It's Not Important
Angsty Freedom Fighter
Rating: PG-13 to be safe
Genre: Angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill—Konami does. For all I know, Konami owns MY soul, heheh.
A/N: Blah, blah, blah…I've nothing to say right now. I just felt that I needed to have more than one story posted. I'm starting to think I should me more spontaneous. …As in combustion? Heheh—okay, that's enough.
Warning: This will make no sense. If you manage to make sense of this story, I'll give you a cookie, and, uh…ah, heck, I'll just give you a cookie.
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"Oh my god! What the hell happened?"
"He didn't see it coming! It hit him dead on!"
"James…! James? JAMES?"
A man knelt down next to the fallen blonde's body. James groaned, turning his head to one side, facing the unfocused, black blurs that cluttered around him. What the heck were they doing to him…? He tried to get his mouth to work, to have words spill from his throat, but nothing seemed to work… He felt something forming around him, and the black figures around him began to panic.
"He's starting to hemorrhage... Hurry and get something to stop the blood flow! He's not going to make it at this rate!"
"Hang in there! Don't die on us!"
"Call an ambulance! Hurry it up, Braintree!
He coughed; a rattling sound backed by a disgusting gurgle slipping out of his parched throat and cracked lips. Oh, God, it hurt so much…One of the blurs came into focus for a brief moment before fading back into the void of voices and shapelessness. There was a pressure where the gushing was located and James let out a weak groan. What had happened to him?
A road…? A Car…? Oh, yes…it hit him…badly. Very badly… Walking, talking…heading back to see his father…
Father…
His neglectful father who was probably on his deathbed for all he knew…
You never loved me…why am I going back to see you…why…?
His neglectful, dutiful father of South Ashfield Heights…the man he grew up in the shadows of, the man who never saw him, the man who—
Who cares?
"He's still bleeding an awful lot…"
"Just keep that over his wound and apply more pressure, Townshend! Who cares if your hands get dirty, just keep the damned thing in place…!"
"That car…i-i-it hit him…real bad…r-real, real bad…The driver k-kept g-going…h-h-h-he wouldn't stop, not even to, to check on him. S-some bastards in t-this city, y-yeah?"
"Oh my god…James…"
And it did hurt, so much in fact, when he tumbled and fell against the asphalt, hearing the crack of many bones and the screeching wail of tires…smelling the burning tar and sent of blood and feeling the gushing sensation of organs torn asunder, binding him to his death in an unbreakable contract. Even if they did stop the bleeding from the outside, his internal bleeding was worse than ever and promising to end his life…
So many people—he finally recognized some of the voices—oh so many people that he once knew. Richard Braintree, bastard extraordinaire who shoved him out a window during his youth. Jasper Gein, the younger lad who was all too creepy for him to want to hang out with…Eileen Galvin, she was very young then…And Townshend…who was he? A new tenant? He could've sworn he heard the voice of the late Keiko Kunisaki somewhere in the group, but it could've been Galvin, who he hadn't heard since he ran away after graduating high school…Who knew…
Furthermore, who cared?
There was another voice in the jumble of hustle and bustle around him, a voice that he knew all too well, and yet didn't know at all. The voice of family, and yet the voice of a foreign stranger… It is a place both close and distant… He knew the voice since his youth, grew up around the sound, recognized the sound as—
Father's…
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"Congratulations! It's a boy, Mr. and Mrs. Sunderland."
"A boy…he's beautiful…Isn't he Frank?"
"Of course, he has you for a mother, Elizabeth. How can he be anything but beautiful?"
"You flatter me…" "…He needs a name…" "What shall we call him…?"
"James." "We should call him James…"
"James…?" "…Yes, James is a fine name for our son. James Sunderland…"
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"Frank! Frank, come quickly! James said his first word! He said something!"
"He did, did he?" "…What did he say?"
"He said 'dada'. Isn't that precious?"
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"I'm so sorry that Elizabeth's dead, Mister Sunderland…I know it's your right to mourn, but, you must also think about continuing on, for your son's sake."
"Excuse me…?"
"Your son—James."
"…Oh yes. Him…sorry…I was confused for a moment."
"… …."
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"Dad…Dad! Open the door! You locked me out again! Dad! Dad! This isn't funny anymore! Dad!"
"…I'm sorry, who are you?"
"… …your…son…"
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"…I-I hate you!"
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"…Do you remember what day it is today…?"
"Erm, no…Aside from it being the seventeenth of August, no..." "Why…?"
"…I-it's nothing."
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"No…nothing. Never mind…"
"Never mind…"
"It's not important…"
"Not…"
"Important…"
"… …. …Again—who are you?"
-
"…James." Frank Sunderland lifted his son's head from the heated, black asphalt, eyes stinging with tears as he heard the ragged gasps for breaths and whimpers of pain that escaped James' mouth. There were sirens in the distant…too far to make a great impact at this rate…
His son had been hit by a car crossing the busy streets of South Ashfield, his hometown, his own backyard…He heard the sounds just before he heard Henry Townshend's alarmed yelps just outside of the foyer, mail clutched in a limp hand…
Limp…Limp like his son's battered body…
James opened his eyes with much struggle, pale blue eyes unfocused and staring at a cloudy sky. His ragged breaths grew shallow and faint, chest just barely rising and falling…Was it too late for him…? Too late for him to be saved…?
It was too late for regret…Too late to wish to be back in St. Jerome's Hospital with the small bundle of wiggling warmth in his hands…Just like it was too late to watch his son's first steps with his lovely wife…
It was a familiar cycle…the cycle of extreme regret…His wife was gone, and all he could think of was the 'what ifs' of his life. What if this, and What if that… So caught up in his first regret and his little apartment complex of doom, that he never noticed the last remnant of his beloved's life—the sign of their love, their son…
…son…
Henry looked downcast, shifting away from the blonde's bloodied side and shaking his head, silently telling them that the situation was hopeless. The number of people waiting dwindled until barely anyone was left, just an insane wraith of a man and the crumpled figure of his son, blood on the street and cars honking.
City life…what a pain…
It took a while for Frank to register the tears scalding his cheeks, dribbling down his chin and onto the pale body in his arms. James looked up at his father with unfocused eyes and Frank choked over his own words… "James…James I-."
"….who…who are you…?" The words came out bitter, even in the blonde's weakened state. It hit like a knife driven home…But it didn't hit as badly as watching his son's body fall completely limp, lifeless eyes staring blindly at a sky that would never clear up…staring up at a world that would never smile at him…
It would never smile again for Frank, either…
He clutched his son's body close, and—for the first time since the death of his beloved wife—cried. The annoying wail of the sirens where still distant…Like the rest of the detached world…
-
"It was announced this evening that…" The radio was turned off with a bored sigh.
The door quietly swung open and Henry staggered into the room, wiping his hands off against the rough denim of his jeans and giving his companions a crooked grin—a sheepish grin. "Why are you so late, eh?" A bespectacled brunette asked, mirth in his emerald green eyes.
"Eh, had a bad run-in at the apartments this evening…" Henry shrugged, making his way over to the kitchen sink of his companion's apartment. With a bit of a lag behind his last statement, he added nonchalantly, "Just the superintendent's son hit by a car. Don't think he made it…"
"Pity…" Another dark haired man said from the corner of the couch, a thick book in hand, also as indifferently as the other. Shrugging, Henry made an 'eh' sound as he turned on the sink, letting the water run until it puffed little streams of steam…
"Yeah…" Henry yawned, "That's life for you…" Shoving aside the whole thing, he smiled at his companions. "So, Harry, Vincent! You guys ready for a game of poker? Oh wait-." He gestured to his hands, dried, red stains on his fingers and palms from when he was holding down the tourniquet on what's-his-face's body. "Better wash the grime off, ne?"
His friends nodded, smiles on their faces…
It's not important…
-Owari Desu-
A/N: That wasn't half bad for some 45 minute drabble. I did this quite a while ago,and out of the blue mind you but I just thought I would like to share it with all you Silent Hill fans. . It makes no sense… Flame me if you will, shout at me, question me—either way, review if you would be so kind. Bai bai!