I dream about Tom and Trent.
Weird thing to dream about at a time like this. Weird to know that I'm dreaming at all. I'm in that strange state where I know I'm asleep and can even sense to some degree the position of my body - on my back, legs and arms straight - but my dreaming state isn't lucid. I can only watch passively as events unfold before me.
Events, I might add, of which I'm already perfectly aware. In my normal dreams, things tend to get surreal fairly quickly, even though they also involve people, places, and things that I'm familiar with. What I'm seeing now are more like memories, however, thoroughly realistic and based completely on what I remember happening.
Trent was my first crush. He embodied so many things that I viewed as "cool" when I was younger. The slacker attitude, the lanky frame, even the tattoos and piercings. And he was - and still is, actually - in a band. Which is the magical phrase for any teenage girl, I think, as if being "in a band" automatically makes someone cool even if the band in question is awful.
Which, let's be honest, Mystik Spiral most definitely is. They've got some promise, but they don't practice as often or as seriously as they could. And that was part of what led to the downfall of my crush.
Trent is nice. I still like Trent. He's a great guy. But even though he had so many things about him that I was attracted to superficially, I eventually learned that these were not the things I wanted in someone I would actually spend my life with. Yes, I slack myself, but not on the things that are important. As nice as Trent is, he's unreliable, and that would have gradually eaten away at any relationship with him.
So I let the crush go.
And then there was Tom. Tom and I . . . well, it's very complicated in its simplicity.
I stole Tom from Jane. I don't bother trying to deny it to anyone anymore, not even myself. I didn't mean to, of course, and it's not like he's totally blameless, but still, I wanted it as much as he did. With him it was the total opposite of Trent. I wasn't attracted to how cool and different he was, I was attracted to how much he and I were alike. Even now we have a lot of the same interests and attitudes, despite our different upbringings.
But that, I think, is what caused us to eventually break up. We had our problems as a couple, but what ultimately drove us apart was that we were just too similar and it got boring after a while. The relationship had run its course, so I ended it.
Except . . . I didn't really, did I? At one point I thought I had shoved aside any thoughts of Trent, but they came screaming back not long after. It took him actively blowing off something that was extremely important to both me and Jane to finally close that door forever.
And if honesty with myself really is what I'm going for here, the severance from Tom wasn't exactly clean either. So many nights I would find myself picking up the phone and automatically start dialing his number. Five numbers in and I would cancel the call, staring at the phone and trying not to let the vise suddenly trying to grip my heart take hold.
I found that I couldn't watch bad movies without missing his arm around my shoulder. I lost the piercing critic for my stories, the voice of reason that made me so mad sometimes, the understanding and the patience. We were still ostensibly friends, so supposedly I could still get many of those things from him. But even if we weren't taking a break from each other, which we were, it still wouldn't have been quite the same.
Not that I was going to try and get him back. I learned my lesson with Trent. There's no point in trying to force something that just isn't going to work. But the feelings were still there regardless.
So I ran away from them. One of the reasons I left Lawndale so early was to get away from the psychic pollution left in the wake of our breakup.
Just like I left to get away from Jane, the way she almost seemed to be watching me constantly. To get away from Mom and Dad and their constant fretting.
To get away from Quinn.
Well. We see how well that one worked out.
But . . . even as I'm remembering Tom, I think I might finally be ready to move on from that episode, just like I did with Trent. Maybe it's just the dream talking. I don't know. But we never would have worked out. Staying with or going back to him simply would have made both of us miserable. Ending it before one or both of us really got hurt is simply for the best.
Man, I really hope I remember all of this after I wake up.
I come to in a small room dimly lit by the fluorescent bulbs overhead. Next to me are a rolling tray and a plastic and metal chair, like from a cheap hospital waiting room. I'm on a cot and my left wrist is handcuffed to a handicap bar running along the wall.
I'm somewhat concerned.
At least I'm still wearing most of my clothes. My jacket and backpack are missing, as are my boots and socks, but at least I've still got my shirt, jeans, glasses, and - most importantly - my underwear. The bandages are missing from around my legs, leaving the scar tissue underneath perfectly visible through the gaping holes in my pants. "Concerned" has just been upgraded to "slightly pissed".
Just as I'm about to start venting my anger, there's a knock at the door. If it's my captor, at least he has some kind of manners. I'll have to remember that and politely kick him in the balls the second I get the chance. I decide not to answer and simply wait until the door opens and in steps David, to nobody's particular surprise.
"Oh, you are awake!" he says when he notices me sitting up and trying to bore a hole into his head with my eyes. In his hands he holds a plate, which he takes over to the rolling tray before sitting down and scooting close to me.
Not close enough for me to actually grab him, of course. The bastard.
"Are you feeling alright?" he asks.
I rub my free hand over my face and sigh. "Was that chloroform?"
"Yes, sorry about that."
"You know it could've killed me, right?" I demand angrily. "It could have given me a heart attack. I have a family history, you asshole."
The look on his face is priceless. It almost reminds me of how my old Language Arts teacher Mr. O'Neill would look after someone called him out on saying something stupid. Which was most of the things he said.
"I didn't know-"
I lift the handcuffs and rattle them against the handicap bar, interrupting him. "Let me go."
"Well now, see, I can't do that," he says, trying to sound reasonable. "I brought you here so we could talk. Here, I got you something. You can eat while we talk."
He pushes the tray over, and I look down at the slab of slightly pinkish meat on the plate. It's cooked, but I don't immediately recognize what it is. Pork, maybe, or turkey. It's too big to be chicken, unless it came from some kind of processed loaf.
"No, thanks," I tell him.
"Aw, come on. You've gotta be tired of those Health Drinks by now. It's good for you! I cooked it myself!" He tears off a small bit and pops it in his mouth, chewing it with relish. "See? Perfectly safe, and miiiiighty tasty!"
"Where's my stuff?"
He bites his lip and hesitates. "In the next room over," he finally says.
"I want it all back."
"Yes, I'm sure you do, but if you'd just talk to me-"
"I am talking to you, and I'm telling you that I want you to let me go and give me back my stuff right this second."
The friendly act drops like a 16 ton weight. It's replaced by a cold glare that I only get to see for a second before he swats the back of his hand across my face, knocking my glasses askew and forcing a surprised scream of pain from my lungs. Holding my sore cheek in my free hand, I look back up to see that he's standing over me, his face dark with anger.
"You know, some people would actually have the decency to be afraid of the guy who just drugged them and chained them to a bed," he says in a flat, emotionless tone. "I am trying to be reasonable here. I am trying to be a good host. Do not sass me, little girl."
Every fiber of my being tells me not to take this guy's shit, that he's just another Silent Hill monster I have to deal with. Every other fiber of my being is scared shitless. If little voice had any kind of advice to give, now would be a good time. But it stays stubbornly quiet for once, so I stay quiet as well and concentrate on not wetting myself.
"Now," David says, sitting back down, "let's talk. I brought you here so I could apologize for my actions earlier. You were right. I shouldn't have tried to kill that guy. That was . . . inappropriate of me. And maybe I should have let you know that I was following you. But . . . I only did these things because I care about you, Melody! I know we've only just met, but I think there's a real connection between us!
"And, well," he continues, suddenly bashful of all things, "there's the whole 'we're in an apocalyptic wasteland' thing we have to consider."
Despite my fear, I can't help but let out a "What."
He rubs the back of his neck and fidgets nervously. In anyone else it might be kind of cute, but under the circumstances his mask of humanity just makes it all the creepier.
Oh, dammit. I thought he was kind of cute when we first met, didn't I? Way to pick 'em, Morgendorffer.
"Well," he says, "you know. We might be two of the only people left on the planet. We'll need to . . . repopulate."
I'm not sure what's more disturbing, what he's suggesting or the fact that he's suggesting it because he obviously doesn't know our real situation despite having been here longer than me. No, scratch that. What he's suggesting is definitely the most disturbing thing, and I can feel my blood turning to ice water just at the thought of him touching me, let alone doing . . . doing that.
I don't think he can recognize the obvious disgust and fear on my face, because he's looking at me almost expectantly, waiting for my answer. And given the circumstances, I'm not entirely sure what my answer is going to be. Next time I might get more than just slapped.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. I swallow, getting some spit worked up for my suddenly dry throat, then try again. What comes out surprises me almost as much as it does him.
"Can I have a fork?"
He blinks. "I'm sorry?"
Thinking fast, I glance over at the tray next to me and say, "I think I'll try eating after all. Could I get a fork?"
"Um . . . I don't think that's the best idea," he says, eying me suspiciously.
"I'm not going to try and hurt you with it, and I'm not asking for a knife," I tell him in as meek a tone as I can manage, then raise my cuffed hand. "It's not like I could get to you with it or anything. I just think I might be a little more amenable toward hearing you out if you didn't force me to eat like an animal. We human beings gotta stick together, right?"
Hearing his own words echoed back at him apparently does the trick. "Okay," he says, some of the old friendliness seeping back into his demeanor. "I'll go see what I can find. You just sit tight, okay?"
As if I'm going to be sitting any other way around you. Jesus.
And after he leaves, I work on not having to sit around anymore at all. Flipping around on the cot, I put both my feet up against the handicap bar with my cuffed hand between them. He said my stuff was in the next room. Hopefully that wasn't a lie or this is really going to suck.
Okay, Daria, you can do this. You can do it. Shit. Shit shit shit. This is going to hurt so damn much, but I can do it. I can do it I can do it I can do it. And with four quick breaths and a soft cry of anticipation for the pain to come, I try to fold my fingers in as close as I can and PUSH!
"Aaaaa . . . rrrrr," I wheeze, clamping my throat down on the scream that's trying to rip its way past. It feels like my hand is being ripped off, it feels like the skin is pulling right off the bone, but that might because that is exactly what is fucking happening!
Looking down I can see blood, and it's dripping down onto the cot, staining the already nasty grey sheets bright red, but still I pull and I pull and I pull until suddenly I come free and fall off the side to hit the ground with my spine.
That's okay, that's okay, just take a few seconds to roll around on the ground in pain. That's okay. But hurry up and get out before he gets back.
Oh, hello little voice. How nice that all it took to bring you back was a little self-mutilation. But yes, time to get up, time to see how things are going with my extremities. Oh, wow, would you look at that. That should make an interesting scar, like a thin little skin bracelet. Quinn will be so jealous.
Heheh. Heh.
My teeth grind against each other as I continue to keep up my streak of not screaming, now compounded with trying to not giggle maniacally. I stand up, cradling my hurt hand to my chest, and pad over the door. The tile is cold against the soles of my feet. I try to concentrate on that rather than the ball of fire attached to the end of my wrist and thoughts that my pinkie finger might have gotten snapped at some point during the process.
I stand with my ear up against the door, listening. Either David isn't immediately outside, he is outside and isn't moving around, or this door is soundproof either way. I hope for the first and turn the knob. Thankfully the door is open, probably since he didn't think I'd be getting up and wandering out any time soon.
The hallway is dark, but just lit enough to tell that it's also empty. There's a small alcove to my right with a couple of double doors leading off from it and a third door marked as a unisex restroom. More doors line the hallway off to my left. I immediately duck into the one next to the room I was just in.
Whatever else David may have lied about, he wasn't trying to trick me about my stuff being in the next room. I sigh with relief when I see my missing clothes and gear sitting bundled in the far corner next to the rumpled cot. The first thing I do is awkwardly pull open my backpack and grab one of the Health Drinks inside. It's nasty warm, but my ruined wrist begins to twitch and wriggle, and that's all that matters.
There's no telling when he'll be back, so I start getting everything I can back on while my hand is in the process of healing. First things first, I arm myself by slipping on the shoulder holster and pistol. Then I slip my jacket back on, and though it's torn and shredded in places, it still feels like greeting an old friend that's been gone for far too long. Backpack over that, then I sort the most of my weapons back into their proper spots. The katana I leave off for the moment, grabbing it and my boots up before heading back out the door.
The coast is still clear. I panic for a moment when I realize I don't know which way David might have gone, so I don't know which way I should go, but before I become deadlocked I pick left randomly and start trying to doors along the right side of the hall. All the ones on the left seem like they probably go into more tiny rooms with no other exits, so I pass them by to save time.
I reach a small recess containing an elevator just as the creaky sound of rusty door hinges echoes through the area from behind me. I duck around the corner and wait until I hear the footfalls disappear into the room I formerly occupied. Not wanting to risk another incident like the one back at the station, I ignore the lift and try the door next to it, which opens with a soft whisper into the emergency stairwell.
I'm halfway down the first flight when I hear a muffled wail of anger and frustration come from above. I stop, heart thumping, as a series of stomps, shouts, and crashing noises come through the walls. I can only guess that it's David, and that he's not very happy that I escaped.
Good. Not wasting another second, I pound down the steps two at a time to make sure that escape is complete.
I pass a door that tells me I'm on the second floor now, but I don't stop. I need out of this place, away from my crazed stalker, and for that I need to get one more flight down.
I can't slam the door open when I reach it due to all the junk in my arms, but that's probably for the best. He might be able to hear the noise even at this distance and there might be something waiting for me on the other side, so instead I stuff the katana behind my boots, then cautiously reach out and slowly swing the door back.
The first floor is darker than the third was. My flashlight is still clipped to my lapel, so I switch it on as I step through the threshold. The alcove just beyond is much like the one above, but the hallway that stretches off to the left doesn't continue to the right, instead ending in a set of double doors. At least there don't seem to be any monsters in the vicinity, allowing me to exit the alcove and walk down the hall in relative peace.
There are fewer rooms here than along the previous corridor, but they do not hold my interest in the slightest. An exit. I need an exit. And according to the grimy sign I see hanging down from the ceiling, I'm headed in the right direction.
The hallway eventually ends in a three-way split. The door to my right is marked as a restroom. No help there. The one in front of me is a double set with a faded sign I can't quite make out. But on the left, the remains of a once-lit EXIT sign sit high on the wall.
The area beyond has a few more doors and another hallway off to my right. Just a few steps down I find another sign that points me to another corridor to my left. At this point I'm starting to feel all lefted and righted out, and I really really hope the way out is finally within grasp.
My luck hits a peak and then declines back to the depths almost within the same second as I take one more turn and find a reception area right across from the honest-to-goodness EXIT! Naturally, it's locked tight.
Succumbing to a moment of frustration, I pull my boots back and slam the toes into the heavy wood of the doors. It's not as satisfying as it would have been had I been actually wearing the boots on my feet, so I decide I'd better find someplace to hunker down and get my equipment better situated. If I'm really stuck in here with David or anything else Silent Hill decides to throw at me, I need to be as prepared as possible.
The reception area is open, as is a filing room beyond that. I shut the door behind me and turn the lock. Then, just to be absolutely sure, I put my shoulder against one of the smaller filing cabinets and push it over to sit in front of the door. If I had the ability to weld the whole thing shut, I'd be sorely tempted to do that as well.
With a thorough deliberation, I set about getting myself put back together. My boots slide back on easy and lace down tight. The scars on my legs gradually disappear under the ace bandages, my left wrist gets nice and armored with the brace, hair gets pulled back into Quinn's scrunchie, and the katana goes back on my belt. I check the ammo in all of my weapons, then sort them back into their proper places.
After stretching and shaking out all my limbs, I suddenly find that I almost feel whole again. Safe. Confident. Amazing what a serious amount of firepower can do for the old ego.
And yet I find myself dithering a bit about whether or not I should go back outside. I know what awaits me. Even if I don't run up against David again, I'll still have to wander around this godforsaken building, find clues or keys, fight monsters, jump over to the otherworld, and then snap back here again after facing off against some massively nasty monster that almost kills me. It's a vicious cycle that's already starting to pall.
But until I figure something else out, the only thing it seems I can do is continue following the path laid out before me. At the very least I suppose I can stay put and look for clues here for a minute. I reach out and pull open a drawer on the closest cabinet and start rifling through the folders within. I'm pretty sure I'm in some kind of hospital, but something about it seems a little off to me. I wouldn't say it seems familiar, exactly, but there is an element of-
Ah. Yes. I should have guessed right off the bat. The first file that I pick out and open is indeed a medical record. I can see the date of admission, lists of medications, and the like. It's when I get to a short description of the patient's afflictions that it all clicks together.
Paranoid schizophrenia, persecution complex, obsessive compulsive disorder.
I'm in an insane asylum.
It makes sense. The small rooms. The cots instead of proper medical beds. If they'd just had padding on the walls, I would have been able to guess it the moment I woke up. So the crazy man brought me to a crazy house. Well that's just perfect.
I slap the file down and close the drawer. There's nothing more to learn here, so I push the cabinet back out of the way and open the door to step out into the receptionist area. Only the receptionist area isn't there anymore. I feel my jaw drop and my body freeze as I find myself staring out at the third floor hallway again as it stretches off into the distance.
Dammit! This is what I get for complaining. I bitch about the rules of the game, and what does Silent Hill do? It changes the rules. Of course.
Just to check, I shut the door and open it again, but the hallway is still there, unchanged. Even though I'm sure that going down this path will be irrevocable, I step out into the corridor and look around. The lights are brighter here still than they have been elsewhere, so I shut off my flash. The door to the room I was being held in sits open, so I peer cautiously inside.
It's empty, but there's definite signs of how unhappy David was with my disappearance. Everything is tossed about, turned upside down, or thrown in a pile. I can even see the slab of meat he tried to feed me sitting on the floor, a slightly discolored stain on the wall showing that he must have thrown it pretty hard. My skin crawls as my imagination runs wild considering where he might have found it.
To make myself feel a little better, I pop the katana out of its sheath and hold it loosely in my hand as I walk down the corridor. I'm still not sure I'll be able to use it properly, but just knowing I'm not defenseless is comforting.
From the looks and sounds of it, David either isn't anywhere near, or he's in hiding somewhere. I'm caught between wanting to relax and needing to keep on guard as a result. But then, I can't really relax around here anyway, can I? Stupid to even think I can. So I decide to keep on keepin' on as I have been. It's time to start checking doors again.
I turn around and see that there's one just right across the hall from my former prison. A small plaque next to the door reads "Examination Room 4". Good enough a place to start as any. The door is open, so I step inside.
This is supposed to be a room for examining patients? It might as well be a broom closet. At least it's bigger than the holding cells, but there's two gurneys, a bunch of medical supply cabinets, and lockers in the back. There's barely enough room for one person to move around in here, let alone two. But whatever. I start searching the area and find a Health Drink in one of the lockers. So coming in here wasn't a total waste.
Back in the hall, I check each door one by one as I pass by. Most of them are locked, but a few open to my touch. A couple don't have anything in them at all, but between the others I manage to score a clip for the tommy gun and another Health Drink.
Finally I reach the end of the hallway. It's a dead end except for the last resident room on the left, so after I check this one I figure I'll head down to the second floor and try my luck there. The door opens with a heavy creak, but I balk at going in when I see that the area beyond is pitch black.
The rest of the rooms had been dark as well, but at least the light from the hall had filtered in. Here, it's almost as if darkness itself was a physical thing inhabiting the room. It reminds me of the otherworld, and I feel a chill at the idea that stepping through might set off the siren.
Hopefully a beam of light won't have that effect on its own. I flip on my flash and angle it around, slicing through the darkness and illuminating the opposite wall.
"Holy shit."
Since I'm in a crazy house, I suppose it was inevitable that I would stumble across a truly crazy room. Everywhere I point the light, I see that the walls are covered with mad scribblings. After a few moments of study, it becomes apparent that these were written over a long period of time, and I can easily tell what order it was all written in. In some areas, the letters are neat, straight, and marked in pencil or pen.
But gradually they begin to shift, to mutate. The marks become ragged at the edges, applied with less care than before. They become wilder and wilder, and larger as well, as if the author of this insane manifesto wanted to make sure everything was still legible no matter how spasmodic their motions became. Pencil and pen run out of lead and ink, eventually to be replaced by that good old standby, blood.
But no matter what the medium or level of messy penmanship, it's always the same four words over and over again.
I am not slow.
I am not slow
I AM NOT SLOW
I AM NOT SLOW
There is a figure curled up in the far corner. The light plays over the ashen skin, the sunken features. She - I think it's a she - is curled up, arms around her knees and looking as if she had simply sat there rocking back and forth until she just . . . stopped. She now sits silent and still in a dried pool of blood, undoubtedly from the wounds she visited upon herself to keep writing.
I back away from the room, horrified at the sight. I stumble over my own feet and put my hand out to steady myself against the wall, but to my surprise I find myself touching metal rather than wallpaper. Turning my head slowly, I see that where there was nothing but a dead end before, now there is a set of double doors.
The rules have changed again. As if in a dream, unable to control my own motions, I reach down, grip the push bar, and walk through the door.
I'm in a classroom.
More specifically, I'm in the very same classroom that I first met Mordecai in. And as if this wasn't disorienting enough, Mordecai is sitting there behind the desk, his fingers interlaced and a sympathetic smile on his face.
"Welcome back, Daria," he says softly. "I've been waiting for you."
It feels like a knife is sliding its way through my rapidly thumping heart, cold steel passing through the tough muscle. I'm a trapped animal, frozen and sweating. I stare at him, trying to mold what has just happened into a shape that I can deal with, that I can accept, but it just isn't happening.
My mouth stumbles over itself trying to spit something, anything out. "What, no, I-"
He waggles a finger at me, cutting me off before I can get out anything else but a few nonsense syllables.
"I really think we're past the stage where concealing things from one other is going to get us anywhere, Miss Morgendorffer," he says, then gestures at the seat across from him. "Please, have a seat."
"Wha-?" I huff, feeling my confusion rapidly give way to anger. "What? What?"
He holds his hands up. I'm not sure if it's an attempt to show he's unarmed, or to defend himself from the woman whose face is getting harder and frownier, and I'm not sure I really care. I was already sick of all this shit. Taking two steps backward into the school and suddenly learning one of the maniacs here knows my real name is not helping.
"Please, Miss Morgendorffer, I assure you that I mean you no harm," he's saying. "In fact, I'm here to help."
"Help?" I spit back at him. My hand tightens around the katana's hilt as I lift it and point it in his direction. "You've done nothing but confuse me this entire time! You've spun me around, talked in your gahtdamned riddles, done nothing at all but screw with my head, and now you want to help?"
He frowns slightly. "It occurs to me that you have brandished a weapon at me all three times we have met thus far," he says, his voice oddly calm. "Does this mean that you are a violent person? That you wish to kill me, either in particular or in general? That you are used to wielding weapons at all, in fact? Or," he says as he spreads his hands wide, "are you perhaps merely the victim of your current circumstances?"
Wait. Does he have a point or doesn't he?
Not now, little voice.
"I am sorry, I really am," he continues. "I have been attempting to help you this entire time. There is only so much I can do, however, and I'm afraid that it takes time and experience on your part. I am just as much a victim of my situation as you are of yours. But the time has finally come to set aside the riddles. I cannot answer all of your questions still, for I am not myself conversant with all of the answers, but I will tell you all I can. I promise.
"Now please," he says, gesturing at the chair again, "have a seat."
I hate this. I hate this so much. But yes, little voice, I think he might just have a point. And even if he is just a crazy man with no answers at all, at least he's the one person here that hasn't tried to kill or kidnap me. Calming myself as best I can, I walk into the room and sit down.
The katana stays out and in hand, though I set it across my lap and go back to holding it loosely.
"Fine," I tell him. "Talk."
He does a little bow in his seat. "Thank you," he says. "One of the first things that might be on your mind at the moment is how I know that you are not, in fact, Melody Powers. Unfortunately, this is also one of the first things I cannot give an answer to. I simply know, because it seems to be my function to know. I study, and I read, and I learn, though it does not seem to make sense at the time."
"The police records," I say flatly.
"Yes, indeed," he confirms with a nod. "Among other things. It is much like reading in a dream. The individual letters and words may not necessarily make sense, but somehow they come together in my mind. It is all rather fascinating, to be honest. But it is through this that I have learned about you, just as I learned about the others before you."
"Others?" Then it hits me. "Oh, like David and Eric."
Mordecai's face darkens suddenly. "Precisely like David," he says sadly. "You have met him, then."
"Unfortunately." My lip curls.
"I am sorry for that. David Presser was the first I tried to help, just as he was the first I failed to help. I approached him, directly told him what I knew of the nature of this world. He didn't believe me. It was not until later that I learned the awful truth . . . that he couldn't believe me. He simply wasn't capable of handling it yet, and in my fumbling attempts I irrevocably set him down the cyclic path he is on now.
"Unable to move forward, unable to move back. Trapped here, perhaps forever." He shakes his head. "And yet, in my naivete, I continued my attempts to help him. For nearly two weeks I trailed him and tried to establish con-"
"Wait, two weeks?" I interrupt. "He said he's only been here for three days! That liar!"
Mordecai's eyes widen. "Oh, no no no!" he says quickly. "Do not blame him for this. From his perspective, he may well believe he has only been here for three days. It is part of the cycle I unwittingly placed him in. Even should he learn anything about himself or this town, he eventually forgets it."
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. How long have I really been here in Silent Hill? If David has forgotten, could I . . . ?
"But it is through my experiences with him that I learned I must proceed carefully," Mordecai continues, breaking my train of thought. "I can help speed along the enlightenment of those who have been brought here, but I cannot directly interfere. You have learned from my words, this I know, though you may not be entirely aware of it or you may choose not to acknowledge it."
I have to grudgingly admit that he has taught me some things about the nature of my surroundings. I can't exactly say how helpful they have been, but even if they have, I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know. Besides, if he's really going to answer my questions now, there are more important things than validating his roundabout teaching method.
"You say you're here to help," I say. "Why? Who are you? Really?"
His expression becomes bittersweet. He pushes his long fingers through his white hair and sighs. "I am - or rather, was - a member of the Order," he tells me, "an underground religious organization. In my normal day job I was a librarian. But for the Order, I was a teacher. I inducted new members into our religion, taught them the tenets and the rites. Even as I taught, I learned more myself, and I began to grow dissatisfied with what I learned.
"Once upon a time, the beliefs of the Order were good. They were just. Our God was a beautiful being. She saved us and would one day return to us. But in her absence, her followers grew wicked. Twisted. They found this world, and it reflected their twisted hearts, and they thought it good. It came to me one day that I could not support this any longer, but I was powerless to do anything about it.
"And then, without warning, everything the Order had worked for was gone. We were exposed to the light of day and scattered to the winds. Those of us who were not rooted out went into hiding. I became merely a librarian, nothing more, and had no contact with my former brethren for several months.
"When the scorching heat of inquiry began to die down, I saw my chance at last. I approached others of the Order, I showed them the old texts, and I attempted to teach them the true ways of the beautiful Goddess, to turn them away from the twisted heart of this world. I was rebuffed at every attempt. And for every person who merely turned me away for fear of being exposed or simply because they wished to put the Order behind them entirely, I found myself faced with ever more that wished to silence me as a heretic and a troublemaker."
A tear rolls down Mordecai's cheek, but he ignores it, letting it drip from his jawline as he continues talking. "I was forced to flee here," he says. "An irony, perhaps. To escape my death, I come here where death is a constant companion, stalking the unwary in multitudinous forms. And I decided that even if it should be at the cost of my own life, I would help stay the hand of death from claiming others here. To help them return to their normal lives even if I could never do the same for myself."
A silence falls between us.
"I'm sorry," I finally say. It seems inadequate, but he smiles gratefully all the same.
"There is no need," he insists. "I have long been a shepherd of sorts. I simply tend a different flock now. So allow me to tend you further. You will, of course, wish another lesson on the nature of this place."
"'Wish' is a bit strong," I say, "but if it'll help . . . "
Mordecai holds his hands up and cups them together. "Imagine, if you will, that Silent Hill is a hollow sphere," he says. "Imagine further that you are standing on the inside of this sphere, and that the inner walls are made of millions of mirrors, all connected at their edges but still pointing in all different directions, making the inside of the sphere multifaceted."
"Uh . . . okay."
"From where you stand," he continues, "you can see yourself in each of those facets. Millions of Darias, no two of them exactly alike. And as you stand there, looking around at all these different Darias, one of them steps out of its mirror and attacks you."
Oh! "The monsters."
"No," he says, correcting me. "The other Daria is not the monster. The other Daria is merely a reflection of some aspect of yourself."
"So . . . the mirrors are the monsters?"
He shrugs. "That, perhaps, is closer to the truth. But the important thing to remember is what I said before, that this Silent Hill isn't exactly real. It has no understandable form of its own. It can only show you reflections of yourself, and it invariably chooses the worst and most painful aspects. Those reflections can still hurt you, but in the end they are unimportant. They are phantoms thrown in your way, to keep you from learning the true source of your suffering, to keep you trapped here forever. Only one thing brought you here, and that one thing alone is important."
"Quinn," I say sharply. "Where is she?"
He gets that evasive look again, and I feel my jaw tighten in response. He said he was going to give me the answers. No more bullshit. Evasiveness is a big no-no.
"Alas, that is another answer I cannot give," he says. "I realize you may not believe me, but there are three reasons why I cannot. Firstly, I do not know where she is. I cannot know. Learning about you is one of my functions. Learning about her, sadly, is not.
"Secondly, even if I were to learn the location of your lost sister, imparting it to you would be a pointless endeavor, for you already know where she is. You are not in fact seeking her. You are instead attempting to remember what you already know.
"And finally," he says, hanging his head low, "our time here has come to a close. No more questions. No more answers. You must proceed on your own once more, though with any luck I will see you one last time before your stay in Silent Hill is finished, for good or for ill."
As he has been making this last speech, the room has been getting gradually darker and darker. I want to jump up, to grab him by the shoulders, to demand more from him, but I am frozen in place by a fear that is encroaching my very being and freezing the blood in my veins. I hear his voice coming to me as if from a great distance.
"Farewell, Daria Morgendorffer. May the true Goddess watch over you in your time of need."
And then the air is filled with the wailing of a distant siren.