AN: Lol, I kinda turned Harry into a bitter old man. But bear with me, it works out all too well because he was an old man and silent hill tends to make those who survive it almost bitter. Or at least that's how I write it. XD So yeah, this takes place a wee bit before SH3. Maybe like seven months? Idk, it'll come out more as I write it. My god, this actually took me like three weeks just to work on this part. I spent almost every waking moment on this thing when I wasn't angsting about my life. So anyway, I'd like to thank my Geometry teacher for putting up with me writing this in his class. XD
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill, nor anything herein. I do not own anything in this story except for my character.
His salt and pepper hair (though more pepper than salt) is mussed from where he ran his fingers through it one too many times. (He's too damn young to have grey hair already!) A blotch of black ink dots his temple.
A smidge of ink also lines the corner of his mouth where he held his pen to his lips in thought. He bears the marks of a sleepless night. Black circles under his eyes, yes, his wan face half-shaved, nicks across his upper lip where his hand shook from nicotine withdrawals and lack of sleep.
He lights a cigarette, taking a long calming drag and letting it out just as slowly, the sour reek of old alcohol blending with the acrid smoke.
The shaking of his hand stops, and he sits back, letting the chemicals that he just knows will be the death of him seep into and through his bloodstream, letting him finally relax. And he does, sagging forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, cigarette perched-almost daintily, he would mutter bitterly if he saw himself in the mirror now-between two fingers, halfway to his slack mouth.
He brings the cancer stick to his mouth, setting it in the corner, right on that splatter of blue across his chapped and cracked lips, smearing out and curving up in a sick parody of a smile.
He hasn't smiled in god-knows-how-long, not very much anyway, and he grimaces at that thought as he takes the cigarette from his lips, blowing out a long plume of smoke.
He brings the cigarette to his mouth again, letting his black ink-stained fingertips rest curled on his top lip, his chin in his palm, his jaw set, his teeth clamped around the filter of the cheap tobacco product, looking for all the world like a bizarre copy of The Thinker.
He sits there, immersed in thought, his fingertips hovering over his keyboard, ready to hammer out another novel, just another substandard waste of paper. They never sold all that well anyway. None of them were ever as popular as that one.
And everybody thought it was fiction. Ha! That made the corner of his mouth turn upward in a mirthless smirk of.. What could he call it? It sure as Hell wasn't superiority. That god-forsaken place did nothing to make him superior.
He stubs out the butt of the cigarette in an overflowing ash tray next to him, and sticks the half smoked cylinder behind his ear. For some odd unknown reason, he tended to do this when he knew he had a good idea; to get his hands free, he guesses.
Stretching and cracking his knuckles, he sets to work, practiced fingers hitting the keys silently.
It ends up being damn similar to every other sappy romantic mystery novel he ends up churning out every so often, every eight months or so.
This would be the twenty fifth novel. The twenty fifth shitty novel that no one would even want to read, save for elderly women's book clubs, desperate housewives, and loveless teenagers. It never sold as well as the harlequin romances he hated to pass by whenever he went to see if a store stocked his novels. Nothing he would write would ever be as popular as those, or even, he loathed to admit, the only nonfiction book he'd ever written.
Even though everyone thought it was just a story, and begged him to tell them how exactly he'd come up with the idea every time he'd go to a writer's convention; those were also known as the bane of his existence, which explained why he never went, or why he'd always make up some excuse to his editor whenever he pressured him to attend one.
What the Hell would he be supposed to say? "My daughter really was kidnapped by an evil cult intent on resurrecting their heathen God and they nearly would have succeeded too if it weren't for me and my trusty shotgun"? As if anyone would believe that, let alone think he was even sane after they heard that one.
Here he was, almost fifty, and really nothing but a few dozen wastes of paper to show for it, other than the scars and limp he still had from that fucking place 16 years ago.
Even he despised the horrid plotlines and unlikable characters he had cooked up.
Except for the one in that God-forsaken book based on his own story in that damned town. Of course, nobody even noticed how the protagonist shared an uncanny resemblance to the author (just like in Twilight, that book he would never let Cheryl read), or how the protagonist was a writer too, just like the author. Nobody ever noticed how eerily similar to the real-life harry Mason the fictional 'Harry Morris' was.
That, in of itself, was both a blessing and a curse. Nobody realized that the story was just too detailed to be fake. But, of course, it was the author's job to be detailed. But still, nobody noticed.
He didn't want to be thought of as crazy, as he knew from research almost everyone who had gone to that town went crazy, so he thanked God he was mentally fit enough to keep going, and that his audience of loyal fans (brought solely by that book alone) thought it was brilliant fiction.
The thing was, his oh-so-brilliant book was the beginning of his downfall. Taking on the Order and getting away with your life was not taken lightly, especially since he published a book about it, rubbing their humiliating defeat in their faces. They could not, would not stand for this for long. And soon enough, there were men after him.
He had never killed before, not real people, not like this. He'd destroyed countless monsters, inhuman creatures, all to save Cheryl, but they weren't people, they weren't human beings!
But this time he felt he had to kill someone, whoever they sent, he had to protect Cheryl at all costs. He had to protect his little girl. The same little girl he had gone through hell to protect (though she really wasn't his little girl at all. Not the same little girl..) and she had just turned five..
The mindless bastard the Order had sent was twisted and brainwashed. He almost didn't seem human, almost like an animal. They had told him to find their sacrifice, their Mother of God, and kill whoever got in the way, especially the one man who dared to mock their one true Order. He had knives, strapped to his hands, like some kind of living torture device. The girl-she was only a girl, a child even-that had accompanied it, he guessed, the new leader of that cult, had called the-he could barely call it human-the beast one of her Missionaries.
If he didn't do what he had to, he'd have died then and his little girl immolated. No! he wouldn't stand for that!
There was the sound of metal scraping concrete, and then the sound of a gunshot. He had to kill another human being. His hands shook and he dropped the gun and fell to his knees. He remembered it all so vividly.
He couldn't tell the cops what had happened, like they'd believe him? He was already virtually senseless since that incident, shell-shocked, he ventured a guess now, and shaky.
He ran. Across the states and cities, still publishing those stupid novels, almost out of habit. Those inane mysteries and romances paid the bills, plus he was publishing under a penname. A silly penname that brought to mind an effeminate little man that had nothing to be afraid of and loved tea and French pastries. (That writer's mind was working yet again, putting a vision to words.)
He'd laughed for the first time in years when he thought of that and the name.
The name he wrote under now was Louis Devereaux, and only upon careful and intense research could one find that the infamous Monsieur Devereaux was really one Harry Mason, or, as he changed his name when he left, one Harry Morris.
Now christened Morris, he knew it'd be years before that fucking cult would be finding him. Unless they got to his editor first. His editor knew everything, his current address, phone number, everything. He was also a notorious yellow-bellied coward.
But if there was something wrong, his editor would warn him, wouldn't he? They were friends, after all.
No, he probably wouldn't. The man had a wife and kids at home, he would want them to be safe. What if the order, or one of those knife-wielding freaks they employed, had gotten to him already, and he swore not to warn him or even get involved as long as they didn't hurt him or his family.
His lip curled in disgust. The coward would rather let them kill someone else, a trusted friend even, as long as he doesn't get hurt.
Even so, he still was now constantly on edge. Every time he heard a sound nearby, whether it be a cat outside or the sound of a car door shutting, something (or someone, the irrational part of his mind told him, and his heart pounded audibly in his chest at those words), he would jump halfway out of his skin, holding his gun with him, (no, Cybil's gun) in his shaking hands, a sleeping Cheryl (no, Heather..) in his lap, so peaceful, while he trembled, a nervous wreck. Many a night he passed like this, listening carefully to every noise outside his apartment door or window.
AN: Wow, I never really thought I'd get through this enough to put the first bit of it up on my account. Anyway, it's kind of weird but I'm just going through the past until I get to the present. I have a feeling Cybil, Heather and a new character may show up in the next chapter, as well as a reference to SH3 and Dougrass. :D Um, I love you all, please read and review. Tell me if you liked it.
Reviewers get a replica of Cybil's gun and a copy of Harry's new book.
Cheers!
TFFLM