Author Note I recommend "Rain of Brass Petals -Three Voices Edit-" from Silent Hill 3 as listening music for this chapter. It had a huge influence on this.
The only option that Edgar really saw was to walk. He wasn't sure if he was walking in any compass direction because of the solid color, but he chose a direction and just walked. He hoped he wasn't going in circles, although it didn't feel that way.
True to his word, Scriabin had been silent. Edgar did not believe for a moment that he had left, permanently or temporarily, and he knew he was just waiting for an opportunity to attack him again. Considering the emotional stress Edgar had gone through not too long ago, he tried to keep his thoughts on safe topics, not wanting to prompt Scriabin anymore than he had to.
Scriabin did not speak, not even when Edgar slipped and thought something particularly revealing, and after a while he was beginning to find it kind of odd. He wasn't sure what the voice in his head was up to.
He wished he had worn a watch.
He wasn't sure how much time had passed before the white finally began to change and alter. The appearance of a horizon, even if it was a huge distance away, was a great relief. Finally some perspective and some confirmation that he was going the right way.
As he drew closer to the horizon line, he noticed that the white was beginning to fade. Tinges of dust now covered the ground that he could now determine and the sky was beginning to slowly change into a very pale blue. As he walked further the color deepened until it resembled its more normal hue, dotted with occasional puffy white clouds. The ground beneath his feet began to change to a dark brown, and a few strands of grass poked upwards. After a while he began to forget the incredibly disorienting all-white void in favor of this new area. He never appreciated the ground and the sky as much as he did now, along with his well-missed sense of depth perception.
A path wound its way through sickly yellow and light green grass patches, a few straggling and dying flowers drooping near the ground. He noticed with curiosity that there were a few remnants of humanity here now; discarded magazines and soda cans.
"Where am I...?" Edgar normally would have chided himself for speaking aloud, but at the moment he saw no harm to it.
No mental response. Even such a harmless question would have prompted some scathing remark. Although Edgar wished Scriabin would leave, he could not truly believe that the figment had done so. Still waiting then.
As he walked, he felt something dripping down his face. Curious, he trailed his fingers downwards from his forehead. With something of a gasp, he found that his nose was crushed, no doubt the source of the blood running down his chin. Along with the discovery of the blood came an insistent, throbbing pain.
The remnants of his fight, if one could call it that, with Krik. His broken nose hadn't been present while talking with Scriabin...was that entire thing truly all in his head? Then where had he been walking?
This was all too confusing.
Edgar could make out a large sign ahead. The garbage that littered the ground had now increased in number and the entire place seemed to be falling into more disrepair as he walked.
A strange creature zipped past the edge of his vision, but vanished before Edgar could make out what it was.
Finally the words were legible.
THIS IS
HEAVEN
YOU CAN STOP PRAYING NOW
Edgar stood beneath the sign and stared at for a few minutes before he could think of any way to react.
"So...I really am dead then."
His reaction to this information was mainly constrained to mild surprise and disappointment. He really hadn't wanted to die, but then again, it wasn't like he had a great deal to live for anyway.
The place was still filthy. Despite this, Edgar felt inclined to believe this was the true afterlife. Besides, if this was Heaven, it wasn't as if Edgar was entirely opposed to going there.
Not to far from the sign was a small ticket booth with a large sign that read "Administration" across its top, with smaller writing scattered across it including "We sell churros, too," "Welcome," and "wipe your feet." As he watched, a gaunt man with large glasses and thin stringy hair slowly straightened from behind the booth, rubbing at his mouth and still looking incredibly disgusted at something. By the way he was acting, Edgar guessed that something had been so disturbing that he had been driven to vomiting, although that also did not do much for Edgar's opinion of this strange version of Heaven.
In accordance with the small sign, Edgar did wipe his feet slightly as he approached. Apparently under control after his brief bout of nausea, the man watched him without any kind of expression.
"Um...hello." Edgar felt incredibly awkward. This was not how he expected Heaven to be like by any stretch of the imagination. "I'm Edgar Var-"
"We know."
"Oh. Oh, um, of course you would. Are you...um...Saint Peter?" Edgar couldn't think of anyone else the man could be, if any religious tracts were true in this bizarre place.
The man just stared at him and did not respond.
Uncomfortable moments passed and Edgar rubbed the back of his head self-consciously, guessing his question would go unanswered. "Is this...really Heaven?"
The man flipped through the book in front of him.
"You seem like the type to know."
A rather vague, ambiguous answer. Edgar wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
"You're an angel, right?"
The man did not respond at once.
"Mr. Vargas?"
"Yes?"
"How...hmm." The man stared intently at the open page in front of him.
"Is something wrong?" Despite the fact that Edgar was potentially speaking to an angel, he did not feel that kind of awe that demands true respect. He planned his questions carefully, but not as carefully as he once thought he would.
"Have you been lost?" St. Peter, as Edgar decided he must be, stared at him intently. Surprised by the sudden interest, Edgar could only hold the eye contact a few moments before looking at the ground. He nudged a can with one foot before he looked back up.
"Lost?"
"Some get lost on their way here. Did this happen to you?" St. Peter repeated, as if Edgar was a simple child. Normally, Edgar may have been annoyed at such condescension, but the fact that he was an angel and Edgar had that strange encounter with Scriabin that he still couldn't explain, made this question something he did have to ponder.
"I'm..." Edgar didn't like having to say this. "I'm not exactly sure what you mean."
St. Peter stared at him for a few more seconds before rubbing his forehead with one thin hand. "How much clearer do I have to make it, boy? When you died, did you find your way here immediately or did you get lost?"
"Well, I..." Even if St. Peter already knew, which Edgar was pretty sure he did, he preferred to NOT get into details about that bizarre dream. "I...think I got sidetracked, but I'm not sure. I don't...well, I mean, I came here pretty quickly after I died though, really. Am I, uh, late?"
Another pause. "Yes. Mr. Vargas, you are late. As a matter of fact, you are months late. Where have you been all this time?"
"Months?" Edgar blinked at him. "I...I was supposed to die months ago?"
"You didn't?" The way he phrased the question made it seem more like an accusation.
"Well, I guess that...sidetrack I got...caught up on could have taken longer then I thought. I didn't...bring a watch with me." Edgar felt this was a lame excuse and he was sure the angel knew it. In response, St. Peter looked back down at his book.
"Well at least you finally got here, regardless of whether you're late or not."
"Could you..." Edgar faltered as the angel raised his eyes to stare at him. "I was...just wondering if you could help me with this...uh, broken nose business. It's...uncomfortable and I'd understand if you don't want to, but since you're an angel, I just thought I'd ask."
St. Peter tossed him a small bandage and then got back to his book. "It is something we can do."
"Hmm."
There was a silence as the angel pored over the single page in the book. The bleeding and most of the pain stopped immediately after applying the bandage. That was a relief at least.
Edgar felt more and more awkward as time went by, so he glanced around at his surroundings. Half-eaten food, crumpled wrappers, empty paper cups, and comic books all littering the ground. Everything seemed covered in a thin veneer of grease and slime. Edgar liked to consider himself a fairly clean person, so this was gradually getting on his nerves. He hoped that didn't mean anything.
"Edgar Vargas, correct?" After a few minutes.
"Yes." Edgar felt a twinge of nervousness that he chided himself for immediately afterwards. He shouldn't be doubting himself. Not now.
"Yes...here, in your file of acts..." St. Peter did not explain it any further than that. Edgar waited self-consciously, rubbing at one arm with a free hand. "Yes, you were supposed to be here some time ago. However you were..." The Angel raised a thin eyebrow at him. "However you were delayed, it has caused some minor filing errors."
"Oh." What exactly does that mean?
"But it seems, at least, until your intended death, this is where you were supposed to go." The angel did not sound impressed or particularly convinced of this information. "This minor glitch in the system should be fixed momentarily. I would suggest you get acquainted with the area here. After all, you may be here a long time."
St. Peter returned to his book.
But...
Where's Johnny?
Scriabin remained silent.
He had done it for so long. He didn't even really think too hard about how the mental processes began to find their mental voice, this time an honest reflection of his own.
If I'm...already in Heaven...then there's nothing to fear. My fate has been decided. There's no harm in asking, is there? I...I know where Johnny must be, but I...I should ask I guess. I've always thought it...
"Excuse me..."
St. Peter looked up at him, eyebrows furrowed.
"I'm sorry to interrupt...I was just wondering if you knew where...someone else...went."
"Someone else?" St. Peter did not sound amused. Edgar felt his confidence faltering once again.
"Well, I just...I think they died at the same time I did...I was wondering where they went...if maybe they came here before me." I don't think he did. But... "He was a man...his name was Johnny C.?"
St. Peter twitched visibly, but did not say anything. While Edgar could not maintain eye contact with him for very long, he was willing to wait for an answer. Apparently, none was coming. The angel turned back to his book, as if Edgar had never spoken at all.
With a slight sigh, Edgar turned away. Despite how dirty and run-down the place was, he decided he may as well take St. Peter's advice and look around.
As he walked along the path, he caught sight of a few strange things flying through the sky. He couldn't really describe them, but they gave him a vague feeling of unease. This heaven seemed a little...bizarre. Certainly not what he envisioned. He caught himself.
It doesn't matter if this is what I thought Heaven would be like...this is Heaven, so I may as well accept and enjoy my time here.
As he walked along the twisting path, he caught sight of a strange, almost robotic grasshopper-like creature carrying a large easy chair. Sitting in the chair was a short, fat, sleepy looking man, although Edgar hesitated to call him that. His shirt did say "God" after all.
"Excuse me..." Edgar called out to the grasshopper creature. It stopped to look at him.
"Shh!"
"I'm sorry." Edgar lowered his voice and glanced up at the sleeper in the chair. He didn't appear to be waking up anytime soon. "I was just wondering, who is that?"
"It's God of course." The creature said with annoyance. "Can't you read his shirt?"
"God?" Edgar looked up at the corpulent thing in the chair. Again, the word failed to register. "That's God?"
"Yes, and he's sleeping. Be quiet!" The creature hissed at him.
"But...can I ask him a few questions?" Maybe I shouldn't, I mean...if that is God, I cannot question his will...and if it is God, he can take any form he likes...I shouldn't...but it wouldn't hurt, would it?
The creature sighed.
"Excuse me? God?" While initially Edgar had somewhat blocked out what this encounter could mean, the ramifications of what he was saying struck him as the words left his mouth. This is God...this is everything. Everything I've ever based my life around is right here, sitting on this easy-chair...well, this may not be how I imagined God to look, but I can't judge him for it. He is...he is God after all.
But that nagging doubt remained in his head. If he is God.
The fat little thing scratched His stomach and cracked open an eye to look at him. "Mmph, wha? Whazza...yeah?"
"I'm...I..." What can I say? What can I ask? I know...well, I think I know...I mean...
Edgar stood there like an idiot with his mouth open. God closed His eyes again and drifted back to sleep.
He watched for a few seconds and then turned his attention back to the creature carrying Him.
"Excuse me, have you seen someone named Johnny C.?"
"It depends." The creature whispered in a tone that indicated he should do the same. "Did he shout a lot?"
"I...I guess he would, really." Edgar imagined that, while he had no real questions for God, he was sure that Johnny would not be quite so tongue-tied. "He's rather emotional."
"Well, there was a guy who yelled quite a bit, but he got bored and left. Elize took him on a tour of the rest of Heaven. You might want to check with her."
"Elize?"
"Yeah. But I don't know where you'd find her though." The creature began to move, carrying the slumbering God carefully. "Now be quiet!"
Edgar watched the thing move off on its thin spidery legs. As he watched it leave, he waited for Scriabin to comment. To say anything. He knew that Scriabin in particular resented religion, resented its influence on Edgar's life in more ways than one. Surely, he would take this meeting with God and turn it against Edgar, rally his disappointment and throw it in his face...
But no.
The internal monologue that had started so subtly and had become such an inescapable torment during his life had stopped. It was a strange feeling, one that Edgar did not trust. As it was, he was confident that Scriabin still existed, and he was sure that he was waiting, biding his time. He was probably enjoying how confused Edgar was at his lack of input.
But then again, why didn't he have any questions for God?
Unlike many questions, Edgar at least could come up with an answer for that on his own. His faith wasn't based on answers. It never had been and never would be. Whether or not God spoke to him was not important. He was God, after all. Edgar could not understand what was explained to him anyway. God's power was immutable and beyond human comprehension.
That was what Edgar had been taught and that was what he believed. That was one thing he believed in over everything. This may not have been the heaven he expected, but he did not question its existence.
In at least that way he was confident.
Someone tapped his shoulder.
With a start and a gasp, he turned around to find a rather nondescript woman standing behind him. She was shorter than he was, dressed primarily in black, had short black chopped hair, and a mild case of acne. She stared at him with barely concealed distaste.
"So, I'm supposed to show you around?"
"I suppose so." Edgar intended to be as companionable as possible. "I'm Edgar Vargas."
She inclined her head at him for a second, then sighed.
"I am Damned Patricia. Not Patty."
"Okay."
"Follow me." She shoved her hands in her pockets and began walking. Edgar stared after her, then shrugged. If she was his guide...
A few quick steps let him catch up to her.
"They told me I'd have to show you around during your stay here. You're still just visiting. At least until they clear up your whole act file business."
"So I'm just visiting..." Edgar repeated to himself.
"Yeah. You might as well get a look around, even if you don't end up here."
"Well, if you don't mind me asking...what are you doing here?"
"I'm actually from Hell." The woman shrugged. "Most of us damned do work up here. Does it surprise you?"
Edgar was silent for only a few seconds. "Not really."
"Yeah. Well, here we go."
Such a statement really should have preceded some kind of teleportation or some flashy show of power, but in contrast Patricia merely quickened her pace. Edgar matched it easily but with a sense of unease.
"Where are we going exactly? How big is this place?" Edgar wasn't sure how many questions would be comfortable. Patricia rolled her eyes and sighed.
"It's as big as it should be, and I'm basically just going to show you the center of everything."
"The center of everything..." Edgar echoed without thought. The two of them entered a short tunnel that blocked out the light from above. On that note, while Edgar had seen a great deal of clouds, he had not seen the sun.
"Yeah. Heaven isn't exactly what most people think it will be. Well, the people who actually get up here seem to enjoy it, but it's just so...you'll see. I guess if you're up here you'll understand it too." She looked at Edgar again, who matched her gaze with a raised eyebrow. "You look like the kind of guy who would."
"The angel at the entrance said something like that."
She snorted.
The darkness was short and not unpleasant, and soon they entered a different area. Edgar briefly questioned the purpose of the tunnel, but soon found his attention caught by something else.
Chairs and people.
The sky was the same, still cloudy with the strange creatures flitting by occasionally, but what was noticeable here was the total lack of noise. A few people were adjusting their chairs, brushing off their seats, but once they sat down they stopped moving entirely, just staring off into space.
The silence was what frightened him. He had never seen such a large gathering of people that produced no noise at all.
"So this is it." Patricia looked at him. "You're handling it a bit better than some of the others. Then again, they ended up going to Hell anyway, so..."
"What exactly is going on here?" Edgar could guess, but this was really not the place or time for logic, considering what he had seen so far.
"Y'know how in life, you always want stuff? Y'know, food, sleep, sex, money, blah blah blah. Well, these lucky people here..." She held out a hand to the people sitting. Her tone was anything but kind. "They don't want anything anymore. So no want, no pain or suffering or anything."
"Really?" Edgar inclined his head at the people in front of him, who showed no notice of him at all. There were blood stains on the floor here that made him question their origin. "So, freedom from all desire..."
"Yup." A pause. "Boring, isn't it?"
Edgar didn't respond. He knew that trying to explain or justify this to Patricia would be futile. She had already shown herself to be rather unreceptive.
Might as well try a different topic...
"Excuse me, but have you ever heard of this man...his name is Johnny C. and I think he came through here recently."
She shrugged. "Haven't heard of him. Why, think he's going to Hell?"
Edgar said nothing.
And without any kind of warning, the world shifted abruptly. Was this what Patricia had meant before?
He could feel the cement pressing against his cheek before he could see it. When he opened his eyes the world was a mixture of indistinct colors and shapes, but then he noticed his glasses laying nearby. Wincing, he slowly pulled himself up off the sidewalk.
Where am I?
He sat down, put his glasses back on, and looked around. While Heaven had been rather dingy, this was an all new level of grime. There were buildings now, looming tall and abandoned over him. Boards covered the windows, paint covered the walls, and over everything the distinct smell of urine and vomit. He rubbed his hands against his shirt self-consciously once he identified the smell.
Broken chain link fences marked off one building from another, as if anyone would ever want to enter one or claim ownership. Broken parts of cars and of various machines littered the dumpsters pressed against the larger buildings. Rust was everywhere, covering everything. He thought for a moment that he smelled the scent of cherries, but he couldn't be sure. It was probably his imagination.
Blood trails looped on the sidewalk in patterns that made no sense. They trailed up the walls, across the upended trash cans in the street, through the garbage and refuse that made Heaven look pristine in contrast. The distinct discoloration of stomach acid marked cement walkways, the acrid scent strongest near the sewage drains which were blocked with things he couldn't identify. There were streetlights, but they were aged and decrepit, long incapable of performing anything close to their intended function. Now they listed crazily in the streets, their lamps broken or dim, occasional pairs of shoes tied by the laces thrown across them. The power lines could be seen, dozens of posters that he couldn't find the time to read stapled across their poles, each one almost vengefully covering another.
The sky was a rusty red. If there had been a sun, he was sure that it would be stained that same color. Instead, there was a gigantic eyeball where the sun should have been, and it was focused squarely on him.
He stared up at it without emotion, his lips slightly parted as he subconsciously breathed through his mouth. He looked down and found he had been rubbing his hands on his shirt without stopping. He stared at them. Slightly red. The nagging thought that perhaps he had touched, he had put his hand in...something was almost enough to send him desperately trying to clean his hands again.
So far, he had dealt with these surroundings without emotion. Perhaps it was the familiarity...it was a city, however decrepit and ruined. It was familiar in that way.
He could hear things far away. The sounds of car horns, police sirens, gun shots, and a soft static that he couldn't easily explain. This place must not be as abandoned as it seems.
He stood up shakily, still dizzy from his supposed fall. He used a wall for support as the blood rushed from his head and blacked out his vision for a few seconds, limiting his auditory range to a dull rushing sound. He was glad for the angel's aid, but apparently there were still some side-effects to his previous injury.
When his vision cleared, Edgar noticed that someone was staring at him. They were hiding behind the corner of the nearby building as if using it for protection. Even with his vision still somewhat blurry, Edgar could tell they were suspicious of him. Understandably, considering he had just fallen from the sky.
"What are you doing here?" A low and angry voice. Edgar decided to stay where he was to answer the question. I don't want to provoke this person if at all possible.
"I'm not sure myself. This...this is Hell, isn't it?" Edgar had to focus hard to keep the meaning of those words from his mind.
"Of course it is. What are you, an idiot?"
Edgar again reminded himself to not provoke this person. "Who are you?"
"It's not important." Their voice was gravely enough so that it was hard to tell the person's gender, and they refused to let more than the top of their head show around the corner of the building. Their eyes were still narrowed. "Why should I tell you? Why do you want to know anyway? What are you doing here?"
Focus on the simple question. "I'm not quite sure why I'm here at the moment. I think there's been a mix-up in my file upstairs...that's what they said anyway-"
"Oh, I get it." The person's voice lowered considerably. "You're one of those people."
"Those" people?
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"One of those annoying screechers, the ones who are always innocent. I hate your kind." Still they stayed behind the building. "I hate how you blame everyone else for your problems except yourself, so that when you end up in Hell it's suddenly a big shock. Hello! If you're here, you're here for a reason! Don't feign innocence, it sickens me. You sicken me."
Edgar's eye twitched. "I'm not trying to pretend to be innocent. Why would I? I don't particularly feel the need to impress you. I'm just genuinely confused."
"Huh, you can pretend all you want." It seemed that the person was not really paying attention to Edgar's words at this point. "Everyone does it. Everyone wants to pretend that it's not their fault they're down here. I hate that. Be honest for once in your life-"
"Then why are you down here?" Edgar almost regretted speaking so quickly, but not quite.
"Me?" A pause. "That's why your types make me so furious. You know why I'm down here?" The eyes shifted back and forth, as if checking for someone else on these abandoned streets. "I'm really not supposed to be here."
The person continued ranting without pause, apparently not noticing Edgar's raised eyebrow.
"That's what makes your types so pathetic. You always complain that you don't deserve to be here, always asking for help and complaining and whining and whinging about stupid things down here that you do to yourselves, and always always always complaining that you aren't supposed to be here! How do you think that makes me feel? I really don't belong here! God, you know what that makes you all? Poseurs."
Can I walk away from this conversation?
"God, I hate poseurs more than anything! None of you idiots can really understand my pain! None of you understand what it's like to really be a downcast angel! What it's like to be in Hell when you're not supposed to! You can pretend all you like, but you'll never understand like I do. You'll never feel the pain like I do."
Edgar managed to back himself behind the opposing wall. Despite the fact that he was now completely out of the person's line of vision, they were still talking. Taking this as something of a good sign, Edgar decided to get as far away as possible while he still could.
The alleyway he was in had several trash cans lined up against the brick walls, along with a singular dumpster covered in graffiti. More spray paint covered the walls and the stench Edgar had noticed previously was stronger here. No doubt the suspiciously viscous puddles scattered through here were the source. Edgar placed a hand over his mouth and nose and tried to breathe as little as possible. More garbage was strewn around the alleyway, broken glass and sagging cardboard boxes that blocked his path. Edgar made it a point not to touch anything if at all possible.
Maybe I really am...but why would I be here?
The smell was getting to him. He felt sick.
This must be some kind of mistake...
Finally, the alleyway opened onto another street, although this one was in much the same condition as the previous. Here, bits and pieces of ruined machinery rested against the stained and crumbling brick walls. A window in a nearby building was shattered and the glass glittered in dull red light. Blocking off one end of this street was a large pile of shrapnel and broken pipes, underneath which were large dark spots that spread out onto the asphalt. Parked beside the assortment of rusted metal was an ancient car. Its windshield and windows had long since been broken and its body stripped. It rested on the street without tires, its hood popped and trunk open. With a little further inspection, Edgar noticed there was an arm in the trunk.
He forced his eyes elsewhere.
A telephone pole here had fallen completely, making traveling further down this street difficult, but not impossible. As Edgar headed that way, he began to hear something distinct against the constant inexplicable static. The very short breaths, along with a high-pitched whine, that indicated that someone somewhere was in pain.
But...if this is...and I think it is, would it really be wise...?
Edgar's conscience would not let him leave someone alone like that, even if he really was in Hell, which he still doubted. Tracking the noise proved to be more trying than he would have thought originally. He hadn't considered how distracting the static could be.
Eventually, Edgar did find where the noise was coming from. A large, portly man in tattered clothes was sitting against the side of a building, his face hidden in his hands. He didn't hear Edgar approach and jumped when he finally said something.
"Excuse me...are you all right?"
The man pulled his hands away so Edgar could see his face. Both of his eyes were swollen shut and his features were covered with bruises. Thin lines of blood ran down from his temple, although the smeared remnants across his cheeks and forehead indicated that this wasn't the first time he had bled in this way.
Something about him seemed familiar, but Edgar couldn't place why.
"You...haven't I...didn't I see you somewhere before?" The man's voice was hoarse and ragged.
"I don't think-" The indistinct and distorted features fell into place.
Todd? I like "Squee" better.
Edgar took a step back, instinctual revulsion rising into his mouth. "You..."
"You look so familiar..." The man stared at him. If he was trying to convey a facial emotion, it couldn't be interpreted from his ruined features. "I could swear...I've seen you somewhere before..."
He had thought it. He had watched it happen, wondered about the consequences of this man's actions during his brief time in Edgar's life.
It had never occurred to him to think of the afterlife. Of where he would go. Of what would happen.
Of course he would be here. This was the only place he could be. No God, no matter how forgiving or lenient, would ever let this man free. He had to be here.
Why was he surprised at first?
Now he knew. Now he remembered the bat striking the man's head, how he fell back, how he had watched him be dismembered. He remembered what he had been planning to do to Todd.
He took another step back, his eyes narrowing as his hands clenched into fists without his knowledge.
"It doesn't matter though, not really..." The man leaned forward, staring at him in a way that Edgar guessed was desperate, although it was hard to tell. "You...you're the first person to come here in a while. No one stays in these parts of the cities, not anymore. That's why I'm here. It's safer here than in the other places. There are still a few stragglers around here, the people too different to leave, and they're dangerous, but they don't talk to me. You're the first one to talk to me. I can't believe it, I thought no one would ever talk to me again."
Edgar backed away the entire time he spoke, and the man stood up. The few remnants of his shorts and T-shirt were covered in dried splotches of blood and other things Edgar didn't want to think about.
"This place is dangerous." He whispered to Edgar. "This place is always dangerous. People are always watching here. They know exactly what you do. They're always watching you. The eye..."
The man turned and looked up at the rusty sky. Edgar choked when he could see his back. The shirt had been ripped to shreds and the tips of fabric dyed the dark brown color of old blood. Burned into the flesh of the man's back were large letters. The skin around them was so light that there was no way they could be missed. The letters almost seemed to twist before his eyes, blackened and charred flesh weaving around itself, wrinkling and unwrinkling.
PEDOPHILE
He turned around again at the sound that Edgar made.
"What? What's wrong?"
Edgar realized his mouth was open and shut it quickly. He stared at the man and found himself unable to say anything.
"Did you see one of them?" The man looked around himself as best he could through swollen flesh. "They're everywhere. You'll never escape them, you know. No matter how you try, they'll always find you. There aren't as many here though."
He stepped closer.
"You, you look so familiar. Have we met? I've been down here for what feels like years. How old were you when you died? Are you new here? I mean...new to Hell, or just new to the area?"
Edgar was trying to suppress the urge to run. He couldn't explain why.
"You're the first person to talk to me." The man took another step closer to Edgar. "No one wants to talk to me. Everyone down here...they want me dead, but I can't die. That's why...that's why I look like this. I know I don't look like this, I don't look that great. That's their fault. They hate me down here. They hated me in life and they hate me down here too."
"Your back..." Edgar managed to croak out. The man stared at him for a few seconds.
"What? What do you mean?"
"You're a...you're the..."
"Please don't leave!" The man held out his arms towards Edgar. "Please please please, I haven't talked to another human being in so long! You're my friend, aren't you? Please, don't go!"
Edgar felt like he was choking.
"Please, you can't leave me alone here. You can't leave me here alone, they'll come for me. I know they will. You've got to help me. You can help me. I know you can. Please, don't go."
His fingers came close enough to brush against Edgar's shirt.
"Don't touch me oh god don't touch me, get away from me!" Whatever defense he had crumbled, and he panicked. He stumbled backwards and away from the man so quickly that he ended up tripping and falling, the palms of his hands stinging as they collided with the asphalt.
"Please don't, please don't overreact, I just want to talk, that's all-"
Edgar scrambled to his feet and without any further thought began to run.
"Please!"
That was the last thing he heard him say. He vaulted over the telephone pole and darted down the first alleyway he could find, in the process crashing into several cardboard boxes and more than a few walls. He ran without thought until he hit a tall stack of cardboard boxes and ended up falling completely, this time out onto another street. His glasses bounced off his face and skittered across the sidewalk.
He panted for a few seconds on his stomach, his head resting on the arm he protectively thrown out at the last minute. He could feel the stinging burn as new scrapes pressed against the ground.
When he felt like he could stand without getting dizzy, he went and got his glasses. After he put them on, he looked over his arm and his hands. His palms were bleeding from several dozen areas, tiny dots of blood amongst the thin ragged scraps of his outer skin layer. His arm was not much different, angry white lines beginning to fill with red. He may have fallen kind of hard, but he didn't think he fell with enough power to do this much damage.
He couldn't think about what just happened. Everything in his mental thought processes struggled to avoid it. He felt nauseous enough with the constant smell here...he didn't want to think about what he had just seen.
He brushed himself off and looked around. Another ruined street, this one with a few more stripped cars. A telephone line here had broken and the thick wire rested on the street.
When Edgar looked at his feet, he noticed that the boxes he had knocked over contained porno magazines. Soggy, ripped, and dirty magazines. He immediately backed away from them without any conscious thought. Every kind of perversion was represented in full color on cheap paper, even some fetishes that Edgar did not know existed.
What are they doing-
If this is...well, that would make sense, but if they are...then that means...but...
Uncomfortable. Edgar noticed that one member of a captured carnal act wore glasses in a similar style to his own, and at the realization he turned away.
It's strange how when you don't want to think about something, it's the only thing you can think about.
He ran a hand through his hair and took a few steps out onto the street. The static now seemed stronger.
What exactly am I heading towards?
Despite everything that had happened so far, Edgar still did not truly believe this was Hell. He didn't know what else it could be, but the denial had worked its way deep and insistent. This couldn't be. I would never...
A voice.
"Edgar Vargas."
He turned slowly. The figure behind him was overwhelmingly tall, and without even a second of doubt Edgar knew this was the devil.
The denial vanished.
"You're..."
"Please." The skull-like face smiled with paper-thin lips. "Call me Senor Diablo."
Edgar stared at him. Fear was rising quickly now, despite his efforts to stay calm. Every story, every myth, every legend, every movie, every cartoon, every bit of folklore that ever described Hell kept leaping to mind. He couldn't stop thinking of the fire.
They'll take you to a place where there's everlasting ever-burning hellfire... He remembered Scriabin's words, now strangely hollow in his own voice.
"Am I..." Edgar whispered, his voice barely audible to even himself. The Devil leaned down so that Edgar could stare into the great empty eyes.
"Damned?" His voice slid out from between those lips, and he smiled at him again. Edgar shuddered so violently that he couldn't keep eye contact. The Devil seemed amused by this.
"Am I..." Edgar said to himself.
"At the moment, not exactly." He spoke with barely controlled sadistic glee. The sudden comparison of the Devil's voice to Scriabin's was enough to make Edgar vomit. As he violently expelled his stomach's contents all over the already dirtied sidewalk, the Devil continued talking as if nothing was happening.
"I'm afraid there's been some confusion, Mr. Vargas. A slight mix-up. It's hardly a perfect system they run here." The reference to 'they' was noted, but he couldn't spare thought for it now. "Did you know, Mr. Vargas, that you were intended to die some time ago?"
Edgar could not respond as he was still dry heaving.
"Yes. You were supposed to die back when you met our charming friend Johnny. Of course, there are slip-ups in this world and others, and I suppose it's not too unbelievable to think that you fell through the cracks. After all, by your own admittance, you are not the most interesting of people."
Finally, Edgar could pull himself together enough to speak. He wiped at his mouth at pauses in his speech compulsively, convinced that there was still vomit somewhere on his person.
"Johnny..." His voice was hoarse and weak.
"Yes, Johnny." The Devil looked up at the giant eyeball. He was still smiling, although this time in a different way. "Our troublemaker. He was a mistake right from the beginning."
Edgar stared up at him with watery eyes.
"You're looking for him, aren't you?" The Devil turned his empty eyes back down to him. "You want to know if Johnny is truly damned. I know why."
Edgar coughed feebly and suppressed his stomach's lurching. "I am..."
"Mr. Vargas, there is a system that works here. It's hardly perfect, but it normally performs its function quite well." He paused for a moment. "You may be wondering why I'm telling you anything."
Edgar stared down at his hands against the stained and dark cement.
"There's nothing you can do. There's nothing quite like watching someone rage impotently against something they can't change. That was a gift Johnny had by all measures. I have a feeling you won't be quite so proactive, but I also know that these words will likely haunt you for the rest of your life."
Edgar couldn't look at him. He kept trying to disassociate the Devil's voice with Scriabin's and in the process, only found them becoming more and more similar.
"That, and the process has already begun for you. There is no turning back. In this case, this is a far better decision than was made with Johnny. I have a feeling that you will complete your newly intended function admirably."
"What are you talking about...?" Edgar managed to wheeze out between breaths that were becoming too short.
"How to begin? People in general go through a myriad of negative feelings. All of these negative features of humanity don't just vanish. No. They leave behind trails, traces. This hostility and negativity has to go somewhere. Imagine, walking through a world where the very air you breathed was hate!" The Devil did not seem opposed to the idea. "Now, all of this excess is stored in areas we call waste-cells. You are paying attention, aren't you ? This is where you come in."
Edgar managed to raise his eyes to stare at the Devil. He felt something warm trickling down his face and knew, without touching, that his scars were bleeding again. He couldn't guess or even think as to why.
"These cells hold all this animousity, the barely masked loathing and enmity, but they have to get rid of it eventually. This is where the waste-locks come in. The locks keep the cell from opening and releasing all of its stored hatred. They also, when destroyed, can cause the cell to empty itself into nothing, which is what basically just happened. Can you put it all together, Mr. Vargas?"
He rubbed at his face with the back of a hand, and stared at the streak of blood across his skin. "I..."
"Johnny was a lock. This was a mistake in general. Usually, the position of lock drives a person to madness and to eventual collapse and suicide. Locks are quiet, introverted people. They have to allow that hatred to travel through them to the cell. Johnny, however, was able to harness that hatred and use it for his own ends. He was able to use the general powers that are associated with locks, namely invisibility, to release more hatred."
Invisibility...
"And now, Johnny has been set free. The cell is empty and now, there's no need for the lock."
"So is...he..."
"Damned? Not quite. Those in charge of this system decided to send him back. I can't see why, but it's not my place to question."
"Oh..."
"I can feel your doubt." Edgar again felt a rush of nausea at the words. They mimicked Scriabin's torment so well. Tears stung his eyes. "You're afraid of being damned while Johnny gets another chance at life."
"Not...not exactly..." Edgar managed to say.
"There's a reason this is Hell, Mr. Vargas. Regardless if he were here or not, there would be no way you could soothe his torment. I do find it cute that you want to try. Perhaps you won't end up here."
Edgar blinked and felt the cooling heat travel down his face. He stared up at the face of the Devil.
"What?"
"You have a purpose, Mr. Vargas. I just told you. They're quiet, introverted people. A threat to no one but themselves."
"I'm..."
"Some may say you're getting a second chance." The Devil smirked as he stared up at the sky. "In reality, you're being given uncounted years of mental torture just to end up, in the most likely case, right here again, sitting in your own pile of vomit."
Edgar stared at the Devil, and he stared back.
"Irony is a marvelous thing, isn't it?"
A feeling unlike any other came over him and he stared down at his hands. They shook with impossible speed, the blood across his hand blurring into the sky.
"By the way, the process should be painless, but for some it can be remarkably excruciating. You may also lose all your hair. Just a note."
He felt his eyes roll up into his head and his heart stopped. He opened his mouth to cry out, but his vocal cords constricted. He couldn't breathe. He was just barely aware of a choked cry he made before he disappeared.
Agony unlike any other came over him, electrifying limbs he could no longer move and twisting a heart that could no longer function. He was given the vague impression that perhaps he was bleeding from his eyes.
No...it was just his nose. His mouth. His throat felt like it was filled with sand. It hurt to breathe. He began coughing, struggling to clear almost blocked air passages of blood and mucus, before he realized.
He didn't have the energy to raise his head, but he could see Johnny's prone figure a short distance away.
Edgar retched as feeling came back into cold and deadened limbs. Pins and needles spread all over his body at once, making any movement magnified and difficult. His eyes were bleary, although with some effort and pain he was able to paw at them, clearing them enough to see a little better. Enough to see the pool of blood he had been lying in, and the thin lines of blood that still connected the side of his head to the floor.
He coughed, and a tooth clattered to the wood.
He was alive.
Author's Note: This was an interesting chapter. Part of it I wrote while I was in an incomprehensible rage, another was written totally normally, and another part was written normally but actually creeped me out. Weird stuff! Can you tell which part was written when? FUN CHALLENGE GO
Hahaha, some pretty obvious Silent Hill type stuff in here. What can I say, Rain of Brass Petals ate my brain.
You people, asking me if that last chapter was the end. Of course it wasn't! I wouldn't let poor Edgar off that easy.