-1The End of Silent Hill

prologue

It was about five years ago when I finally came to terms with what really happened in Silent Hill. Some would suggest that it was therapy that helped me recover from those unsettling images. Therapy has only helped me to a small degree. It was actually a man named James Park, who really saved me from that nightmare.

It was a year after my father's death when James found me. He was a handsome youth, shy around females. However, he was also an up and coming young comic artist, and a total geek. My state of mind was terrible then. I had lost everything when I lost my father. I had lost my home, my life, even my sanity. I was now a wandering vagrant, surviving in the streets. James was able to see me for who I truly was and not some runaway teen or street urchin.

He would go out of his way to visit me, wherever I was. He'd bring me some food, help me clean up a little, and then sit beside me, saying nothing at all. I...I never wanted to be close to anyone ever again. Everyone who ever got close to me...they got hurt...and then...they all...eventually...die. I really didn't want to rely on others. I could take care of myself. I hated being babied. I hated someone else taking care of me. However, James wasn't trying to baby me, he was trying to help me, but he wasn't smothering me with care. He would just sit quietly beside me, not so much as saying a word. Eventually, I got tired of the silence. I wanted him to say something, anything. I wanted him to tell me why he's been helping me. What he wanted from me.

It turned out I had forgotten how to speak. I hadn't spoken a word since...that last incident. I had to move on with my life, but without my father, I quickly realized that I didn't have a future anymore. That was when I decided to never speak again, to never draw close to another human being again. I would survive, and I would survive alone. But, no one should have to live like that. I was wrong. I was wrong about so many things.

Bit by bit, I started trying to talk again. I wanted to know what he wanted with me. He'd only spend a few hours out of the day with me, and then he would leave. Occasionally our paths would cross again; he'd smile and walk over to me to see how I've been since we last saw each other. He wouldn't stay long at those times. He'd just smile and say, "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

Finally, I was able to demand, "What the hell do you want with me?!" He chuckled. "Nothing, I guess. I don't know." I wasn't sure how to respond to that. I was angry, angry at all the time he was spending with me, and angry at the answer he had given me. I was still having trouble communicating. Funny how quickly one can shut themselves off from the world, and yet how long it takes to tune themselves back in.

"My name is James Lee Park." He introduced himself that day, the day I finally found the strength to speak again. "Heather," I reluctantly muttered. "Well, it's nice that we had this talk. I'm usually no good talking with women...so I guess I'll just...go. I'll see you tomorrow then, Heather?" "Yah...I guess."

But, I didn't see him 'tomorrow.' It was about four to five days after that when I saw him again. I found myself in unfamiliar surroundings. I was in a comfortable bed, and a moist cloth was on my forehead. James was sitting at the side of the bed. When I looked over at him, he sighed, as if relieved. Apparently, when he visited me the next day, he had found me lying in an alley, feverish. He took me home and had been caring for me ever since.

I felt so vulnerable. What if he had done something to me while I was unconscious? However, I was still far too weak to leave. I stayed with him once I was well. He told me that I could stay as long as I needed to. I lingered awhile, I wanted to know who he was, and why was he so concerned about me. I slept in his bed, alone. I wondered where he was when I would be sleeping in his bed, in his apartment, his home. So, one night, I got out of bed and explored his place.

Most of the stuff in his bedroom was useless. There were several broken pencils...I couldn't write with them, but why would I want to? I found several crumpled sheets of paper scattered about his apartment. I unfolded a couple of them and found sketches. "What are these drawings for," I had wondered. While I was investigating his living room, I noticed that he was sleeping on the couch. He had a single pillow under his head, and his feet stuck out from the end of the couch. He didn't have a blanket. He was using a jacket to keep himself warm.

It was his place! I was so angry seeing him lying there on the couch, sleeping so uncomfortably, knowing that he had so selflessly given me his bed. His gentlemanly gesture was an insult to my pride. I thought about storming out, but...I didn't want to...make him worry. I thought about picking him up and carrying him to his bed so he could sleep more peacefully. I realized that there was no way I could do that. He was too heavy for me to lift. With a yawn, I realized I was still sleepy, and reluctantly climbed back into his bed and went back to sleep.

The next day, I told him I was going to leave. He simply said, "Okay Heather, I'll see you tomorrow then?" I didn't say anything...and I didn't leave. The next day he asked me, "You haven't left yet, Heather?" "Well," I admitted, "I guess I don't really have anywhere else to go." He chuckled. "What about the park," he joked. I found myself laughing a little. I joked back with him. "I'm already living at one." His face bunched up after I teased him. "Ha ha," he half grumbled, half chuckled, "very funny."

I continued to live there for a couple of more months. I couldn't help but feel like I was a burden to him. I needed to get back on my feet. I needed to get a job, take care of myself. He spent part of his days at his part-time job, then the rest he would sit on his couch beside me, not saying a word. In fact, he never really did talk much. There was something about the silence between us...that seemed to have said everything, except what we didn't want to say.

"So, Heather, how was your day," he would ask every so often. I would reply, "Boring. I hate it." Then he would sit down beside me and look at me with those pitiful eyes. "I'm sorry, Heather. Guess I am kind of a boring guy, aren't I?" I'd shake my head, giggle to myself, then sit there, staring at the turned off television set. After awhile, he'd go off to his desk and draw. Once, I walked over and bent down to see what he was drawing. He got angry and told me, "It's not finished yet! Go away! I'll let you see it when it's done!" He'd do his best to cover his work.

Most of the time he would crumple it up and throw it away. When I started going into the trash to look at what he had thrown away, he would stop me and say something like, "It's not fit for your eyes." After awhile, he started shredding his failed drawings. Eventually, I gave up trying to figure out what he was trying to draw.

James helped me get a job at a nearby fast food place. I hated it, but it couldn't be helped. I didn't have any work experience. At least I was making some money. I wanted to work full-time, but James wouldn't allow it. He said I shouldn't push myself so hard. He said I should take it slow, and give myself some time to adjust. By this time, I had been living with James for a little over a year. We hardly talked, but even so, I felt very close to him. I was actually starting to like him a little.

I guess James eventually got tired of the silence. I guess he must have been bored too. He started to rent movies and bring them home. I'd be sitting on the couch, and he'd pop a video in the DVD player and sit down with me. We'd watch it together. We started out watching some action movies, and then we started watching a couple of comedies. He popped in one of his animated DVDs once. It was about a flat-chested sorceress who was always getting caught up in one thing or another. It was serious at times, but very goofy and outrageous most of the time. The only thing that really annoyed me about it was that all the female characters had large breasts. Even the flat-chested sorceress wasn't really flat; it was just that all of the other female characters had unrealistic breast sizes.

While waiting for James to come home from his "dead end" part-time job, I would wander around the apartment checking out his DVD collection. He came home really pissed and embarrassed one day when I came across one of his animated porno (he called them "hentai"). I tried watching it with him...but I couldn't stand it. I kicked and screamed when the girl was getting raped. James said I started throwing a fit and that I would hit him and scream wildly. He said he didn't know what to do, so he turned it off and held me tightly until I calmed down.

I never came across those DVDs again. James must have gotten rid of them. I felt bad about it. He must have loved those DVDs, and he had to get rid of them because he thought they disturbed me. It's true that they did disturb me and very much so. It was horrible...it, reminded me of some things that had happened to me. Ever since then, we watched only comedies for awhile. One day, he accidentally rented the wrong movie. He rented a horror movie. I told him not to waste his time returning it, that we could go ahead and watch it together, but the same thing happened again. I freaked out. He said I was screaming and writhing worse than before. He turned it off like last time, but it took much longer for me to calm down. Again, he held me tightly. He even cried while he held me close.

We didn't watch anything after that incident, not for quite awhile actually. We'd just sit in front of the blank television and not say anything. One day, he asked me if I wanted to "talk about it." I didn't really want to. I wanted to forget about it all. He understood. He handed me a notebook. "I understand. If you don't want to talk about it, that's okay. Here. Write whatever you like in it." "Thank you, James," I replied then leaned over against him. "Um...okay."

He didn't work on his drawings that day. He just wrapped his arm around me and I rested my head in his lap. He must have felt rather awkward. No, I know he felt awkward. He wasn't sure what to do. He'd never been in this kind of situation before. He'd never imagined being in a situation like this: A vulnerable woman in need of help. Him, the man had been drawn to help; a young man, with no experience. And, of course, he didn't know what was wrong with me; he only knew that there was something wrong. He knew that there was a reason why I was living on the streets and living so alone, and isolated from the rest of the world. He just didn't know the reason why. He couldn't understand. No one...no one can understand...what had happened to me. Not even that detective...he probably never existed either.

I started writing in the notebook. He wouldn't read it. He was very respectful. Whenever he saw me writing in it, he would go the other way and work on one of his drawings. I'm sure he must have been curious as to what I wrote in it, but out of respect, he wouldn't read it. I guess it was like how he was about his art. He didn't want just anyone looking at it at anytime.

Finally, one day, he showed me his work. It was amazing. He wanted to "create heroes"; he was trying to be a comic book artist. Then he showed me his prized drawing, the drawing he didn't want me to see until it was perfected. It was...a portrait of me. He had been trying to draw me. "I'm sorry," he admitted, "it still isn't very perfect. I guess I'm not really very good yet. It looks so terribly sad." I looked up into his eyes and told him, "It doesn't help very much if that's how the subject really looks." I set the drawing down on his desk. He just looked away apprehensively, embarrassed by me.

I playfully ruffled with his hair a little. That set off alarms inside his jumbled little brain. He quickly looked at me, his cheeks pinkish, but the rest of his face pale and white. "Hea--Hea--uhhhhh--ther!" I didn't give him a chance to escape. I pressed my lips against his.

It was...a little awkward living together after that. He was very uncomfortable around me. He was afraid that I was getting to intimate with him without any provocation. After that, he must have felt afraid that I was going to rape him or something. It was actually very cute...and very amusing. I would tease him about it every chance I got. I'd suddenly sneak behind and wrap my arms around him, then kiss him on his cheek. Other times I would smack or pinch his butt when he passed in front of me. He REALLY hated that. I'd bust out laughing when he'd stop and turn around and stare me down and complain. "Heather! I really don't like that! It makes me feel...so uncomfortable!"

One day...I took it a little too far. When he was complaining about how uncomfortable I was making him feel, I stood up from the couch and stared him in the eyes defiantly. "Well then, I'll just have to make you feel more comfortable then." And as soon as I finished my little speech, I pantsed him. He was really pissed. He started crying. At that point, I felt like I had finally gone too far. I hadn't thought about it before, but then I thought that maybe he was gay. He had said that he had trouble talking with women and he really didn't like my playful advances, so maybe, I thought, he was gay. I guess it would have figured, just my luck.

I pulled up his pants and re-fastened them for him. I really didn't know what to do after that. It felt...extremely awkward. I simply muttered, "sorry," and started heading out the door. He stumbled after me, as if his pants were still down to his ankles. "Hea--Hea---Heather," he had stuttered. I turned around and looked down at his feet. "I'm...I didn't mean to...go...that far. I'll...uh...leave I guess...I should have enough money to stay at a hotel for the night. After that, I'm sure I can find an apartment of my own."

"You're, leaving?" He looked so sad to see me go, even after what I did to him. "Yes, I've...stayed here long enough. Thank you." "I...I don't want you to go Heather. I...I don't want you to...leave me." I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him, like I'd imagine a mother would hug her crying son who didn't want to see mommy go somewhere without him. "Heather...I'll miss you," he whined. "You'll miss me," I wondered, laughing a little. "Yes, but...don't worry about me. I'm being a little selfish, aren't I? I'm sorry. Just...don't leave because...of a little fuss. If you're going to leave...just leave because you want to, because you don't want to...be around me anymore. Please, don't feel like you have to leave...because of me."

We walked over to the couch and sat down. We didn't say anything. We just leaned against one another and stared at that blank television. I don't know what we found fascinated sitting in silence staring at that black TV, but we were content to do just that. A couple of hours later, we woke up. We had fallen asleep in each others embrace. Our faces were flushed. I scooted away from him embarrassed. I then stood up and looked down at him. "Um...James...I...would you like to look at something...for me?" "Uh, yah, sure, I guess so. Of course."

I went to get my notebook that he had given me from the nightstand. That was where I had sat it down last. I brought it with me and sat back down next to him. I handed him the book for him to read. I felt that I could trust him with it. What I had written in it so far, was my current thoughts and experiences, but most of it was my recollections of Silent Hill. Even though the thoughts of it terrified me, gave me nightmares, I wrote down every horrific experience, every terrifying detail, that I could remember about what had happened to me. I even wrote what I remembered from my dad's memos, and I tried to piece together as much of what he experienced in Silent Hill while looking for his daughter.

He was...rather confused while reading it. He clearly wanted to stop several times, but I gave him a look and he continued reading anyway. I don't think he really understood any of it. At first, he thought I was writing notes and ideas for some twisted horror story, but when he finished, he didn't say anything. He looked at me, and he saw the pain in my eyes. They were red, and irritated, and I was trying not to cry. He might not have understood everything I had wrote, but he clearly understood that I had been through hell. Having understood that much, he promised that he would help me in whatever way he could, of course, that was, if I wanted him to.

I started really opening up to him. We talked more and more, and I was better able to express myself. It was hard...talking to him about that freakish occult...it felt like it was happening all over again. He told me, to slow down, to take it easy, don't over exert myself. Eventually, I told him everything I could.

Another year had gone by since I started living with James. By then, we had moved into a new apartment. We shared a queen sized bed together, and James was finally picking up attention amongst a few small comic book companies. We had become lovers, but we weren't very intimate yet. I was starting to write stories. I had decided to become a novelist and write books for a living. I had also started going into therapy too. James said I didn't have to if I didn't want to. He knew not many people trusted therapies. I don't think I do either. I think he might have been afraid that if I saw a therapist that I'd be declared insane, or a schizophrenic and be sent away to an asylum. However, it wasn't that bad. It helped me to understand what really happened those years ago.

There were no monsters nor demons in Silent Hill. There never was. Everything was merely nightmares, memories twisted by traumatic childhood experiences. My therapist even helped me look into my past. There was nothing unusual about Silent Hill, although it was discovered that there was indeed a strange cult that once lived there, and that my father did have some bad history with that cult. As for that Detective Douglas, we never found anything on him whatsoever. It was likely that he was a figment of my imagination.

What we discovered was that when I was seven years old, I had been kidnapped by a Satanic Cult. They had filled my head with such horrible imagery that it would remain with me for several years to come and would influence the way I would perceive certain events. It was that traumatic experience that would warp my view of the world and would cause me to see monsters and demons where they don't exist.

One such incident, twisted in my mind, was the brutal murder of my father. My memory of it involved a cultist named Claudia and...a monster. My father had been my only support and my only friend for most of my life. His death...had devestated me. It weighed so heavily upon me. Most people would have given up after everything I had endured, but I managed to somehow survive.

Now, me and James have been married for three years. Our anniversery was a couple of weeks ago. James is now a comic book artist. He's fascinated by the stories of cultists, pulsating pus covered walls, and demonic activity; basically, my story about Silent Hill. He thinks that it would make for a great and gruesome graphic novel. It's been good for my mental well-being to share these nightmares, but I honestly don't want anyone else to have to experience them as well. I'd rather just go ahead and forget all about them.

As for me, I'm a novelist now. I mainly write suspence and horror stories. I use an assumed name for publishing my stories. I've tried my hand at writing a romance once. It didn't turn out all that well.

As for the town of Silent Hill, it's long been abandoned. There had been a fire that burned down nearly half of the town more than a decade ago. I wasn't even one years old at the time that happened. Many of its surviving citizens had moved away from there after the fire, but the town flourished for awhile longer, mainly because of the beautiful resort that was located there.

Due to decay and the state of disrepair, the government evicted everyone that still lived in Silent Hill. The town was bulldozed and cleared away. A new highway was paved over it. There were never any reports of mysterious disappearances nor any unexplainable phenomena occurring during the road construction. Nothing strange has happened after its completion either. Further proof that there was nothing demonic nor supernatural going on in Silent Hill, no had there ever been.

My husband's a Shintoist. Whatever that is. I think he's just an anime freak. His favorite anime are 'Akira' and 'Berserk.' I don't much care for anime myself though. Especially not hentai. It's all a little too unrealistic for my taste. Ten year old girls with C-cup breasts, tentacle rape, and grunting beefy men wielding incredibly large swords...I don't really find that to be entertaining.

As for me, I'm an atheist. I came to the realization that there probably isn't a god at all. If there was, then he/she/it/whatever doesn't really care much about us. The concept of a higher power was probably created as a means to control others. The belief in a deity is then used and manipulated to grant men power over others. The idea of hell was perhaps constructed as a way to dominate followers through fear. Disobeying religious leaders, who acted on behalf of their god and were perhaps partly god themselves, would mean that their souls would be damned to never ending torture and punishment in hades for all eternity. I certainly want no part of that.

My husband James feels that my lack of faith stems from my traumatic experiences with that Satanic Cult. He's tried to explain that not all religions are like that, and not all of them are like the concept I described. My therapist seems to agree with him that my hesitance to become apart of any religious order or doctrine has been influenced by my past, but he also agrees with me on the fact that god is a man created concept. He expanded on my ideas on god and religion. He said that people want someone else to be responsible for them, for what they want and need, and for their own actions. They want a god to blame and a god to save them.

Currently I'm brainstorming for an idea for my next book. I want to write something different. I'm tired of writing suspense and horror. I don't really like that sort of thing, I'm just really good at writing about it. Everyone kind of expects me to write those kind of stories. What to write? I wasn't very good at writing romance stories. Apparently no one wants to read romance stories involving fighting demons, being abducted by aliens, and the woman getting pregnant after her first time of having sex with the half-demon, quarter alien protagonist who's trying to save the world from the rebirth of an alien demon-god that these aliens had banished and sealed on Earth.

What do I want to write about then? I want to write about something happy and cheerful. Perhaps children stories? I don't really know anything about children nor what they like. Sure, I was a kid once, but I don't really remember my childhood at all. I just vaguely remember those nightmares now. James isn't any help on the subject either. He's too into the occult and horror. He wouldn't know anything about childhood fantasies.

Children? We're not ready for that yet. I'm not sure I'd make a good mother anyway. James isn't very mature either. He's like a big kid himself…even if he's into some weird adult tastes. I've got my hands full with him as is. I don't think I can handle living with another person that is all whiney. Of course, maybe my reluctance stems from the fact that I might have been raped. I really can't be sure now, since these memories were twisted and confused with the nightmares I've had, but my therapist thinks so. In one session, I had described in incident when I was "being forced to become the Mother of God." He suggested that when I was kidnapped by the Cultists, they sexually molested me and raped me. However, I was kidnapped by them when I was seven, but I thought I was much older during the whole incident they were trying to force me to give birth to their god. Of course, with the nightmares, everything kind of gets merged together. There's no evidence that anything DID happen, and I really don't want to know if something like that really did happen. It's in the past. I have a new life now.

Those nightmares weren't real, so it doesn't matter. All the same, those images were rather gruesome. They aren't fit for human eyes. They were pure torture. These horrible images had haunted me for most of my life. No one else should ever have to experience those same nightmares that I had.

Lately, James has been wanting to do a comic based on my Silent Hill nightmares. He's been bugging me about it ever since I came completely to terms with everything. He says that's what influenced my literature. I don't really want to see anything like that ever again. I don't care if none of it was real, the images are just too horrifying. It could do other people as much harm to them as it did to me. I've been telling him no, but he thinks it'll be a great idea. I'm worried that other people will have nightmares from it, and I honestly don't want to relive those awful dreams myself. He's persistent, but I'm also stubborn.