Silent Hill: Misty Dreams

A work of fiction by Lucas S. Speed

---Chapter Two: An E-mail

The alarm clock buzzed it's orchestra of grating melody in the morning, as it had always done and always would, but Richard didn't hear it. Couldn't hear it. He was trapped in a horrible dream in the next room, and only sweat and cried in his sleep as the alarm clock tried in vain to wake it's owner. Richard didn't wake up until much later, and then he felt very ill and unpleasant. He wasn't going to work today... wasn't going to bother with it. A glance a the clock told him already he was three hours late. No point in going in anyway. He sighed, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and flipped his laptop open to check his e-mail. It had gone unattended for some time now, anyway. He was distracted by want of coffee as his computer booted, though, and walked away before the login screen became visible.

Bleary eyes, Richard looked at his empty coffee pot, a small thing with a black base, stained from leaving coffee in it with the burner on. It was filthy, and he tossed it in the sink with a laborious sigh hissing between thin lips. That was fine, though. He didn't have much coffee left anyway – probably a better idea to conserve the stuff he owned for harder times, he guessed. Whatever made him feel better about dropping extra cash for the expensive stuff, he supposed. He had fallen asleep in his clothes, so he only slipped on a coat and his shoes before stepping out and locking his apartment behind him. His neighborhood was far, far from bad, but he still didn't trust anyone enough to leave his few expensive possessions unguarded and unlocked in his apartment while he was away.

He stepped out into the hallway feeling most haggard, and trudged to the elevator as though the weight of the world was upon his shoulders. He still remembered last night. He remembered exactly why he had woken up on the couch, and it made him ashamed. A grown man, crying like a baby because he couldn't come to terms with his memories. Because he blamed himself for a series of accidents. That's all it was.

But I was the reason they were out there, on that boat, He thought to himself, in a grim tone. He pushed the button once, twice, slammed it in repeatedly, and then finally just gave an anxious sigh. This was no way to begin enjoying his extemporaneous day off. The rusty old doors finally swished open with surprising ease for their age, and he stepped into the mobile cell with a young woman from the floor above him, dressed all in pink and blue, with her blonde hair bobbed shoulder-length and fitted neatly under a pink baseball style cap. He thought her name was Michelle, but he wasn't sure. He had only seen her a few times.

"Hi." He mumbled, his voice hoarse and tired from sleep. She smiled politely and nodded, but didn't say anything. From the look of her, he'd have guessed she was off to go out on the town with her friends, the way she was well dressed and had her large, bulging purse slung over her shoulder. She was a pretty woman, and if Richard hadn't felt like absolute crap already, he might have tried talking to her. He found himself regretting that he didn't take a shower or brush his teeth before going out this morning, as he felt filthy, a bit, and was sure he looked like a mess. They rode the whole way down in silence, walked practically side-by-side from the elevator to the front door, down the steps, onto the sidewalk, and then split ways without another word exchanged between them. Another chance at another life slipped through his fingers.

Starbucks was only a block away, but Richard didn't like their industrialized, snot-nosed crowd, their employees, or their half-assed coffee. He kept walking, wondering absently to himself if the whole chain was so bad, or if the one in his town was just exceptionally unpleasant. He wasn't sure which one he thought to be the truth, and he didn't really let the question linger in his mind. The memories of the night before were still haunting him, and he walked in a numb trance, not aware of where he was going, and yet going to the Coffee Shop & Bakery a few more blocks from his apartment. He liked the place, it was cozy and usually uncrowded, and he liked the name, too. It was a no-nonsense kind of name, it didn't bullshit about what it was selling. He snorted at the notion of Starbucks, wondering what sort of appeal they were shooting for with that sort of name.

So he trudged onward, dragging his tired feet along the pavement and wondering to himself why things had happened as they did. He could almost see her, right in front of him... Daria, with her long brunette hair, always silken and beautiful, often pulled back into a thick pony tail. The smile on her thin pink lips, her creamy skin which was, to him, flawless. And her eyes... sparkling blue facets of light, highlighted by just the perfect touch of makeup, and the occasional quirk of her slender eyebrows. He remembered her in her favorite shirt, a t-shirt with a cynical phrase on it... something that mocked communism, he remembered. She hadn't worn too many girlie things... She was more of a tomboy that most people realized, often wearing jeans and sneakers, while her daughter pranced about dreaming of wearing gowns and riding unicorns and all other sorts of things whimsical.

Jenny had been the image of her mother, practically the same woman, as though she had been hit with a shrink ray, or something else nonsensical. She had the same color hair, and eyes, and she tried to fashion her hair the same way her mother did whenever she could. She had just started school the year before. He counted the years on his fingers and thought she might have been in third grade now. Yes, somewhere in that region. Third grade, with lots of friends, and birthday parties and Christmas presents...

A car whizzed by and startled him from his reverie, splashing water on his ankles and soaking his shoes. Damnit. He heaved one great, angry sigh, and tried to let all of his sorrow filter through his nose for a moment, before he realized he was standing outside the door of the Coffee Shop & Bakery. Perfect timing. That was about the only good thing he had going for him, he supposed, and he walked inside with a false smile on his face.

"Hey Richie! How's it been? What can I get ya?" The man behind the counter said with a huge grin, glad to see one of his favorite customers visit him.

"Hey Steve. I need a large coffee to go and... ah..." Richard peered at the array of doughnuts behind the glass, considering. He didn't really want any of them, but he knew he was hungry from the griping feeling in his stomach.

"That, and that." Richard said, pointing.

"Sure thing, Rich." The man, Steve, said cheerily, bagging the doughnuts selected and making his coffee, "y'know, I haven't seen ya come in this early in a long time. You quit that job of yours yet?"

"No," Richard said, dispassionately.

"Ah, taking a day off then?"

"Yeah." His voice was weak, almost dead. He felt bad enough, he didn't need the reminder that he should be working.

"Okay, here you go. Enjoy. Have a good day off Richie... You look like you could use it." Steve commented to Richard's back as he walked out the door. Richard nodded as he walked out, sure that he must have looked like hell. He walked home feeling dazed, almost, and sipping at his coffee, which was full of sugar and milk. Just the way he liked it.

He walked past Starbucks, but didn't realize it enough to think about how annoying that place was.

Look mommy! See the fish I caught?

He pushed the button on the elevator twice and waited impatiently, took another sip of his coffee, and tapped his foot on the floor. God, he hated this elevator. If it were a human, it would have to be the laziest bastard on earth. The doors finally swished open and he stepped in, alone, and pushed the button for his floor. Obediently, the doors hissed closed. He was trapped, alone, in the mobile cell, with nothing but coffee and cheesy elevator music to keep him company.

That's great honey! Wow!

The doors finally opened again, just when he was thinking he had been on the elevator a tad too long, and the expanse of empty hallway greeted him in all of it's glorious loneliness. He wished he had said something to Michelle earlier. Maybe she was just as lonely as he was right now. He imagined she was off seeing a movie or shopping by herself, wishing she had said something to him. He quickly shook his head, though, figuring she had friends and was probably out with them. Yeah, that made more sense. He held the bag of doughnuts under his arm and jammed the key into it's hole, slamming the teeth over the tumblers and turning, unlocking the door and throwing it open. This day was not going too well.

He shut the door behind him with a kick, and set his doughnuts and coffee down on the coffee table in his living room. He wished, absently, that he could get over his self-pity, but he knew he couldn't. He perused the internet while he munched on flakey pastry and chocolate and sipped at his still hot coffee, neglecting his e-mail for the moment. The mailbox full of spam could wait. He looked at the news, and saw there was an earthquake in Asia. Collateral damage and the death toll were already soaring from the disaster. Now, there are some people who should feel sorry for themselves.

Look out darling, you'll fall over the edge!

Yeah, he did feel like he was falling over an edge. He saw the bottom of the hole he was falling into, too, and he didn't like it. It wasn't a pretty sight at all. He sipped at his coffee again and finally clicked his mailbox. A few letters about wonder drugs, porn, and penile enlargement sat there, a couple of messages from internet friends, and most interestingly, a letter from Jack Faire sat at the top of his inbox. Richard perked a bit and opened it, curious to see what it said.

The e-letter read:

Hey Rich,

Glad to see you're taking that day off. I thought you should. You looked pretty bad the other day. How's the story on the art fair coming?

It doesn't really matter, I'm giving the story to Jonathan. You deserve something better than writing about an art fair, don't you think? What do you say to an all expenses paid vacation? It'll be on the clock, too, because I want you to do some reporting for our travel page while you're there. Have you ever been to Silent Hill, Rich? It's a tourist attraction in western Maine, maybe four or five hours of driving away. It's supposed to be a real nice place on the lake, with a bunch of shops and an amusement park. I want you to go down and spend a few days – as long as you need to – and come back with a column for the travel page about how nice the place is. I need you to enjoy yourself too, Rich. You're looking too green around the gills lately, y'know?

Anyway, write me back, and leave as soon as you can, okay?

-Jack Faire

PS: Hope you don't mind the typos. I don't know where the damn spellchecker is on my e-mail.

Richard stared at the screen for a long time, like it was some sort of ghost, or angel. He was absolutely stunned. A vacation? That was the nicest thing Jack had ever done in the history of nice things. It would definitely help get his mind off things, and god knows he needed that.

He leaned forward in his seat and quickly went to typing, writing up a thank you, acceptance, and a promise that he'd do a great job reporting on the place. Silent Hill. He committed the name to memory. Sounded nice. He went through his other e-mail afterward, but none of it was nearly as important as his new job assignment. This was great. Phenomenal, he dared to think. He hopped up from his seat after a long moment of consideration, clicked the laptop shut, and went to his room to pack.

I'll be fine mommy!

Bad memories caught in him like an icy barb had stuck in his stomach. He felt bad that he was happy about this trip. Shouldn't he be sulking over his lost daughter and wife? He saw their picture in his mind's eye as he tossed clothes into a suitcase, and he felt very guilty, very suddenly. He felt like he was the worst sort of scum on the earth for trying to enjoy himself when he had let them die. That's how he felt about it, anyway. He felt like it was his fault.

Of course, that wasn't true. He had seen a psychiatrist and been given medicine to keep him calm. He remembered the therapist telling him that it wasn't his fault, and that the medicine would help him through the depression. That had been a long time ago, though, and he thought he had gotten over it. He sank down onto the bed next to his open suitcase, and he thought about crying. It wouldn't do him any good, he knew that much. It would just tire him out, and he'd have that long drive ahead of him. He sighed and resigned himself to grate his teeth and stuff clothing into his suitcase, trying his best to think about other things. He spent a while wondering about the town, and it actually distracted him pretty well. Silent Hill. It sounded less pleasant and more gloomy to him, now that he was in a bad mood. It seemed like the kind of name you'd give a big, ominous hill with a tree for hanging people on it. The artist in him drew that picture in his mind quickly enough, a silhouetted hill with the crimson sunset behind it, and a huge oak, with many bodies hanging from the branches and swaying in the wind.

Richard shuddered and willed the picture away from his mind. It was a nice resort town. That was all that mattered. It was supposed to be a nice town on the lake. That sounded nice to him. He bet there were lots of kids and a big nice park, and plenty of dogs and friendly people. He tried to picture the place in his mind, with lots of people and tourists milling around, and boats on the lake and children giggling as they ran along the streets. The colors tried in vain to come together into the picture, but he couldn't see anything but that damned tree. He shook his head and sighed, clicking his suitcase closed. It would be a long, long drive if he couldn't get those morbid thoughts out of his head.