I know, it's been a long time…but school's been catching up to me, and my fiction story has been scolding me for neglecting it for so long. So here we are! Mortality, chapter 3. I wonder if I'll ever end up finishing this story…xx I have 165 radicals to do after this, whoopee. I think I'll take my time. Review, please!

Disclaimer: Characters in the story belong to me, but Silent Hill does not. Don't sue me for my rats.

"And that's when you woke up?"

"Yes. That's when my eyes opened, and I looked frantically around, lost. I saw her in my dream. I saw Grace." Emma could clearly see that she had captivated the doctor's interest. Both eyes were on her, and his pen no longer created the same scratching tune. She tried to search his eyes.

"What did she look like? Do you remember?" he whispered eagerly, leaning forward in his seat.

"She resembled her own, past self…on her last few days with us. Sickly. Quiet, sheltered. Her skin was dried up like mine is now…absolutely horrible, and her eyes were shadowed, dull…they didn't know what life was. Her hair, though…her hair was bright and pretty, like how it used to be before the disease struck us." Emma grew almost silent, hesitant. "She looked as though, truly, she knew nothing but suffering."

Mr. Gayton, across the desk, sat up and let out a brisk, awkward cough to break the chain of silence between them. "Well, that's why you're here, Emma. So we can help."

X0X

"Someone here to see you."

Emma opened her sleepy eyes to the rough, grunting statement of a tall, dark guard who had just opened her cell door. She blinked her surroundings into focus and sat up to rub her face tiredly. "Ugh…" Her attempt at getting some well-needed sleep that the horrible dream had stolen from her obviously had failed miserably. Was it morning? No…it couldn't be morning. The doctor had called her in this morning, and so was it night? "Sir," she stretched her arms, knees cracking as she stiffly got to her feet. "May I ask you of the time?"

"Two O'clock," he told her shortly, turning to wait outside the cell. Two…so it was the middle of the afternoon already. She'd slept that long…three hours, and without a single dream! The evil illusions had escaped her mind for that short, glorious time. Could that visit with the doctor really have helped? Could she possibly be over—

"Come on, hurry it up!"

She straightened her hospital clothes, as if she were going to a most elegant ball, and stepped from the room with a nod to the guard. He escorted her down the hall, past several other cells. She peered inside as she followed him from behind, into the worlds of dozens of different people—all holders, supposedly, of insanity. Crazy by birth, crazy by choice, crazy by disease…it didn't matter. They were all ranked the same.

She was led to a small, dark area in the back. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought it to be some kind of church confession room. It was odd, really, for the hospital did not let the patients see the person on the other side. The room was cramped, with a little bench for sitting, and in front a wall of glass atop a counter almost half as tall as she was. When she sat down, she noticed the glass was secured atop the counter right across from her face. This way, she was not looking up when someone spoke, and she was not looking down. The glass was thick for the most part, and had a small hole right in the middle. Behind the glass a black curtain hung. The guard disappeared from sight, and the door closed shut after his leave.

"Emma."

The young girl jumped, startled in her seat. She jerked her head towards the glass cautiously, her fingers gripping the edges of the bench she sat on.

"Emma Tayton…202, is that what they call you?" The voice was low and shaky, an old man speaking, she assumed. She shivered at the sound.

"Yes, 202. That's what they call me…Sir," she added warily, not quite sure whether she should call this person on the other side a male so soon. Maybe it wasn't…perhaps it was just a woman with a deep tone. You could never be too sure. "That's right."

"Ah, how is that disease coming along, my dear? Quite fine, I'm guessing, seeing as how you're not dead yet?" The voice did not wait for a reply. "Yes, yes, well…good for you. The grave will hopefully rot before you enter it so willingly. Sickness is a dreary thing, indeed!"

Emma found it hard to be polite during those first few moments. This voice was confusing her. It certainly wasn't her mother, or Thomas for that matter, and she knew of no elders who would take the time to come visit her. She was on the verge of dying from this disease, and…and this voice was making a joke out of it? She wasn't quite sure there was a point to this visit, though she was presuming too soon, she realized. A few more minutes, she assured herself, and it will be all over. "Dreary, yes, Sir…miserable to the point of crying. Unexcited as you may imagine, but also too exciting for words…never knowing when you're going to fall over and never get back up. Never knowing when you might fall asleep, and not make it to see the next sunrise. Sir, life on the edge is much more thrilling than you may think."

"But of course," the voice responded patiently. "What makes people do the things they do? Take risks, hang off the side of cliffs? Dig into people with scalpels, pick apart the brain, and expect them to exit that hospital room alive the next day? Aha, my dear, you are a clever one." Was this person toying with her mind? "So tell me, are you taking a risk?"

She paused, stared at the black curtain. If she gaped at it long enough, perhaps she would be able to see beyond the fabric. Three, four, five minutes…and then her mind grew questioning. "…Who are you?"

"I am that of which you do not see, nor notice, nor ever think about, unless given the chance. I am the one always tweaking, always watching, and do not forget that I am always there. A name, a name…if a name is what you want out of me, then I shall grant your wish. Adam. Adam Aceldama."

"Adam Aceldama," she repeated under her breath. Aceldama. Adam. Biblical names? Were they…? It had been so long since she had read the Word…the stories were beginning to fade away. Her faith was slowly dissolving. She thought for a moment about this man, but there was no such thing as angels. "What are you here for?"

"I am here to tell you that you live in a middle world. A world existing between the storm, and the aftermath. You have a key others do not—a key to the barrier. A key to the core. A key to someplace new and familiar all at the same time…"

The door to the black room opened once more. "Time's up." The guard stepped inside and nodded to Emma, his eyes following her movements as she slowly lifted from the safety of her bench. She gazed intently into the black curtain, this black curtain she couldn't quite comprehend, couldn't really follow, but had to listen to it anyways. The guard started to lead her out.

"…Silent Hill has given you this little treasure…do not lose it, no matter how many times people try to beat and butter it out of you. It is torture, Emma, it is agony…but it is also a vital piece to everything the town has ever existed for."