Takes place after the "Eileen's Death" ending.
First Silent Hill fic, how enthralling. The first thing I say when I'm about to write things is that Henry and Eileen are my absolute favorite, and the first thing I go and write is OOPS she's brutally dead and now Henry's sad. Hi. I'm LabyDwell, I'm new to the SH fandom and I'm nice.
Passionless
Growling in frustration, a scruffy young man fiddled with his camera's lens, dissatisfied no matter how much he changed it. Nothing was working when everything was running perfectly.
Henry Townshend was back at Toluca Lake, armed with his precious camera and acute sense of sight. The fierceness of his eyes made it so he was actually quite literally armed with these instruments—his eyes were unusually dark and angry as opposed to being passive. Nobody but Henry himself really knew the truth why, and if things would've gone differently she would've known too.
A sense of strong frustration possessed Henry so grippingly that he almost kicked over the tripod that held his hard-earned camera. Catching himself before he destroyed it Henry merely stomped hard on the ground, imagining his shoe burying itself into a monster dog's neck, feeling the bones and tendons snap underneath his force. Taking a few curt breaths, the troubled man told himself to calm down. He turned to the camera and looked through it at what would be the picture.
The scenery was a piece of shit. A foul, lumpy piece of dog shit. It didn't matter that Henry was blessed with a marvelous sunny day on the edge of the normally foggy Silent Hill. It didn't matter that Toluca Lake had billions of sparkling sun fairies dancing atop of the water as it rippled in the gentle wind. It didn't matter that the dark evergreens were reflected perfectly in the lake. The scenery was a piece of shit.
Hell, everything Henry was trying to capture had become nothing but shit. He hadn't used up any of his film ever since he decided to get out today. No pictures, no click of the camera, no immortal snapshots. His fingers were stiff and useless, his brain flooded with anger, his heart weighing heavily with guilt and sadness.
She was supposed to die, but she didn't. It left a gruesome reminder on her back, the scar of 20121.
She was supposed to die, but she didn't. He had found her and fought hard to protect her against the monsters, and she fought hard to keep up and protect him in turn.
She was supposed to die, and she did. Possessed she walked straight into the blood, into the danger. He heard how that…thing had torn her up; he heard that she didn't even scream. There was a time, a short time where he wished, hoped, that it was just a dream. Just a twisted dream and he'd wake up and Eileen Galvin would still be alive. But it was as much as a dream as Cynthia's was. The damned voices on the radio confirmed it so.
Ever since then all that was Henry Townshend before this nightmare disappeared. Gone was the shyly passionate photographer, the quiet neighbor, the innocence. He was as guilty as Hell itself, he now screamed continuously in his sleep, and photography held nothing for him anymore. Everything he wanted and worked for was gone. Beauty had turned to ugliness, and Henry couldn't face himself in the mirror anymore.
The camera, still attached to the tripod, had landed on the soulless concrete. A vicious crack now ruined the once perfect lens. Part of the casing smashed, but it was unnoticed.
For the first time since Hell had taken over, Henry Townshend crumpled to the ground, sobbing pathetically into the dirt. She was just a neighbor, just another friendly face, and he wasn't fast enough. Now he'd never be fast enough. Life would pass him by and Henry Townshend would forever remain in its shadow.