Pere Amour

Angela Orosco stood, stretched, and returned to her knees on the ground in front of the the headstones gave her a chill; the names were illegible but she knew them somehow. Who are they, she pondered. She felt as if she had been in that foggy graveyard for days, staring at names she couldn't read. She felt guilty, like it was her fault the dead were there. Her eyes burned as she stared at the tomb.

She was looking for her mother, but had wandered into the cemetery, there on the outskirts of the small town. She did not know anyone who was dead, did she? Yes. Only a cold, empty space filled her thoughts as she struggled to recall names, places—a space not unlike this cemetery. This town, Silent Hill, was her home-town.

She thought back on the town ruefully: The old, dilapidated house she lived in growing up, going to school in her older brother's hand-me-downs, the children at school mocking her. She remembered her father drinking. He was never gentle. She saw her mother sitting on the couch, indifferent as she watched the television with dead eyes. The images seemed clear, but so far away. She pressed her fingers against her pounding temples. She was so pensive that she did not hear the soft steps advancing on her.

"Excuse me?" a man's voice pushed her out of the gloomy reverie. She gasped and turned around to see who was speaking. He was too close; she backed away, crossing her arms tightly to her chest, and nearly tripping over the grave. "I-I-I'm sorry," she stammered.

He held his hands up, and spoke quietly. "I didn't mean to scare you. It's just that I'm kind of lost." The man was slightly taller than her. He had dirty blond hair and sullen features; Angela guessed he was about ten years older than she. He looks desperate, she thought, like me.

"Lost?" she asked incredulously. He nodded. "Do you know what direction I should go to get to Silent Hill?" She thought it was a strange question. "It's hard to see with all the fog out, but there's only one road into town. The cemetery here is the tail end, just head straight on, you can't miss it—though you might want to reconsider. This uh, this town... there's something 'wrong' with it. It's hard to explain but..." He cut Angela off: "I'm looking for someone very important to me so it does not really matter what I face to reach her." Angela was surprised at his admittance. "You, too? I'm looking for my mama—err, I mean, my mother," she corrected herself, embarrassed; "It's been a long time since I've seen her. I thought my father and brother were here, too, but I don't know where." He looked at her with genuine sympathy but did not speak. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, "It's not your problem."

"No, I hope that you're able to find them." He waved and then walked toward the rusted gate enclosing the graveyard. She watched him leave from the corner of her amber eyes then exhaled loudly when he was no longer in view. She decided it was best to follow his example and depart; she had been there too long by the graves. She decided to visit the apartments first. Blue Creek; perhaps mama is there now, she thought; she stayed there when she and dad were not getting along. That happened often.

She felt warm in her turtle-neck sweater and thick pants. She pulled up her sleeves for a moment, but then felt vulnerable and pushed them back over her thin wrists. The walk to the apartment complex seemed long. The town was eerie, desolate. Silent Hill was small, with a population a little above 5,000, but tourists would fill it during summer to absorb the peaceful scenery of Toluca Lake. It was October now, cold enough in the northern town that all of the leaves had died and fallen from the branches of their parent tree. She remembered autumns past: many stores closed after Labour Day and did not reopen until spring, but things seemed more isolated than before. Stores on both sides of her were closed up – seemingly for good.

A few ravens soared above her, cawing. She remembered learning from a book that they were a sign of death in some mythologies. The road was cracked, and looked ashen. Her shoes left prints as she walked. A chain-link fence surrounded the apartment building. Angela's face contorted in contempt; dangers always come from the inside, she mused. As she drew near to the apartment building, she noticed a shadow at the entrance.

"Mama?" Angela whispered, and then called out as she broke into a run, "Mama, I'm here! I've been looking for you, where have you been?" she wheezed and bent over as she met her mother. She reached out to touch her shoulders and the figure turned around.

"Y-you're not my mama," she stuttered, still breathing heavily. She backed away from the person in disgust. He looked close to her age, heavy set with a cap on his head. He looked her up and down, shrugged and said, "Sorry but, uh, I'm not your 'mama.'" He used his keys to open the door and stepped inside. She thought she heard him say "weirdo" under his breath. She did not say anything as she followed him inside. "It's Orosco, do you know the name? She usually stays in room 109. I tried to call but the phone lines were..." He waved his hand dismissively and said: "Listen, I don't really know or care about anyone you know," he sneered at her, "and I certainly don't know anything about your 'mama'!" His voice was thick with condescension and his icy stare wondered a little too far past her face. She glared at him, but he ignored her, sniggering he started up the steps. She watched him move away, her arms tight against her chest and her face at an angle to his back. His steps were heavy and constant, much like her brother's. When she could no longer hear him ascending, she turned cautiously toward the first-floor hallway.

She opened the heavy door to the 100 hall. She could never open it when she was a little girl, always waiting for someone to leave or go in to follow. The walls were decaying, the peeling wallpaper showing a black undercoat. The hall was dark and cramped, and Angela felt that with every step she took the walls moved inward. The hall had no lights, but she found her mother's room almost instinctively. Angela had spent a lot of time in these halls; her mother would bring her here during arguments with her father. That happened about once every week. They would come here sometimes at 2:00 in the morning; she always had the key to the room. Her mother knew the manager—too well, her father always said. The thought of his voice made her shiver. She stepped in front of room 109. A white light seeped from underneath the door, and the illumination made Angela's shadow move ominously on the worn hardwood of the hallway. She wanted to leave at that moment. There was something here that she did not want to see, to know. But she had already come this far, so without a second thought, she clutched the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed herself across the threshold.

She felt feverish upon entering. The air was stifling, constricting her breath; it smelled like smoke. The floor was covered in soot. She stepped into the room, leaving the door ajar. The residue from the doorknob made her palm sticky. Her mother wasn't in the living room, so she checked the kitchen. It was in disarray, with broken, dirty dishes in the sink. Cockroaches skittered across the food-encrusted plates. She swatted a few flies away. The refrigerator was open and the odour of spoiled provisions reeked from its entry. She did not look inside. She went back the living room. The ragged carpet had holes in it, and the area was bare save for one shabby, faded couch by the window. She remembered sitting on that couch for hours watching television. Her mother worked, Angela wasn't sure where, leaving her alone for long hours during the summer when she was not in school. It was better here than being at home.

"Mama?" she called meekly, only half expecting a response. Her mother's room was to the right, but it was boarded up with lumber, so she stepped into her bedroom. She flicked the light on, surprised that the electricity still worked. The small yellow light flickered on the tearing floral wallpaper. A large mirror faced her. The room was empty except for a small teddy bear with a missing eye, and a bedside table with a knife on it. She had seen that knife before. She reached out and stroked it. It was stained red, from carving meat. Her mother's cutting knife. Why is this here? She recalled something, an altercation, screaming and struggling, the flash of the blade reflecting in the mirror. She saw her mother standing over her, admonishing her. She could not bear her mother's disapproval. She would rather kill herself. She was holding the knife, now, on the floor in a fetal position. She watched herself in the mirror: a woman she did not know stared back at her with heavy lids. Her dark hair fell in strands over her face. She sank into a catatonic state, reliving her past.

She did not know how much time had passed, but she heard some rustling. She did not move. She did not care who it was. He pushed the door open a little more. It was the man from the graveyard; he stepped into the room cautiously. "Oh... It's you." Angela frowned and stayed unmoving on the floor. "I'm sorry for intruding. I heard something in here. I'm James Sunderland." He scratched that back of his head nervously. "Angela..." she murmured, unmoving. He took a step toward her, and she felt too tired and hot to move. "Angela, look, I don't know what you're planning, but there's always another way." Another way? Sure I could just hang myself, she thought. "Really?" she asked coldly. "How would you know? You're the same as me. It's what we deserve." He was taken aback by her declaration. "I'm not like you!" He sounded almost ashamed. "I didn't mean it," she said, a quiver in her voice. "It's alright. Have you found your mother? Does she live in this apartment?"

"I don't know. She's not here. You were looking for someone as well, right? Did you find them?" He leaned closely to her, but stopped when she jerked slightly and pulled out a photograph of a pretty, young woman. "Her name's Mary," he explained. Angela shook her head and shrugged, "I'm sorry." "It's okay, I don't know why I thought I would find her anyway, she's dead," he said with sorrow in his voice. "Dead?" she inquired sceptically. Angela lifted her body up, almost dropping the knife in disbelief. She wanted to ask him why and he answered before she could speak: "It's complicated but... I received a letter from Mary telling me to meet her here. I don't know if someone is playing tricks on me. Maybe I am losing my mind." She felt like he was not telling her something. She liked him well enough for a man but did not feel like they should intermingle their separate problems. "I've got to find my mother," Angela said slowly. She stood up and walked backwards toward the door when James called to her: "Should I go with you? Something is going on with this town; I know what you meant back at the cemetery." A panicked feeling tightened her throat. "No, no...I would only slow you down."

"What about that?" He pointed tentatively toward the knife Angela was holding. "Maybe...maybe you should keep it for me?" Truthfully, the knife made her feel restless. She held it toward him, offering it. He stepped toward her with his hand out, but as he reached for the handle she stood back and shrieked in recoil. "No! I-I-I'm sorry... Don't..." she threw the knife at his feet and fled.

Tears were welling in her eyes as she ran. She felt faint from heat and perspired heavily through her clothes. What was wrong with her? She had reacted like some paranoid freak. She tried to swallow, but her throat was a desert. She was embarrassed and frightened at the memories her bedroom dredged up, and was glad James had come by even though it had ended so brusquely. She was not sure where she should go, home perhaps. She did not desire the uncertainty of what she would find, but her need for understanding compelled her forward.

Their house looks the same as it had in her childhood: Neglected. At one time the house was white, but a dingy film covered it in yellows and greys. A vine had crawled up the left side of the house, covering the window to what used to be her room. She felt so much dread just standing there, watching the structure; as if she was waiting for it to do something, speak to her, and perhaps invite her in. The crevices in the house only whistled in the cold wind. She propelled herself to the front door; it was unlocked. It had rarely been unlocked. The floor creaked as she stepped inside. She was already hot, but now the heat felt like it was searing her skin. She moved through the house, checking the doorway before entering a room to ensure no one was in it. Most of the furniture was still in place, shoddy and deteriorated as it had always been. She stopped at her room. The door was firmly shut. She closed her eyes, a memory slipping into her mind:

Thomas Orosco stepped into the opening to her room. "Hard day at work," he complained. He had a beer in one hand and rubbed his gut salaciously with the other. Angela knew what was coming. It started when she was five. She hated him, his smug face, and his curious hands. He strode a little closer to her bed, his eyes on her. No father should look at his child as he did, he was a monster. "Angelaaaaa," he drew out her name with his muculent voice. She instinctively cringed and pressed herself deeper into her bed, that prison. Sometimes her brother Keegan would even stop by afterwards for seconds. They were savages.

Her eyes burned and she opened them. She was standing amidst cinders. All that was remained was carnage from the flames long burnt out. I'm the one who must be crazy, thought Angela, and she ran through the searing heat to where her feet led her.

Everything seemed like a blur, where could she go now? As she ran she could have sworn that sparks flicked from her shoes treads. Fires littered the streets to her left and right. She could visit the prison, is that where he was? She could spit in his face and tell him she's moved on from him now. Still a lingering doubt shook her resolve as she made it to the prison gates.

The heavy gates were opened and the place seemed empty. No one here... she thought as she stepped into the main entrance. The shabby wallpaper was peeling and curling in some flames and she walked past the office of the prison and into the hall her father used to stay in. The doors all looked the same with no number indicating a change, and soon the hallways stretched out and made twists and turns like some labyrinthine maze. Was it like this before? Did I ever actually go here? She questioned the sanity of running around a desolate prison, likely her father way past the point of needing police or anyone for that matter.

She stopped walking, wiping sweat from her brow and the back of her neck, her eyes blinking perspiration away. She had stopped in front of a room with a closed door. It no longer looked like the prison, but a door in a house. The doorknob burned her hand but she opened the door anyway and stepped into her living room again. She started to sob and walked to the couch slowly and sat down.

The old piece creaked as she sat in it. Stains littered the cushions and tears in the fabric left pieces of foam underneath showing. The sofa groaned and moved underneath her and two hands suddenly wrapping around her waist. She cringed and ripped herself from the tight grip. Putting some space between her and the assailant she whipped around to stand in front of her father. She gulped and took a nervous step back upon seeing him. His eyes mocked her fear, and he said nothing to her, simply started his slithering lope toward her. She cried out: "No, daddy, please!" and shoved herself into the hard wall.

As Thomas stepped closer, someone entered the room. It was all such a haze to her she did not see anything, only flames and struggling. "Are you alright?" asked the voice after their altercation. She saw her father lying on the ground, beaten. It wasn't enough. She grabbed a television and slammed it into his body, then kicked the crumpled body swiftly. She felt vomit rush into her throat and fell to the floor. The voice repeated the question, touching her shoulder gently. It was that man, James.

"Don't touch me! She said with bile still in her throat, "You make me sick!" What was he here for, to finish what her papa had started? Naturally. Men were all the same, one thing on their mind and she knew then what had happened with his so-called 'Mary'. "Why don't you just say what it is that you really want," she said with contempt in her voice, "or you can just take it – beat me like h-he always did!" She sucked in air remembering his body was still there. Is he alive or dead, she wondered. It did not matter; she needed space away from James and him. She stood up. "You probably found someone else to satiate your desires, didn't you?" She knew she hit the nail on the head as his eyes could not belie the guilt they held. "I never..." was all he could muster. He was here for the same reason she was. Angela wanted to finish it, all that was left was to find mama, and she could finally rest.

She felt a remorse for confronting James; after all, who was she to point fingers to blame after what she had done? It all came rushing back to her, the night of the murder: Thomas had come home from work, ready to have his way. Tonight, her brother was also waiting for her. But both of them would be surprised because this evening she had taken her mother's knife with her to bed. She was sick of it, the iniquity they forced her to live in, the shame she had lived with over and over. Even her mother had blamed her for it, said she had deserved it. Why, she had always wondered but there couldn't be an answer to that question.

Before Thomas could put it in all the way she plunged the knife deeply into his chest and pulled it back out, only to repeat the process again and again. She did not know how many times she stabbed him. His cleaved flesh gushed blood from all the holes she left, pouring out onto her clothes and hands. From his throat issued a guttural noise and she could not help but think he was calling her a bitch even in his final moments. She went to Keegan afterwards, he was in the hall waiting for Thomas to leave so he could have his fill, but now she saw fear in his eyes for the first time, he held up his hands begging her to let him go, and she ignored his plea, stabbing at his hands until he tried to pull the knife away, leaving an opening to impale him in the same way she did her father. She set the house on fire after they were both dead. Not even taking the time to watch it burn, she ran after grabbing some clothes and a few other miscellaneous items. She ran to the woods and hid herself from the police, and from her crime.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she walked toward the hotel where her mother worked. Perhaps she would be there, waiting for Angela. She was not sure of what she would do upon seeing her. She just wanted an explanation but knew that was not likely, still she wanted anything, any kind of answer for the life she had lived at her father and brother's will and her mother not doing anything about it. Worse yet she condemned her too, entitling her the seductress of the whole affair and making Angela feel guilty for having brought it upon herself. Either way, it would be over soon, and she opened the hotel doors, stepping inside to search out mama.

"Mama! Where have you been, I've been looking everywhere for you!" she cried to her. "You are are only one left, maybe then I can rest." Rushing down the stairs to meet her, she touched her face and... "You're... You're not my mama!" she exclaimed, climbing up a few stairs and looking back to see James' sad face. "Angela, I'm sorry." he whispered. "I wanted to thank you for saving me from him, even if it only was an image, but you shouldn't have... Even mama said I deserved what he did to me." James shook his head at her "That's not true, Angela!"

What he said was right but wrong at the same time: "Do you think you can save me," she asked rhetorically but with a hint of longing "Will you love me and heal all these wounds I have?" He looked at her, then looked away, not speaking. Shame covered his face. He was not even able to save Mary I bet, she reflected. "It's exactly as I thought then," she knew what she had to do "James, give me my knife." she held out her hand. "You can't have it." he said quietly in response. "Saving it for yourself?" she accused more than asked. "No." She turned and began walking up the staircase. "It's like hell in here." he almost coughed. She turned to him, he was surveying the flames. It was the first time he had noticed. Heh, maybe he's not far from redemption she mused, Too bad I won't be there to see it. "You see it too, huh? For me, it's always like this."

Her eyes lifted back to the searing stairs, flames engulfing her from every angle. At the top she could see someone standing, perhaps it was her mother, or maybe it was God. She did not know, it was a long way up, and she made it halfway succumbing to the inferno of both her punishment and absolution.

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Konami or Silent Hill properties.