Disclaimer: Konami owns both the character and the wonderful town of Silent Hill.
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"You stupid, fucking…""…Dammit! Why can't you do anything right, Dombrowski?"
"Eddie, how many times do I have to tell you? How many times does it take to sink into that thick skull of yours?"
"Fatso! That's all you are, Dombrowski! Just a lame, simple-minded pig!"
Yeah…that's all he ever was.
Didn't have muscle. Didn't have money. He couldn't force anyone to be his friend, or bribe them with cash…and even if he did, he didn't think they'd accept even then. Eddie was trapped—he was stuck in a hole of both confusion and humiliation—and there was only one way out. He'd taken that escape route…and it felt good.
He couldn't figure out why the world had to be so damn…cruel. A habit of humanity was to categorize people by their classes, and then set them into the inferior or superior rank. He'd been an unlucky one, but truly it wasn't that simple. There were the ones that crawled above the dirt, or the ones that hovered in the middle somewhere. Some who were on the path to achieving greatness, and others who did wonderful deeds for society. He highly doubted that working at a cheap gas station and getting nowhere in life was considered a 'wonderful deed'.
He was just the type of person no one liked. They didn't need a reason to hate him, or throw nasty insults. It was their right to do so. It was a perk of life, even! Some adopted it as a delightful hobby, while others merely did it to keep on the traditional trend. And so it went on. It lived, and lived…until he shot it down.
"Why…why…" The man in front of him had had a look of terror in his eyes—an expression of utter horror. Eddie had mentally basked in the feeling of dominance—the very pumping of his blood, the scale rising as his rank shot from under the feet of others and soared above their heads. The cold metal of the revolver comforted him.
The yelping, the agonizing crying, whimpering, whining—oh, a shudder traced up his spine gently as the sounds reached his ears. His eyes took in the sight of pretty red—the innards which spilled from the open wound of the dog's stomach as canine teeth dug and tore at them, and Eddie could just feel the pain that dog felt—he could almost taste it. It was a bittersweet flavor, indeed.
It felt almost right—even if everyone else said it was wrong.
But then again…wasn't that what everyone deserved, anyways? That dog had been glaring at him…truly mocking him, smiling and huffing with laughter with every pant. Every time that damned tongue lolled from the little canine's jowls, he felt like yanking it out of the animal's chuckling throat.
"Why d-did you…? My dog…my dog, you stupid fuck, you killed my dog! You killed her! You—" The blast of the bullet sent a wave of shivers inside of him. He'd thought about sending yet another, but the sight of that man stumbling off, blood spurting like a fountain from his dragging leg, was too much pleasure to end.
Didn't mean to do it…didn't want to do it.
Or…maybe he did…?
Did he, really?
Wasn't it the right thing to do, in his own eyes?
He hadn't killed…not really. Killing was different from butchering. Killing was ripping open the person you love, or adore, or never wanting you to leave your side, or look up to, or follow around everywhere, or…didn't matter. He didn't have someone like that anyways. Butchering? Butchering was a whole other story. Butchering was slapping the slabs of meat on the table—whether it be human or animal, it didn't matter to him—and cutting it to a thousand little pieces. Cutting the face first, so it wouldn't twist into one of those teasing grins. Cut the lips off so they wouldn't burst open in hilarity, cut out the eyes so they wouldn't squint in amusement, cut off the limbs so they wouldn't push or shove…
Putting a bullet in the heart and watching them squirm was much easier.
But really…did he mean to do it?
That little girl he'd met a while ago was just the same as the others—calling him a fat pig, nudging at him, pushing at him…but for some reason he just couldn't get himself to bring her down as well.
The town was flooded with ridicule at every corner. Everywhere he went, there'd be someone there to…laugh. To point. To whisper. His finger was beginning to ache from always pulling roughly on the trigger.
Why can't someone like me…?They surrounded him. Everywhere. No where to go…
Why can't someone understand…?The police were coming. Coming for him. He knew it.
Goddamn, they're just like that dog…but I showed them, didn't I? Pushed 'em right off their crippled high horse…and I had the right to do so, too!"Eddie…are you alright?"
…didn't kill, nah…just paid 'em back is all.
"Eddie? Are these…?"
"Doesn't matter if you're smart, dumb…"
"…You're nuts, Eddie. Don't you know it's wrong to kill people?"
"…Ugly, pretty…"
"You really need some help…"
"…It's all the same once you're dead…"
"Why did you do this, Eddie…?"
"'Cause a corpse can't laugh."