~The Whimsical Adventures of Princess Heart!~

Episode 09: Love and War!

Light flashed, thunder boomed. Rain pattered noisily against the window. Andrew DeSalvo knelt down before the makeshift monument in his bedroom, candles lit and surrounding him in the darkness. His head was buried in his hands, prayer beads tangled between his fingers. He muttered under his breath, quickly, harshly. The storm raged on outside, growing in intensity.

A noise came from the direction of the living room: a thud. DeSalvo looked up briefly, holding still to the air, and then returned to his praying. The storm seemed to grow more intense, the rain beating harder and the thunder booming louder. Some heavy footfalls stopped before the bedroom.

DeSalvo looked up and froze. Standing in the doorway was a large, daunting man, covered in a thick, navy blue raincoat. He was drenched, water dripping all over the carpet. He was still, his long, defined jaw just barely visible under the hood.

"It's—it's you," DeSalvo said quietly. "You've come for me at last." He began to laugh, a nervous, broken titter. "Walter Sullivan! They've sent you to kill me!"

"Watchfulness," Sullivan said, his voice hardly audible. He walked over to DeSalvo's shaking, panicked form and grabbed him roughly by the shoulders.

"No, please!" DeSalvo screamed. "Please, I don't want to die! Please don't kill me! Oh, God—don't kill me! Please!"

Sullivan dragged him to the restroom, where DeSalvo screamed again, seeing the light on and the tub filled with water. "No!" he roared. "No, please!" He struggled vainly as Sullivan forced his head under the water.

---

"Jasper was number seventeen," Henry said at the lunch table the next day. He screwed his eyes up, sighing. "I mean—motherfucker. Of all the people."

"There's no way we could've known," James told him from across the table. "Still—you think Sullivan—or his copycat—actually burnt down the whole house just to kill him?"

"I don't know," Henry said, looking up. "Point is, we're back to square one. Someone else is dead that we could've saved. That's all it fucking means."

"That guy, DeSalvo," James said, "he'll be the next one, right? Maybe we should go back today—"

"What does it fucking matter?" Henry despaired. "We can't move fast enough—we can't keep up with this guy. There are only four people left. If DeSalvo's the next one—who are the last three after that? Fuck, James, who are the last three?"

"I don't know, Henry," James snapped. "I just—there has to be a way. If Jasper was the last victim—then—maybe Eddie knows something!"

"Dombrowski?" Henry asked, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not interested in participating in any more blood oaths with that fat son of a bitch."

"Maybe you won't have to," James said. "He's a human being, even if he doesn't have any tact."

"So, what? You want to tell him everything? James, the guy's a fucking psycho. Who knows what he'll do with that type of stuff if we tell him."

James sighed, shrugging. "Well, that's my input. If you have a better idea, I'm all ears."

Henry chuckled, surprised. "What's up your ass today? You've been kind of uppity."

"Henry, please! I'm trying to help you. We're in this now, right? I mean, we're really in it now. There's no going back."

"I'm just saying—when did you grow balls all of a sudden?" Henry stood up and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Listen, we'll go see Dombrowski. You're right—he might know something. And if he asks me to sign my name on the goddamn dotted line—well, I'm done with deals with the devil. How about it?"

James nodded, standing. "Alright. We should go now, while there's still time in lunch."

"Okay, then. Let's go."

---

"It's too bad Claudia couldn't come today," Eileen said, sitting on a bench outside the cafeteria. The air was warm, the sun shining high in the sky. She threw a couple of chocolate almonds into her mouth. "She really likes those mashed potatoes," she said between munches.

Heather leaned against a column, hands behind her head, blowing between her lips. She looked to her friend. "Hey, Eileen," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Huh?"

Heather shrugged, facing her. "Well, you know. Prom's in a couple of days, and—I don't know—are you okay?"

Eileen smiled reassuringly. "Heather, I told you. I'm fine with it. It's just one date, you know? It won't hurt."

"That's not the point," Heather said with a sigh. "You don't have to do it. Don't even go—just stay home. We'll watch a movie, or something." She laughed. "Screw the prom if it's with Dumbrowski, right?"

Eileen popped some more raisins into her mouth. "It's not like I want to go," she said, swallowing. "I don't, obviously. But—this is for Henry. I need to, um, defend his honor, I guess."

"Like he defended yours?" Heather queried. "Listen, Eileen, you don't owe him anything. I don't even understand what you see in him. He's a loser. He's rude and obnoxious and sexist and dirty and—"

"I get it, Heather," Eileen said. "I know he's a little rough around the edges, but I have to at least do this for him. Okay? Just let me do it, and then it'll be over. I won't bring him up ever again."

Heather sat down beside her, smoothing out a patch of Eileen's hair. "Just—you deserve better than this. It's not right that you have to play along with these boneheads."

"It's all cool, bitch," Eileen told her. "But—I do need a dress."

"What?" Heather stared at her. "Prom's, like, in two days, and you don't have a dress?"

"No, lol."

"Well, shit, Eileen. We're going to have to get you one."

---

"Dombrowski, open up! It's Townshend!" Henry slammed on the door with a fist repeatedly. "Dombrowski!"

"Henry, stop," James said calmly. "They won't let us in unless we give them the, uh—password?"

"Fuck the password," Henry said. "I have important business to discuss with Dombrowski, and I fucking refuse to budge until he lets me in. I—"

"Keep your damn voice down, Townshend," Eddie said, suddenly opening the door. Henry and James turned to him; he was somewhat shaggier, his baseball cap lopsided on his head, but the same leer remained. "I'll make an exception for you two this time. Come on in."

They entered, the chemistry lab dark and moody. Eddie closed the door behind them. "Where's Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum?" Henry asked, snickering. "You know, except that Tweedle-Dee's dead."

"Very funny, Townshend," Dombrowski said, turning to him. "For your information, Angela didn't come to school today. I guess she's still hung up on what happened to Jasper."

"I'm—sorry about that," James said. "It's—"

"I don't want your pity," Eddie said, cutting him off. He laughed. "Not that it matters, anyway. Jasper must have deserved it—otherwise, why would he have died? A karmic death, you know?"

"That's kind of twisted," Henry said. "So, what? We all deserve death?"

"No, not exactly," Eddie said. "It's simple, Townshend. Jasper deserved his fate—they all did. Him, that Velasquez girl, all the others—they must have led pretty terrible lives."

"How can you say that?" James asked. "These people were innocent!"

"You're not the fucking judge of good and evil," Henry said darkly. "Hell, I wonder how you'd feel if the guy came knocking on your door, decided you'd be the next one to die."

"Well, if that were the case, I say bring it on." Eddie laughed. "Divine retribution, Townshend! That's all it is. We make our lot in this world, my friends—whatever we put in, we get out. If they're dead—well, we're probably better off that way."

Henry shook his head, abhorred. "You're disgusting," he said. "Is that what you really think of Jasper? You think he's better off dead?"

"Don't fool yourself, Townshend." Eddie gestured around himself, chuckling. "You think I'm bad because I consider the facts? You're totally out of your depth. Jasper was a—good something—not really a friend. Did we hang out? Sure, sometimes. But it was a relationship borne out of convenience." He motioned to the two of them. "The same can be said of your friendship, probably. At the end of the day, do either of you really care about the other?"

"I think so," James said after a moment. "I mean, you're right about it being convenient—we do things to serve ourselves. But we can also go beyond that, you know? There are—better things in this world, like love, trust. I might not know how Henry really feels about me, but he's here—and that has to count for something."

"Amen, brother," Henry said, smirking. "You can try to get under our skin all you want, Dombrowski, but you'll never know what it's like to have someone you can always depend on. We're best friends—that's never going to change."

Eddie laughed slowly, shrugging. "How admirable!" he said. "The two heroes put their faith in something as flawed as friendship!" He shook his head. "You can think what you want. You see, I'm more interested in what you're doing here, Townshend. I thought about Jasper—about how he's another victim of that copycat killer—and it occurred to me—wasn't it you who was so interested in Joseph Schreiber? And wasn't it Joseph Schreiber who was investigating Walter Sullivan?"

"What's your point, Dombrowski?"

"Oh, well, nothing in particular." Eddie chuckled. "I'm just wondering. Why are you looking into Schreiber, Townshend? What are you trying to find?"

Henry sighed. "I'll come right out and say it, then, since you're so good at putting things together—Schreiber was trying to stop Sullivan, asshole—and that's what we're trying to do, too. We're trying to save these people."

"You're—trying to save—" Eddie burst into giggles. "You're trying to stop this copycat? Oh—oh, wow! And here I thought you were—at least somewhat capable of redemption, Townshend!" He turned to James, laughing. "And you, Sunderland? You're helping him? You're going along with this?"

"Eddie, please," James said. "All we want to know is if Jasper told you anything—was afraid of something—"

"Jasper's dead," Eddie said bluntly. "You can't save him anymore—not that you could have, in the first place. I don't know what game you two are playing, but I suggest you get out of it." He looked from one to the other, shaking his head. "You want to play hero? Just FYI—Sullivan killed for years. Killed himself. Now some copycat's on the loose, picking up where he left off. I'm supposed to believe that some teenage asshats are anything against that? Don't make me laugh."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Henry said, "but we're being serious, goddamn it. Do you know anything?"

"No—no, I don't." Eddie smiled. "And why would I tell you anything, if I did? Just leave. Get out of here." Henry and James exchanged glances, idling, and Eddie waved them off. "Get out of here! I already told you."

"Alright, alright," Henry said. "Don't get your fucking panties into a bunch. We're leaving. Come on, James." They turned and walked out, Eddie watching them silently.

Once outside, the door closed, Henry let out a short chuckle. "You know, he's right," he said. "This is too dangerous."

"I've been telling you that since the beginning," James said with a halfhearted laugh. "We really are out of our depth."

"Yeah." Suddenly Henry's expression softened; his eyes became gentle. "That's why I have to do this alone," he said quietly.

"What?"

"I have to do it alone, James." He turned to him, smiling. "You're my best friend, James—I can admit that proudly. We could die. I couldn't save Velasquez—Alex almost bit it, too. I don't want that to happen to you. You never wanted this. You don't need to have it."

He sighed. "So, please—let me do it on my own."

"Henry, come on." James shook his head. "I told you I was going to help you—I told you that you didn't have to do it on your own! Let me help you! You don't have to—"

"I do, James," Henry said. "I do. Thanks—thanks a lot—but I have to do the rest on my own. If you die—I couldn't live with myself. Not you."

"Henry—" But suddenly Henry was embracing him.

"No one gives a shit about me," Henry said, patting him on the back. "But there are people who give a shit about you, James, so I can't let you do this."

"Why are you so stubborn?" James asked, Henry pulling away. "I give a shit about you; Alex gives a shit about you—"

"That's not my point," Henry said, smiling. "I can die. That's okay. But you—you've got stuff to live for. So you should start living. You should find Mary—ask her to go to the prom with you. You shouldn't worry about all this crazy shit. It's not worth it."

He turned away, preparing to leave, but James called after him. "But why does it have to be you?" he asked. "Why do you have to be the one do this?"

Henry stopped. "Because—because I looked into that bastard's eyes, James." He looked back at him. "Because he'll kill me, too."

---

James wandered into the library after school, glancing around at the few wooden shelves and the carpet under his feet. Some art projects were on display on the front desk—miniature houses and crafts. He studied them with mild interest. When he turned towards the tables, he stopped.

Sitting at one near the back of the room, beside a window, was Mary, her hair down, her attention kept by the papers scattered before her. She was sitting alone, in her own world, separate from the other students who were joking around at another table. James approached her.

"Hey, Mary," he said, and she looked up at him. Her eyes lit up.

"James," she said. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah." He motioned towards a chair. "Is it okay for me to sit down?"

"Of course," she replied, giggling. "I'm just doing some homework. I've been absent a lot, so—it's starting to pile up." She tried a weak smile. "It's pretty crazy."

"Doesn't Maria help you?" he asked, and her smile dropped.

"Maria? No—she couldn't care less about school." She shook her head. "Sometimes I think it's stupid how our parents named us like that. Mary—Maria. We couldn't be any more different."

"It's true," James said, chuckling. "I hadn't noticed that. Mary and Maria."

"Yeah. It's cute, isn't it? Actually, she's stayed home lately, too. After her friend was found—well, you know what happened. I think it hit her pretty hard."

"Yeah." James nodded, watching her continue to work. He smiled at her brow furrowing, at the way she seesawed her pencil. "Mary." he said.

"Yeah?"

"Would you go to the prom with me?"

She looked up at him. "Prom?" she asked. She broke out, beaming. "I—yeah! Yeah, of course I would go with you."

James found himself beaming, as well. "Really?"

"Yeah!" She laughed. "I—I'll have to get a dress, and—" She stopped, her smile faltering. James leaned forward.

"What's—what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said quickly, mustering another smile. "Nothing. I was just thinking—it's nothing. I just, uh—I just wasn't expecting to go, you know?"

"Well, you are now," he said. "We can go with Alex and Elle."

"Yeah." She giggled. "Yeah, I—thanks, James."

"Thanks?"

"Yeah, just—thanks."

---

"Alright, I'm ready!"

Heather grinned outside the dressing room, hands on hips. "Well, come on out, bitch!"

Hesitantly Eileen poked her head out before finally stepping into view. Heather squealed with delight upon seeing the sleeveless violet gown. "Oh my God, Eileen!" she exclaimed, eyes watering. "Jesus, I can still remember the days when you were hardly any taller than my knee."

"Shut up," Eileen said, smiling. "Does it look good? It's a little tight."

"Oh, nonsense." Heather circled her, eyeing the dress and its form. "It fits you perfectly. Emphasizes your ass."

"That's good, right?"

"Well, maybe not with Dumbrowski around—but otherwise, yeah." Heather drew a breath. "You look good, Eileen. If I was a lesbian, I wouldn't mind eating you out."

Eileen giggled. "You're such a slut, Heather."

"Yeah. So, is it a keeper?"

Eileen looked about herself, shrugging. "Yeah, I guess so. Let me change and then we can go."

"Sure." As Eileen returned to the dressing room, Heather roamed away to a nearby rack of dresses and blouses. The store was crowded with other girls and women; overhead some soft lounge music played. She was in the midst of admiring a nice, velvet red dress when a laugh caught her attention.

"Hey there, Princess Heart."

Heather turned round to the voice, her eyes widening. "Lisa?"

"I'm glad you remember," Lisa said, smirking. She saw Heather instinctively reach for the pocket mirror and held up a hand. "Hold your horses there, cowgirl. I'm not here to fight."

"Then why are you here at all?" Heather clenched her fists. "Aren't you after that seal thing?"

"Yes—yes, we are." She motioned to Heather's pocket. "It's right there, as a matter of fact. All I'd have to do is take it." She laughed upon witnessing Heather back away. "Chill out—I'm just stating the obvious. When all's said and done, you're really nothing without it. You're just any other girl without that little trinket."

"Even without this little trinket, I could still probably kick all your asses."

Lisa laughed. "I don't doubt it, Princess Heart. You've got fire—spunk. But if that fire gets too hot, you'll get burnt."

Heather narrowed her eyes at the woman. "What are you trying to say?"

"Oh, nothing much. I'm just here to give you a fair warning of things to come." She looked around at the dresses, sighing. "You know, I remember my prom. Midwich High School—gosh, it's been forever. Have you ever been to Silent Hill, Princess?"

"Silent Hill?" Heather cocked an eyebrow. "Isn't that the resort town?"

"Yeah," Lisa said. "I grew up there. Quaint little place—until the Order dug its nails in." She shrugged. "Well, it's not really important. My point is, we have other alternatives if we can't get our hands on that seal of yours."

Suddenly, Selina flew up from Heather's pocket, buzzing. "What do you want with it?" she demanded. "What do you want with the seal? With the other fairies?"

"The fairies are the guardians of the seal," Lisa said. "They live under our noses—in their own little world. We don't particularly need them for anything—they just got in the way." She waved a hand at the fairy. "Don't worry your little head, sprite. We'll release them eventually."

"You didn't answer the question," Heather said. "What do you need this thing for?"

Lisa tapped her chin, thinking. "You know, it is a really good question. To be honest with you, I'm not totally sure."

Heather let out a short chuckle. "You don't even know why you're trying to get it? You're just the same as Vincent. Who's in charge of you guys? Who's pulling the strings?"

"I don't know exactly why we need it," Lisa said, "but I am aware that it's an object of great power. With that power, the Order will be the ones to bring about a change in humanity. We can do anything once all the pieces of the Seal of Metatron are reunited."

"Well, tough luck," Heather said. "I won't let you have it. You guys can't just whatever you want."

"Fair enough," Lisa replied. "Just keep what I said in mind. Even without confronting you directly, there are other ways to get what we need."

"Heather, who are you talking to?" Eileen asked from the dressing room as she rounded the corner, dress slung over her arm. She tightened up upon seeing Lisa. "It's you!"

"Oh, good, the sidekick," Lisa said, smiling. "Well, I already said what I had to say. You two can continue—doing whatever it is you're doing." She once again looked around at the dresses, somewhat wistful. "You should enjoy it while you can."

She walked out, and Eileen turned to Heather, confused. "What did she want?" she asked. "Is she going to do something?"

"No, I don't think so," Heather said. She watched the woman through the window. "I think she just—wanted to warn me."

---

"DeSalvo's dead."

Henry lay on his bed, arm over his forehead, staring up at the ceiling fan making its rounds. Once more, soft, white light seeped in through the windows, giving the room a heavenly glow. His sheets were wet with blood, and Cynthia was beside him, her arm draped over his chest. Her hair was down, matted to her forehead; the numbers on her breast seemed alight in the haze.

"How do you know?" he asked.

"I just do," she said. "He drowned. He was—he was scared. Just like me." She gripped his shirt, her tanned fingers caked with red. "I was so terrified. I'd never been so scared in my life."

Henry said nothing, instead keeping his eyes on the fan, following its circles. "I said I would make it up to you—but I don't think I can. Jasper, DeSalvo—who's next? Who's Sullivan going after now?"

"Why did you send your friend away?" she asked. "He wanted to help you."

"I can't let James get hurt," Henry said. "I don't want anymore people to die."

"So you don't have to feel guilty?"

"No, I—" He stopped short, sighing. "Maybe. Maybe."

"It's okay to feel that way."

"No—no, it's not. Why did I get into this bullshit in the first place? What the fuck was I looking for, Velasquez?"

"You should go back," she said, closing her eyes. "To that room."

"Schreiber had to know more," he said. "There's something else. There has to be."

"Just be careful. You won't be able to save anyone if you're dead."

"I know." He sat up, sighing. "I won't let you down, Velasquez. I promise." But when he turned to her, she was gone, and his bed was dry and clean, and the room was dark.

---

"I'm glad you could come," Harry said, glancing over at Michelle as she busily cut up tomatoes at the other side of the kitchen.

"Of course," she said, smiling. "I just hope I don't make too big of a mess here. God only knows I'm not the tidiest person."

"Make as big a mess you want," Harry said with a laugh. "The only way I get to keep busy is when I'm cleaning."

Michelle laughed, her eyes wandering the countertop until they settled on a framed photograph in the corner. "Is that—your wife?" she inquired, and Harry turned to the photograph, his mouth a grim line.

"Yes," he said thickly after a moment. "I'm sorry. I hope it doesn't bother you. Heather—she likes it up."

"Oh—oh, no, it's all right," Michelle said, mustering a smile. "It's okay. She's very beautiful."

"Was very beautiful," Harry said lowly. "Just—forget about it. This is supposed to be a good night, isn't it? I wouldn't want you to have wasted your night over a widow's past."

"You're right," she said, returning to the tomatoes. "I guess I could always read one of your books, right?"

"I don't recommend that," Harry replied with a chuckle. "I'm afraid none of them are ever as good once they're done. You lose some of the mystique—and you just never get it back."

"Spoken like a true author," she said.

He shook his head, occupying himself with churning some salsa. "It's just a little wisdom I've picked up over the years. Nothing more, nothing less."

As their small talk continued, Chip got up, yelping happily. The door shut, and Heather appeared from the foyer. "Dad, I'm ho—" She stopped, surprised by the sight of Michelle. "Oh," she said. "You must be the girlfriend."

"And you must be the daughter," Michelle said with a smile. "I'm Michelle. I've heard a lot about you from your dad." She held out her hand, but Heather merely looked at it, her eyes moving from Harry back to the hand before her.

"I'm sure you have," Heather said, glancing up at her. "Um—what are you doing here?"

Harry cleared his throat. "Michelle's going to be having dinner with us tonight," he said. "I invited her the other day. I was hoping we could all break the ice—get to know each other."

"Yeah," Michelle said. "I wasn't sure if—if it was such a good idea—but your dad insisted." She gestured back at the food in the kitchen. "I was just helping him get ready."

"Yeah, well, okay. You have fun with that." Heather passed her by, heading for the stairs. She stopped on the first steps, glancing at Harry. "Thanks a lot, Dad."

He watched her go up, and behind him Michelle sighed. "Have fun with that," she repeated, drawing a breath. "You know, Harry—maybe it really wasn't such a good idea that I came after all."

"No," Harry said quickly, turning back to her. "No, just—just let me talk to her. Don't go. Please."

She shook her head. "No, I'd better go. Thank you for inviting me, but—well, just go ahead and call me later, okay?"

"Michelle—"

But she had already left, closing the door behind her. Harry stood there, staring at the door, Chip at his feet, tail wagging.

Heather lay on her side in the darkness of her room, the closet light on, a thin ribbon of yellow streaking through the shadows. The door opened, and Harry entered. "What was that?" he demanded. "How could you be so rude?"

"Me?" Heather snapped, sitting up, scowling at him. "What the hell was she doing down there, cooking with you? Acting like she's your wife? You barely even know her! She's just some—some bimbo you met out on the street!"

Harry averted his gaze, sighing. "You don't know her, either," he said. "You have no right to say that—about her, about anyone else. I invited her here so that we could get to know each other better, so that if I see her more often, maybe—maybe things could work out. I thought you'd—you'd like that."

"Well, news flash," she replied, "I don't. I don't need another mom. I never even knew my real one."

"You think this is about replacing your mother? Heather, I've gone almost thirteen years without even thinking about it. Michelle is a nice girl. She makes me feel—a little less burdened. A little less tired."

"You were fine for thirteen years, just like you said," Heather told him. "We don't need someone else! What's wrong with the way things are now? We've been perfectly fine all this time! I mean, if Mom—"

"Whoever you think your mother was—she wasn't!" Harry snapped, silencing her. The reality of his words hit him, and he rubbed his eyes. "I know it's hard. You can hardly remember her—and you have questions. There are things you want to know. But, believe me, you're better off not knowing. You're right—what we have now is something good—something safe. I just need something for myself, okay? I need something—fresh, different. I look at Michelle, and I don't have to worry about everything else—at least for a little while."

Heather grimaced and turned back onto her side. "Whatever. Do what you want."

Harry shook his head, smiling sadly. "You'll get what you want. I won't call her—I won't even think about it." He left, closing the door, and Heather remained like that in the silence. Selina emerged from her pocket.

"Don't you think you're being too harsh?"

"Shut up."

END EPISODE 09

Prom is finally here! As the fateful night unfolds, Walter Sullivan's murderous rampage reaches its conclusion, but who will be left standing in its wake? And just what devious plan does the Order have schemed for the aftermath?

Next time on The Whimsical Adventures of Princess Heart!

"Episode 10: A Night to Remember!"

Get ready!

DISCLAIMER: "Silent Hill" and all material therein are the property of its respective copyright holders