Mary Mary, quite contrary...
how does your garden grow?
James had never screamed at her. He never yelled or raised his voice, no matter how many times she lashed out at him. He was like stone. Likes diamonds. She couldn't scratch the surface of him.
She hated it. She hated how, even after she threw the flowers at him and hissed at him to leave, he forgave her. She hated how he would gather her in his arms while she sobbed until her throat was raw. She hated how he would rub her aching back and legs and feet.
With the way she treated James, she was sure he would leave her. She was sure that he would give up on her and walk out, yet day after day, he came into that hospital room with a weary smile on his face. He would kiss her forehead and say, "Good morning, Mary."
James never screamed at her. Instead he smothered her.
The memory of her, the bitterness of her that remained in Silent Hill, she could remember how it felt to have the cotton pressed against her face. She remembered screaming and begging and her muffled pleas of "James no please no stop stop no."
She hated him. She hated the memories of what they once had. They had happiness, once. They had love, once. The illness took that all away from them.
No... James took that away from them. He was weak. Weak because he couldn't deal with her illness. He couldn't handle the pressure.
For that, Mary – or what was left of her hatred– decided, he would pay.
He would pay dearly.