunky, bulky, thick, stumbling, fumbling, frightening. He held a cleaver the length of his torso and half the width, long, stitched-up butcher's apron falling just past his knees to tangle around his shins.
He was unstable. Angry, merciless, inhuman, mysterious, imperious, omnipresent. He was there even when he wasn't, the heavy thump of his worn boots demanding a certain respect that had Lisa Garland going stiff.
And most of all, he was standing in front of her, head pointed down or maybe ahead or even up, because she couldn't tell with that hybrid welding mask strapped to his face.
There was blood all over him, dripping from his cleaver, staining his apron and boots, splattered on his mask. The skin that showed, his shoulders and parts of his chest and his arms and hands, was pale where it wasn't painted a sick crimson.
A deathly chill ran the length of Lisa's spine, and she didn't dare move. She could have backed against the wall; she could have tried to make a break for it; she could have sunk to her knees. But he was like an animal. If she made any sudden movements, he'd strike, and that knife clenched tightly in his hand was a testament to this very anxious thought.
And he reached out to do so, bloodied hand clenching into the fabric of her red jacket and jerking her forward, and she opened her mouth to scream, blonde hair falling to cover part of her face.
But Travis wandered by then, running from a small pack of carrion, the fallen, deformed animals snorting and grunting as they passed deftly by Lisa and The Butcher.
The Butcher dropped her instantly, almost like he forgot about her, dragging himself out of the alleyway and into the open streets. He took off in the general direction of Travis' taken path, occasionally clanking that horrible cleaver against the asphalt.
Lisa Garland slid down against the wall, crouching, burying her face in her hands and sobbing.
O O O
He was different. Fidgety, ungainly, stomping, growling, horrifying. He held a knife the length of his body and more than half the width, dirty butcher's apron falling just above his knees to rest over his thighs.
He was unpredictable. Confused, pitiless, humanoid, enigmatic, commanding, ubiquitous. He stood behind her every time she turned around, the dull stamp of those thick boots tearing a certain measure of reverence from Maria that she couldn't quite explain.
And most of all, he was standing in front of her, head most definitely pointed down and directed at her, but she could never be completely certain through that pyramid-shaped helmet of his.
He was coated in blood, dripping from the Great Knife, staining his apron and boots, splattered all over his helmet. The skin that showed on his shoulders and arms and parts of his upper back was pale where it wasn't tainted with all sorts of grime.
A trill of shivers coursed through Maria's nerves, and she froze where she stood. She could have stepped away slowly; she could have doubled back and sprinted away; she could have collapsed to the floor and played dead. But he wasn't an animal. He wouldn't fall for the trick, and he would most certainly find a way to catch her, even if she ran, and the tilt of his head as well as him sliding the Great Knife up to rest in front of him was proof of this.
And he seized her neck to do just that, thick, strong hand pulling her closer to him and off of her feet, and she tried to scream, couldn't, readied a leg to kick him until he maybe relented, red-tipped, blonde hair caught partly in his fingers.
But James wandered by then, cautiously, not even noticing the mannequin that trailed behind him, drawn by the man's pocket light.
Pyramid head dropped her hesitantly, seemingly weighing his choices between Maria and James, before he stumbled out into the hallway. He took off down that linear path toward James, slowly, the dragging of his knife on the carpet like a thousand bells in her ear.
Maria's knees buckled, taking her to the floor, and she hid her face in her hands. But she did not cry.