Author's Note: Oh man. I gotta stop letting "Silent Hill" influence my writing.
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Glory to God in the highest, and peace to His people on Eaaaaaarth—
As the sun set, golden rays of fleeting light streamed through the stained-glass windows, illuminating the dusty, dark place of worship in an impressive spectrum of color. One window, depicting the image of the Holy Virgin dressed in red and holding the Christ child, cast a dull, ruby luster that shone on the pew in front of it. The bench's sole occupant was also bathed in this mellow glow as he stared down at the marble floor, hands neatly folded in his lap.
You take away the sin of the world, have mercy on ussssssssssss—
It was funny. As a child, attending church had always been a dull affair. While his parents sung songs and hymns praising God and His eternal love and mercy, he would always lean to the side or slump back into his seat, bored to the verge of tears. How he had wished mother and father wouldn't have forced him to attend a mass he didn't feel a part of, worshiping a God he couldn't understand.
And had he even wanted to understand?
—
He shifted in place, an intensely impatient five year-old, standing on the kneeler of the pew in an attempt to see over the adults in the row in front of Him.
Mother took a brief moment to look away from her song book and give her son a loving smile as if to say, "Isn't this nice?"
He replied with a sour glare, annoyed that He had been woken up so early.
—
It was intensely ironic then that he now spent all of his free time, however seldom it was, at church where he felt truly alone, truly at peace. Where he could just sit and meditate on everything the day had brought him. Finding those pockets of stillness, embracing them and just–
—
He was sniffling on the way home from mass after Father had reprehended Him for His behavior, calling Him a "bad little boy who needed to behave in church." Even Mother gave Him a reproachful look, completely opposite of the one she had given Him earlier in church. Such a bad little boy He was, whining and trying to justify His dissatisfaction as Father turned the key, opening the front door of their house. Such a bad little boy He was, tugging on Mother's Sunday dress, asking her just who those two "creepy nutters" were and "why they were dirtying up the house". Maybe if He was quiet, they wouldn't have noticed Mother and Father and Him standing at the doorway.
—
losing himself amongst memories and reminiscence.
—
Father immediately acted, demanding what the two strangers were doing in their house. The first one, a young man who looked no older than twenty and who was dressed in a dirty, stained pinstripe suit, laughed and asked where they kept their valuables. Father was fuming, and as his face reddened in fury, the man's partner (a pretty lady about the same age as him, wearing tattered remains of what was once an expensive white dress) piped up that she was hungry.
—
His fingers softly tightened over his rosary beads as he began to murmur a Hail Mary, closing his eyes and letting himself slip away in that quiescence.
—
Father's screams came out choked and messy like he was gargling something as the young woman bit into his neck with such ferocity and speed that it almost looked as if she was kissing him. The man laughed as he watched Father sink to his knees when the woman had ripped his throat out with her teeth.
Mother screamed.
—
The bitter, strong aroma of incense drifted under his nostrils as he finished the prayer. Someone had burned a fresh stick of it; he was not alone anymore.
—
Mother had continued to scream even when the man threw her onto the floor, pinning her arms and legs down with his ghastly strength–ghastly, inhuman strength–as he entered her and started to thrust and smash and PUSH AND PUSH AND PUSH AND PUSH and just as blood was collecting in a pool between her legs where they had been splayed, her cries began to fade into whimpers, then mewls, then nothing. Silence.
—
Silence.
Pitter patter. Step step step.
—
"He's so small," The woman mused, wiping the crimson fluid away from her mouth with one graceful motion of her hand, watching her partner hold Him up by the scruff of His collar with one hand. Both of them were looking Him over with hungry leers that contained more than a bit of amusement.
"Think he has much blood in him?" She asked.
The man reached into his suit pocket with one hand, withdrawing a pearl handle. "Only one way to find out," He spoke as he slipped the blade out with an audible click.
—
Footsteps, petite gentle but oh-so distinct and echoing.
—
And as He was slammed against the wall, He remembered what happened to Mother and sobbed hysterically, beating His little fists against His attacker's arms, hearing the man laugh–rather, giggle–at His cute, childish attempts at fighting. And when the knife was pressed to His right cheek, He
—
"Father?"
—
Is that my blood it's so dark and warm and it doesn't seem why is my face burning why does it hurt why is he licking my cheek WHY IS SHE LICKING MY FACE WHY ARE THEY LICKING MY BLOOD
—
"Father?"
—
I CAN SEE FATHER I CAN SEE MOTHER I CAN SEE HIM I CAN SEE HER I CAN SEEEEEE–
—
Touch.
His eyes snapped open and his head jerked up, staring up at her with bemusement.
"I-it's dinner time," She stammered in her quiet, apprehensive voice. "The dorm mother wanted me to find you..."
She looked down guiltily and removed her hand from his shoulder.
"I'm sorry to bother you..."
He strained a smile. "Dun't. Ye were very thoughtful. Ah'll be there in ae bit."
Yumiko bit her lower lip and hurried back off down the aisle. The echo of her gentle footsteps faded as Anderson slowly got to his feet and tucked his rosary beads back into his pocket. It was only until he looked down at his left bloodstained, white gloved hand that he realized he had been fingering his scar, and that it had opened up again.