Oh my God I'm writing something serious for once
what
You see, parodies wear on me.
Henry set his backpack near the door of Room 302, mindful of the bandages snaking from his elbow to his shoulder as he slid it from his arm. He did not close the door for fear of it not opening again, instead half-shutting it and gazing through the peephole into the hallway. He skated his fingertips across the painted surface, heterochromic eyes searching for the slightest trace of the words scrawled in blood or the scarlet trickle that once flowed down the door when his own image appeared, mumbling incoherently as it stared stupidly into space. He shuddered at the memory of his filthy mimic, recalling the 21121 etched into its- his- neck. He tilted his head back to scent the air like a predator for traces of the pervasive stench of death and decay that lingered when the shower and washing machine spewed blood all over their respective rooms. His attention flitted to the west wall, the one where holes resembling tar formed, a sort of orange lava dripping from it as a haunting appeared, moaning deeply, when Henry had been too slow in lighting the Holy Candle. Even now, he felt that dehibilitating migraine.
He sucked in a breath of air anxiously, one hand wrapping around the doorknob of the laundry room, half-expecting the hole to yawn before him, beckoning him to God-knows-where to witness someone die. Always witness someone die. The events that transpired before that were inconsequential, the various items he'd picked up in his journeys doing nothing but further embedding him in the twisted Otherworld. And the Otherworld seemed sentient, like it had a cynical sense of humor, allowing him to hold or gawk at some stranger on the verge of death or already dead, as if reminding him, It'll be you soon. It'll be you soon. Run all you want, but he will catch you. Hide all you want, but he will find you.
As he flung the door open, there was no hole, thankfully. He sighed and shook his head, stalking towards the dresser. It was still displaced from when he'd moved it to find the pistol and a line of sight to Eileen's bedroom, and there was that hole. He gasped and backed up like a startled animal, careless of his wounded thigh. He grunted and doubled over as the bandaged gash, the product of a well-aimed hit from the hatchet of a nurse monster, sent a jolt of distress through every nerve in his body. He clutched it for a while, now painfully aware of the countless stitches, probably numbering into the hundreds, crisscrossing his limbs and torso. He was more gauze and thread than human, his hands, neck, chest, abdomen, and legs enveloped in white layers. Bruises darkened his face, and the experience had left him emaciated and gaunt. He was sure that through all of those antibiotic washes and baths in the hospital, he still reeked strongly of rot. It would never go away, he was sure.
He touched the makeshift peephole to find it was only superficial, as if a wayward piece of furniture had just begun to chip away at the wall. When he bent down to look through it, he saw nothing of Room 301, and that came as a relief. He dismissed it as a residual effect, its origins not entirely based in the phantasmagoria of the Otherworld, so therefore it would remain when the portals and hauntings dissipated.
Henry, comforted sufficiently, moved on to his storage box where he stockpiled his weapons. He'd not feel safe again without a cache like that in any place of residence.
The old wooden box's rusty hinges shrieked as they were pulled open, its top lifting to reveal- emptiness.
Not complete emptiness, no, as a few stray health drinks, first-aid kits and Holy Candles remained where he had last left them, but they did not matter to Henry anymore. Where was his aluminum bat? His ax? His pistol and his revolver, and their ammunition?
Damn you to hell, Frank, he inwardly cursed the aged superintendent. Henry was certain that bag of bones had come in or ordered a crew in to tidy up in his absence, and on the orders of the hospital, confiscated all tools he could potentially harm himself with. Now what was he supposed to use to defend himself? That worthless boxcutter, or a kitchen knife? Come to think of it, those were likely gone, too. If the hospital didn't trust him with objects sharper than a spoon, why had they released him unsupervised with Oxycontin, operating on a trust system that he wouldn't overdose or simply go to any local store, buy a plain knife, and open the blue veins of his wrists in a warm bath.
Consumed with spite and anger, he continued down the back hallway, taking a right into the bathroom, another site of a portal and a shower that sprayed blood everywhere. The wall where the hole once opened and was subsequently closed by a large block of stone was unscathed, with no trace of any damage. He'd come to accept that.
He knelt on the cold tile, the bruises and cuts on his knees forgotten with the urge to inspect the bathtub. Meticulously scrubbed to a showroom sparkle, the blood was completely gone, and a new shower curtain still bore the pungent smell of chemicals. Just as he was about to stand, he noted a greasy red speck.
It was hardly anything, not a centimeter in diameter. In any other situation, it would have been passed over, and if seen, treated as a splotch from a simple cut he'd received shaving. But not now. Not all the bleach in the world could wash out the significance of this tiny, tiny speck, a confirmation that his experience in Silent Hill was real and that he was not insane. Silent Hill and the Otherworld was not a ridiculous fantasy conjured to suppress the memory of a brutal attack by a would-be murderer in a parking garage or something similar, as Henry had hoped was the case as he sat awake in his hospital bed long after the lights had been turned off.
Henry had always considered himself to be a stoic man. He always felt awkward when he expressed feelings, as if he was a stage actor, and a terrible one at that, emoting for an audience. It was against his nature to show more than vague happiness, dull surprise, and muted grief. But not here. Not now.
He broke down, and cried like he was a grade schooler again, alone in the silence of an apartment that he could no longer call home.
I am currently debating whether to continue this (I already have more chapters planned) or just leave it as is, because it could really go either way. Feedback would be appreciated. :)