Well, well, here it is at last... the final chapter. My apologies for the long and unexpected wait... I know I promised Halloween but this darn disease (and by disease I mean common cold -_-) got the best of me for a few days there and I just couldn't concentrate well enough to write this chapter. As it is I'm still sick, actually... but c'est la vie, and the show must go on! Or rather... not, as this is the last chapter. Anyway...
Thank you once again to all my kind reviewers! It's been so lovely not to have to deal with any flamers or anything like that; I appreciate all of your kind comments and helpful criticism, and most of all that you took the time both to read and to respond to my writing. Your encouragement is what made this story happen, and what spurred me on all the way through to the end! So thank you, one and all... Good night, and good luck! (And please let me know what you think of the end! I hope it's not too much of a letdown... ^^; )
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I am part of the 99%. (I am also a terrible person for making that joke. But I just couldn't help it. XP)
Chapter 8: To Kindle a Light in the Darkness
"We are fascinated by the darkness in ourselves, we are fascinated by the shadow, we are fascinated by the boogeyman." – Anthony Hopkins
"I don't feel guilty for anything. I feel sorry for people who feel guilt." – Ted Bundy
The darkness, which a moment before had seemed so infinite, did not last forever after all. Kate did not go willingly back into the harsh, cold reality of that night, but rather felt as though she was forcibly dragged, kicking and screaming, back to consciousness. And unlike the soft, forgiving nothingness of oblivion, reality hurt.
She had lost so much blood by now it was a miracle she wasn't already dead. She didn't bother sitting up yet; she took her time, and transmuted one wound after another closed, grimacing as her skin pulled itself back together. It was a pity she couldn't transmute herself some new blood as well; she would be rather weak and dizzy for a few hours yet, before her body replenished its supply.
She looked around, and for a moment could not recall where she was or what she had been doing. The large cleaver and blood-stain on the ground a few feet away from her did not, at first, make any sense, nor did the fact that she seemed to be on a roof.
There was a message scrawled on the ground nearby, written in what appeared to be her own blood. Yet she did not remember writing it, nor was it in her handwriting.
I want to hurt you, and destroy myself.
What would you think
if you knew how I felt?
For reasons she couldn't even pretend to know, she thought of Barry, and wondered where he was.
Ah. Suddenly, it all came back to her. And with recollection came urgency, and with urgency, haste. She scrambled to her feet, swaying and unsteady, and bolted, clumsily, for the stairs. She knew she was probably too late to help him one way or the other, but she had to at least know what happened.
She had not been unconscious for as long as she assumed – ten, fifteen minutes at most – and the battle which she believed to be over was only just reaching its final act. Barry had managed to cut the thing which both was and wasn't Ann down from the ceiling, and was face-to-face with it now on ground-level (or rather, sewer-level, for that was where he was, though he had yet to notice), laughing bitterly in its face as it dragged the remnants of its web of flesh behind it like a macabre cape.
It was putting up more of a fight than he'd anticipated – not to mention he was weakening more quickly than he had realized. The blood he was covered in was as much the monster's as it was his own. It slowed him down, chipping away bit by bit at his reflexes and attack speed, but as his body grew weaker his resolve to kill the thing seemed to grow stronger. His mania was full-tilt now, and even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to control himself. Inwardly, he watched his knife flashing through the air and the blood flowing from the wounds it inflicted as if it were a movie, something happening to somebody else, projected before him for his viewing pleasure.
And it was pleasing. His best work yet, if he did say so himself. But then, he had always done his best when his heart was truly in it.
"I CUT YOU APART ONCE, AND I'LL DO IT AGAIN!" he shouted, coming at the thing again and cursing aloud when it just barely dodged his attack.
It wasn't crying or begging anymore, at least, but the venom in its voice now rang just as obnoxiously in his ears. "Oh yes, that worked so well last time! Do you really think killing me will make it all go away?"
"Oh, I don't care about THAT," he retorted, "I just enjoy WATCHING YOU BLEED!"
"How vulgar. But then, that's what's to be expected of a butcher. That's all you are, and that's all you'll ever be!" It slashed out, catching a hook on the back of his shirt and ripping a long tear through it.
Barry attacked again, and missed. "That's all I NEED to be!"
"Then why haven't you killed her yet?"
"GAHH! I don't need this kind of crap from you! WHY WON'T YOU DIE ALREADY?"
"This should be easy for you, right? Since it was so easy the first time around… Wasn't it?"
"OF COURSE! Easy as pie! A meat pie, to be exact, which is what I'll be turning you into momentarily if you would just SIT STILL FOR A MINUTE!"
He lunged straight for it, casting aside what logic he had left in the lunatic hope of divine intervention, but of course the creature saw him coming, and reacted accordingly. Rather than dodging this time, it used his inertia against him, pushing him past itself and shoving him hard against the wall. He yelped, groaning as he heard his own nose cracking, but kept a death-grip on his knife even as the world began to swim around him. He turned to face it, and screamed as its hooked hand pierced his left shoulder, pinning him to the wall.
Its face was right in front of his, and he nearly choked on the stench of its breath as it hissed at him, "If it was so easy, why did you look so afraid? And why is that same expression on your face even now?"
Barry was hyperventilating now, the whites of his eyes as wide and wild as a spooked horse's. "I… am NOT… AFRAID!" He shoved his cleaver into the thing's stomach, and dark rivulets of blood streamed from its mouth and the wound in its center.
But it did not release him, and it did not die. "I can hear you panting. I can feel your pulse racing. Madness is a product of fear. Why can't you just tell me the truth, honey?"
"Don't talk to me like that! Don't talk like you're… like you're really… I KILLED YOU, DAMMIT!" He struggled to force its claw out of his shoulder, or to pull his cleaver out of its abdomen, but both proved to be quite effectively stuck.
"Killed… not erased."
"IT'S THE SAME THING!"
"Is it? Is it really? Then why do you still remember me?"
"I remember ALL of my victims! You're nothing special!"
"And they all came back, didn't they? But that didn't bother you. So why are you so upset now? You don't still blame me for everything, do you?"
He didn't answer; he was still struggling to extract his blade. Displeased, the creature twisted its hand in Barry's shoulder until he screamed.
"What's the matter? I thought you liked pain. Not so fun, is it, when YOU'RE THE ONE DYING?"
"I'm NOT DYING!" He gritted his teeth. "I'M the butcher, EVERYONE ELSE is the meat! That includes YOU!" With a cry, he tore his butcher's knife free of its flesh, and swung hard at its neck.
At his full strength, he would have beheaded it instantly, but in his current state it took two or three more tries before the neck was finally severed. The body collapsed; yanking its hooks out of his shoulder, he let it fall to the floor, staring down at it with an uncharacteristic revulsion, and almost none of the usual pride he felt in his work. Perhaps this piece of meat had not been worth the effort, after all.
Still, at least it was over now.
"Barry… what have you done?" he thought he heard the head whisper. With an inhuman cry, he dropped to his knees, and began hacking viciously at the head and the body, unaware that the screams he heard echoing all around him were his own.
Meanwhile, Kate had managed to half-stumble, half-fall down all six flights of stairs between the roof and the third basement level, only briefly blacking out once or twice (three times, tops) in the process. She could hear Barry screaming, and followed the sound back to the hole which she'd seen him disappear into earlier.
"Barry? Barry, are you hurt? Can you hear me?" she shouted, but he could not hear her over his own cries. She hesitated at the edge, afraid of taking a leap of faith down into the dark hole in the middle of the third basement.
Around the edges of the hole, in something black, like charcoal, were the following words:
As you wish, you may destroy me—
I wouldn't care.
"Barry," she called, though she knew he probably did not hear her, "I'm coming down!" Though she had no idea what was waiting for her, she jumped in, because he sounded like he needed her to.
She landed on her feet, wavering a little but braced for battle; it took her a moment after she saw him to understand that the fight, at least the physical one, was over. It was not a monster that she needed to be worried about now.
"Barry… I think it's dead…"
The thing on the ground was so mutilated by now that it was completely unrecognizable; Kate hadn't the foggiest idea what it might have once been, except that it was (very obviously) of flesh and blood. Yet he seemed to have no intentions of stopping, despite the fact that there was almost nothing left to chop at this point.
"Barry! Stop!" She reached out to put a hand on his arm, and jerked back with a gasp when he nearly severed her hand from her wrist. "Barry, it's me! Kate! I came to help!"
"I killed it," he said simply, and giggled, a horrible, high-pitched cackle which had the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. "And this time it's NOT COMING BACK!"
"I… see… Look, it's dead, you've done it… I think you can put your knife away now…"
"NO! DON'T TOUCH MY KNIFE!" He was on his feet in an instant, pointing the cleaver at her now. "She's dead now, but she's not erased – not yet – I have to erase her! Tell me, if I cut YOU into little, itty bitty pieces, would you promise to stay dead too?"
"Uh… sure…" Kate held her hands up, but kept them close together, in case she needed to perform a transmutation. "Look, I'm here to help, remember? I told you not to point that thing at me anymore."
"Why not? It's what I am, it's what I do! I kill, therefore—"
"No you don't! Not anymore!" Kate interrupted. "I told you, no more chopping people, remember? Not unless it's in self-defense. As long as you're with me, you're not a killer. But that doesn't mean you don't exist." She didn't know what she was saying, had no idea where it was coming from or whether she believed it all – but it felt right, and it felt like it was what she needed to say.
"But I'm Barry the Chopper," he said, and for once he wasn't screaming it to the heavens – for once, he sounded just a little bit unsure. "Barry the Butcher…"
"Not with me, you're not. You should know by now those stupid titles don't impress me anyway. They never did. To me, you're just Barry. That's all. And that's more than enough, if you ask me."
A Barry that existed outside of the murders. A butcher that did not murder people. A killer that lived without taking the lives of others. It made no sense to him, no sense at all; who was she to say such things, when he could easily have chopped her in two the moment she'd jumped down into the sewers with him?
Prey should not treat a predator like this. Meat was not supposed to talk back to the butcher. And game surely was not supposed to purposefully track down the hunter. It was supposed to run away.
But she wasn't running. She wasn't prey. But she wasn't attacking either. She wasn't a threat. He didn't know what she was. She didn't make any sense. Nothing made any sense anymore.
"Why haven't you killed her yet?"
"SHUT UP!" he snapped at the bloody mess on the floor beside him. Really, how could it still speak, when it no longer had a mouth, or even a recognizable head?
Kate stared at him. "Barry… it didn't say anything… believe me, I think you shut it up pretty permanently."
So it was in his own head. That wasn't surprising. Perhaps it had all been in his head. Perhaps the whole town was just his imagination, that wouldn't have been too much of a stretch… after all, Silent Hill did seem too good to be true, in his opinion… The thing that had reminded him of Ann, then, wasn't real either – just a bloody mass on the ground, no, not even, just a bloody mass on the ground in his mind… And Kate – perhaps this wasn't really Kate, but a projection of her – perhaps the real Kate had run away after all, like she was supposed to…
"You're not real – none of this is real…" He laughed, or at least he thought he was laughing; then again, he might have been crying, since he could no longer tell the difference between the two anyway. His cheeks were wet, but that might have just been the blood spattered all over his face. He was shaking, but maybe it was just from the cold damp darkness of the sewers.
Then something warm circled his shoulders, pressing itself against his front, so that he could feel its heartbeat against his chest, against his blood-seal. This thing reminded him, vaguely, of Ann, or perhaps just a memory of Ann, but this thing did not smell of death; it smelled of blood, and sweat, and a faint tangy electrical smell he associated with alchemists… but not death. It was soft, but he could feel strength in the way it held onto him.
Dimly, he realized the thing with its arms around him was Kate. And suddenly, he thought, This… This is real.
She was a little afraid, of course, but she managed not to tremble as she hugged him. She knew he was still holding the knife, knew he could easily drive it straight into her back at any moment, but she believed that he wouldn't. (She hoped, anyway.) If he did, she had no way to defend herself, and no way to heal a wound she could not reach. But she didn't know what else she could have done for him.
He didn't drop the knife, and he didn't hug her back. But she felt him lean into her slightly, and slowly, his tremors subsided, and his pulse and breathing began to return to normal.
Then they heard the sirens, and their sight went dark, and they prepared for the headache that always accompanied both… but this time, the transformation was painless, and when they opened their eyes again, the sewer was still a sewer, but a much less bloody and creepy one, something closer to the kind one might find in a normal town, in an ordinary story.
Kate sighed. "You know," she said quietly, "this is actually pretty gross, what with the blood and guts all over you and all. I mean, you're really a mess. And you smell like the sewer."
He snorted. "Well, you should have thought of that before. This actually hurts quite a bit, by the by."
"Ah – right." She let him go promptly. "I think I can fix that, if you can sit still for more than three seconds."
He made a face, but sat down on the ground obediently, and she knelt next to him and went to work on his wounds. He was almost as pale and haggard as she was, but she suspected this was more due to his state of mind rather than just blood loss (although that clearly had a lot to do with it as well, judging by the multitude of injuries he'd sustained).
"Hey, Barry?"
"Yeah?"
She stared at him until he looked her in the eye. "I'm glad you're all right."
"Well, obviously. If I died you'd have to find someone else to fix."
She smiled, for the first time in what felt like a century.
When she had finished patching him up, she used the cement in the floor to transmute a ladder up to the hole above, and together they climbed up and made their way out of the hospital and back to Kate's car. There were still monsters along the way, of course; Silent Hill had not changed, and likely never would. But they had, and this time Kate did not stand by while Barry carved a safe passage for them. She made sure she acted first, killing the monsters as quickly and as painlessly as possible, and then moving on without looking back. Barry did not stop her, nor did he complain – nor would she have let him chop up the remains, had he asked (and, surprisingly, he did not).
By the time they reached the car, which was exactly as she had left it, the sky was beginning to grow lighter. After checking thoroughly for unexpected (unwanted) passengers, they got in the car, and Kate tentatively turned her key, remembering how the car had not wanted to start when she had first woken up in it. But this time, the engine purred like a pampered housecat, and it ran like a dream, as if there had never been a problem in the first place. And perhaps there hadn't; perhaps she had only imagined it would not start.
She turned the car around and headed for the highway.
"I'm surprised you're leaving," said Barry, watching through the window as they left the fog behind them. "We never did find the other people, and you still don't know how it got like this, do you?"
She looked a little sad at this, but when she spoke she did not falter or hesitate. "No. I don't know what happened here. Maybe it was always like this. As for the people… I don't think I could have helped them, even if we had found someone else. I think… I think people who go to Silent Hill end up there because they're caught in their own little private traps. And they get drawn there because it's an escape – one way or the other, the trap gets sprung and you either get out, or you die."
Barry cast a sidelong glance in her direction. "That's pretty philosophical of you."
She scrunched up her nose at that. "Yeah. It's a bit flowery, isn't it? It's just… I dunno, that's the feeling I get. I dunno how else to explain."
"How about this? The town is permanently screwy, and you've finally accepted you can't fix everything, and Silent Hill is just one of those things you can't fix."
She hummed. "Sort of. More like, it might be one of those things I can't fix. You never know. But I decided our lives were more important than finding out for sure."
Barry's eyebrows shot up at that. "Oh, is that so? While I can't say I mind, I must say that isn't very heroic of you at all. Are you sure you're feeling well?"
"It wasn't easy you know. Just leaving like that. I'm not sure it was the right thing to do." She squared her shoulders. "But that was what I decided to do. I have to stay alive to keep you in line so that you don't start killing people again. And you have to stay alive so that I can figure out how to fix you."
"Are you ever going to give up on that? I keep telling you it's hopeless. You can't fix what's not broken."
The fog was gone now, and up ahead, they could see the sun rising in the east, casting a reddish-golden light onto the welcome sight of the east-west highway that would lead them to – that's right, Liore. She had almost forgotten where they'd been going before their little detour. Had they really only been in Silent Hill for one night?
She smirked. "Maybe you're right, but since when has that stopped me?" She fiddled with the radio for a few minutes, hastily skipping over the white-noise channels and empty air, relaxing a little when she finally landed on a station broadcasting a weather report. It was dull, but for the moment, she didn't mind dull so much; it was actually somewhat comforting. "So… Barry, that voice you heard, back in the crematorium… was it that thing you killed in the sewer?" When he didn't answer, she pressed on. "Because it sort of sounded like your…"
"Where were you?" he interrupted.
She blinked. "Huh?"
"You didn't follow me immediately. You took your time. Where were YOU that whole time, hmmm?"
She flexed and un-flexed her hands against the reassuring frame of the steering wheel. "I saw the thing that was chasing us again."
"Annnd?"
"I killed it," she said simply.
"I see. Well, congratulations."
They rode for a few moments in silence. There are some things, they had realized, that should be left to the shadows and the vagueness of memory, that should never be brought out and looked at directly in the light of day. So they left it at that.
"By the way, Barry, can I ask you for a favor?"
He looked at her suspiciously. "That depends entirely on what it is."
"If I look like I'm going to fall asleep at the wheel… wake me up, all right? I've had enough excitement for one road trip, thanks very much."
Chapter 8 Commentary
The title of this chapter comes from a quote by the psychologist Carl Jung: "As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being." This is also meant to bring us full-circle, back to the title of the fic itself (Here comes a candle [to light you to bed]…). This could merely refer to the coming of dawn, or Kate waking up from the "darkness" of unconsciousness, or it could apply to her going after Barry… or goodness knows what else. So many choices! (Plus it was a good excuse to quote Carl Jung.)
"We are fascinated by the darkness in ourselves, we are fascinated by the shadow, we are fascinated by the boogeyman." – Anthony Hopkins
Oh, yes. Anthony Hopkins IS the boogeyman. But I do love him so. (If you need me to explain to you who he is, I shun you. Go look him up on IMDB.) Hannibal Lecter was the only mortal movie serial killer who ever managed to haunt my dreams.
"I don't feel guilty for anything. I feel sorry for people who feel guilt." – Ted Bundy
ANOTHER Ted Bundy quote. Honestly, I am not obsessed with him. It's just when I looked up serial killer quotes to use for the chapters, a lot of his quotes especially appealed to me. So there you have it.
I want to hurt you, and destroy myself. / What would you think / if you knew how I felt?
Another bit from the Stanley Coleman puzzle poem from SH3. No, Kate did not write this… but that doesn't mean it doesn't have anything to do with her and her feelings. Or Barry and his feelings, for that matter. Oh, my, I do love ambiguity and symbolism. :3
"Then why haven't you killed her yet?"
That, of course, is the million dollar question, isn't it? :P
"And they all came back, didn't they?"
In case you forgot, this is referring to the Striders, which may (or may not!) have been incarnations of Barry's female victims. But he didn't seem too upset about them – in fact, if you'll recall, he said they were his favorites to hunt down. Clearly there's a difference between them (who had no faces, remember) and the Memory of Ann (which does have somewhat of a face, although only Barry would ever be able to see a resemblance to Ann in it).
"Barry… what have you done?" he thought he heard the head whisper.
The question is, did he really hear it, or was it all in his head? 8D
As you wish, you may destroy me— I wouldn't care.
One more line from Stanley Coleman, because I love him so. This is also from the same poem – I believe it's the last lines, if I'm not mistaken. Again, this could pertain to Barry or to Kate, or even to the Memory of Ann. Hurm…
Then they heard the sirens, and their sight went dark, and they prepared for the headache that always accompanied both… but this time, the transformation was painless…
One last transition back to Fog World. Or perhaps the Real World… or perhaps there never was a difference between the two in the first place… (Muahaha.) The pain is gone because the struggle is over… or something like that.
"I think people who go to Silent Hill end up there because they're caught in their own little private traps."
Major kudos to anyone who caught this small reference. This was an indirect quote of Norman Bates, as played by the adorable (and talented) Anthony Perkins in the original 1960 Hitchcock film, Psycho. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: that movie is pure cinematic perfection. (And the remake is complete crap. Sorry, but even Viggo Mortensen couldn't save that one for me.) Anyway, the original quote (my favorite part) goes like this: "I think that we're all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out. We scratch and we claw, but only at the air, only at each other. And for all of it, we never budge an inch."
