Hey guys, wrote the prologue in 2nd person because I wanted to try something different and hopefully get you relating to the MC asap, may not have worked. If you struggle to understand it's your everyday guy, barman/milkman, but has a sketchy past (Que chorus of readers "Typical Silent Hill Protagonist" well... yeah pretty much... would give some kind of witty retort but oh well). This chapter is mainly going to be a taster for the style, if you think this will be a slow build then I'll probably agree with you there, will just have to wait and see.

Anyway to summarize I also chose not to give the MC a name as of yet and I may or may not do so depending on how I feel about it (want it to work in that you are the protagonist but not really kinda way).

Lastly the 'I' referred to in this chapter isn't so much a split personality as it is his conscience slowly beginning to manifest itself, hence 'you look up into the mirror to find me' is him gazing at his conscience. Also MC is a guy, sorry ladies I just suck at writing women, I'll do my best later, promise :).

Prologue

You gently splashed water from the basin onto your face, rubbing away the bags from your eyes, a delusion that it made them feel lighter. You looked up into the mirror to find me and pondered why people need to look at their reflections? Why is sight so damn invasive? You closed your eyes, dried your face and prepared to for another 4:00am.

It's surreal the world that early, there are no stores, no people, just a dark, silent sky. The world you had worked in since high school. You started your shift, venturing out into the dark, not cold, but mild.

Throughout the working week you'd get money in by doing a bit of time behind the bar at Dicky's and this week had came and went, just as omittable as any other. You had tried, you fought and you strove to remember and embrace the significance of each day, but found it almost impossible, almost like trying to be conscious of every breath you took or every wave that crashed on the beach your apartment over looked. It was Saturday, which meant you'd return to your role as the last of a dying breed, a milkman.

The float itself wasn't particularly old or damaged but you always felt uneasy to drive it, something inside the machine would grind, like the sound of a sinking ship. It wasn't loud or shocking, it was too sustained for that. A straining noise, that was it, a long moan that spread all around you as you drove.

In your solitude you'd try to distract yourself, going through the town casting a glance around at the abandoned gas stations, mini-marts and saloons, always expecting the Bexaco to have someone in early to set up, but there never was. No need in a small Maine town, completely off the beaten path.

Then eventually you couldn't help but notice me, the quiet voice that pulled you apart when you thought about the past, all of it and if anyone knew about it they'd realize just how fucked up you really are. You'd gotten away with it all to, time and again.

You always reassured yourself none of it was illegal, not the most haunting parts anyway. You'd just ignore it, turn on the radio and drown me out like a bad smell. On occasion you'd take out sunglasses from your coat pocket and put them on, it wasn't exactly like anyone was around to mock you, maybe that was just your way of completely shutting me out.

After finishing the last delivery you looked back on the wind worn streets, a myriad of sub-urban homes connected to one another by peeling old wooden phone masts. If the town were a face then those masts would have been the splintered stubble outlining it's jaw.

Those masts never made it as far as your place. Though at the time you'd only just got electricity so phone lines would just have to wait, besides being disconnected wasn't exactly something you felt all that beat up about. An old family friend had bought land near the beach, away from the town itself and since the complex wasn't finished yet you offered to live in one of the finished apartments to keep an eye on things, a relatively cheap security guard, if nothing else.

You pulled into the semi-construction site, but for some reason that time... different. Upon stepping through the front door you felt awashed with something odd, like a giant, heavy blanket had been draped over you. You felt a crinkle between your foot and the doormat, tentatively you peered down to find an old flyer. No way was that there before you left and yet it had only been a 2 hour round at most, had someone really been handing out flyers that early?

You dismissed the idea of meticulously thinking over it and knelt down to pick up the flyer, inside were no promotions or information but some sort of letter 'confront your sins, ease your struggle, find your peace, be no longer haunted by these strange desires.'

A numbness struck you and you rose misty eyed, cleansed of expression, perfectly unaware of how bewitched you had become from reading the seemingly innocent marketing material. With a clarity of thought you discarded your work clothes, threw on what you could and left, trampling the flyer on the way out leaving only the bold font in tact; 'Silent Hill'.

You make your strides up the road and away. It's surreal the world that early, there are no stores, no people, just a dark, silent sky.