James sat at the kitchen table, resting his head on his folded arms.
//Three years. Three years today she's been gone.//
He lifted his head just enough to survey the kitchen. He remembered what pride Mary had taken in the little room, painting it bright yellow, making sure the dishes in the glass-fronted cabinets were lined up just so. He remembered the first meal she'd cooked for him when they'd gotten back from their honeymoon in Silent Hill---pot roast with baby potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, if memory served him right. He'd tiptoed up behind her and grabbed her ass, and she'd let out a whoop of surprise and dropped the measuring cup she'd been holding. He'd untied her apron strings and hiked her dress up above her waist and taken her right there, in the puddle of spilled milk and flour, and in their passion she'd forgotten about the food. No matter; the burned edges were easily cut away, and he loved how she wrapped her legs around his back, abandoning her perfect untouchable housewife persona for one wild hour.
Angrily, he scrubbed at his eyes.
//You have no right to miss her, you fuck, you killed her.//
A soft whispering sound made him sit up, startled, and he realized it was just the mail being dropped through the slot in the kitchen door. Leaning over as far as he could, he managed to grab the mail without tipping over his chair.
"Bill...bill...crappy catalog...bill..." James stopped when he saw a plain white envelope addressed in block letters. "What's this?" He turned it over, checking for a return address in vain. Although it was at least eighty degrees in the sunny kitchen, he felt an icy trickle slide down his spine when he saw Mary's name written in cursive at the bottom of the envelope. With trembling fingers, he ripped it open and withdrew a single sheet of paper.
//In my restless dreams, I see that town...Silent Hill.
You promised you'd take me there again someday, but you never did.
Well, I'm alone there now...
In our special place...
Waiting for you.//
"W-what kind of sick fucking joke *is* this?" he whispered. "Who could..."
He went to the liquor cabinet and withdrew a bottle of whiskey, taking a slug straight from the bottle in an effort to calm his nerves. He waited before the warmth spread through his body before daring to reread the letter.
"This is definitely Mary's handwriting," James said hoarsely. "But how? Maybe she mailed it before she died?"
//Idiot. Not even the U.S. Post Office is *that* slow.//
Sitting back down, he stared intently at the envelope, half-expecting it to vaporize in his hands. He checked the postmark, but it was too smudged to make out the date.
James took another drink of whiskey and remembered the weeks following Mary's death. There had been an autopsy, but her body was so ravaged by the disease that nobody doubted it had killed her. Nobody suspected the grieving, handsome young husband with the dark circles under his eyes, holding a tattered vacation photo of Mary and talking about her to anyone who would listen.
Or at least, he *thought* nobody suspected him.
At Mary's funeral, her doctor came up to James, and he mentally prepared himself for another barrage of platitudes. //Will it be "She was so young," or "She was such a wonderful woman"?// James thought wryly. //Or perhaps that perennial favorite, "She's in God's hands now"? Yeah, well, where the hell was God when she was suffering so much?//
Dr. Lerner leaned in close and said, "Mr. Sunderland, I think I know what really happened."
James shrank back in horror. "Excuse me?"
"And I want you to know that I understand, and if anyone ever found out the truth, I would never testify against you. Morally, I can't condone what you did, but I certainly understand why, and in the end I think it was an act of love."
"I---"
"But mark my words, Mr. Sunderland, you will pay for what you did. You may never spend a single second in jail, but you will wind up punishing yourself. One way or another, you will pay for what you did." There was no trace of righteous indignation or judgment in Dr. Lerner's voice, just a sad resignation. He squeezed James' shoulder, then walked away.
James shook his head to clear it of the memory and drained the whiskey bottle. He stood and went to the bedroom he'd shared with Mary. Opening the closet door, he reached up and took his suitcase off the shelf, knocking a pillow down in the process. He bent down to pick it up and turned it over.
GOD BLESS OUR HAPPY HOME.
Tears filled his eyes and scalded his cheeks as they spilled over. "Oh baby," he sobbed, picking it up and hugging it tightly to his chest. He thought he could still smell the rose-scented shampoo she always used, as well as the sour tang of her illness. He hadn't wanted the pillow on their bed, serving as a constant reminder of his crime, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it away either.
//Maybe it is a sick joke. Maybe it's a mistake. But no matter what, I have to go to Silent Hill and find out for sure.//
"Mary," he whispered. "Could you really be in that town?"
Behind him, something started to skitter out of the shadows but retreated back into the darkness, biding its time.
~THE END~
...for NLC
//Three years. Three years today she's been gone.//
He lifted his head just enough to survey the kitchen. He remembered what pride Mary had taken in the little room, painting it bright yellow, making sure the dishes in the glass-fronted cabinets were lined up just so. He remembered the first meal she'd cooked for him when they'd gotten back from their honeymoon in Silent Hill---pot roast with baby potatoes and Yorkshire pudding, if memory served him right. He'd tiptoed up behind her and grabbed her ass, and she'd let out a whoop of surprise and dropped the measuring cup she'd been holding. He'd untied her apron strings and hiked her dress up above her waist and taken her right there, in the puddle of spilled milk and flour, and in their passion she'd forgotten about the food. No matter; the burned edges were easily cut away, and he loved how she wrapped her legs around his back, abandoning her perfect untouchable housewife persona for one wild hour.
Angrily, he scrubbed at his eyes.
//You have no right to miss her, you fuck, you killed her.//
A soft whispering sound made him sit up, startled, and he realized it was just the mail being dropped through the slot in the kitchen door. Leaning over as far as he could, he managed to grab the mail without tipping over his chair.
"Bill...bill...crappy catalog...bill..." James stopped when he saw a plain white envelope addressed in block letters. "What's this?" He turned it over, checking for a return address in vain. Although it was at least eighty degrees in the sunny kitchen, he felt an icy trickle slide down his spine when he saw Mary's name written in cursive at the bottom of the envelope. With trembling fingers, he ripped it open and withdrew a single sheet of paper.
//In my restless dreams, I see that town...Silent Hill.
You promised you'd take me there again someday, but you never did.
Well, I'm alone there now...
In our special place...
Waiting for you.//
"W-what kind of sick fucking joke *is* this?" he whispered. "Who could..."
He went to the liquor cabinet and withdrew a bottle of whiskey, taking a slug straight from the bottle in an effort to calm his nerves. He waited before the warmth spread through his body before daring to reread the letter.
"This is definitely Mary's handwriting," James said hoarsely. "But how? Maybe she mailed it before she died?"
//Idiot. Not even the U.S. Post Office is *that* slow.//
Sitting back down, he stared intently at the envelope, half-expecting it to vaporize in his hands. He checked the postmark, but it was too smudged to make out the date.
James took another drink of whiskey and remembered the weeks following Mary's death. There had been an autopsy, but her body was so ravaged by the disease that nobody doubted it had killed her. Nobody suspected the grieving, handsome young husband with the dark circles under his eyes, holding a tattered vacation photo of Mary and talking about her to anyone who would listen.
Or at least, he *thought* nobody suspected him.
At Mary's funeral, her doctor came up to James, and he mentally prepared himself for another barrage of platitudes. //Will it be "She was so young," or "She was such a wonderful woman"?// James thought wryly. //Or perhaps that perennial favorite, "She's in God's hands now"? Yeah, well, where the hell was God when she was suffering so much?//
Dr. Lerner leaned in close and said, "Mr. Sunderland, I think I know what really happened."
James shrank back in horror. "Excuse me?"
"And I want you to know that I understand, and if anyone ever found out the truth, I would never testify against you. Morally, I can't condone what you did, but I certainly understand why, and in the end I think it was an act of love."
"I---"
"But mark my words, Mr. Sunderland, you will pay for what you did. You may never spend a single second in jail, but you will wind up punishing yourself. One way or another, you will pay for what you did." There was no trace of righteous indignation or judgment in Dr. Lerner's voice, just a sad resignation. He squeezed James' shoulder, then walked away.
James shook his head to clear it of the memory and drained the whiskey bottle. He stood and went to the bedroom he'd shared with Mary. Opening the closet door, he reached up and took his suitcase off the shelf, knocking a pillow down in the process. He bent down to pick it up and turned it over.
GOD BLESS OUR HAPPY HOME.
Tears filled his eyes and scalded his cheeks as they spilled over. "Oh baby," he sobbed, picking it up and hugging it tightly to his chest. He thought he could still smell the rose-scented shampoo she always used, as well as the sour tang of her illness. He hadn't wanted the pillow on their bed, serving as a constant reminder of his crime, but he couldn't bring himself to throw it away either.
//Maybe it is a sick joke. Maybe it's a mistake. But no matter what, I have to go to Silent Hill and find out for sure.//
"Mary," he whispered. "Could you really be in that town?"
Behind him, something started to skitter out of the shadows but retreated back into the darkness, biding its time.
~THE END~
...for NLC
