The K. Gordon house was quiet. Nothing disturbed the occupants inside. The air conditioner hummed almost inaudibly. The lights remained dim enough not to irritate the two sleeping forms sprawled out on different couches. It was the first moment of real calm they had experienced since coming to Silent Hill.
Arelia breathed deeply and easily in sleep, a contrast to Bishop's more shallow, but softer breaths. Their minds overflowed with subconscious dream imagery, and within their confines, their guilt manifested. Outside, things began to change.
Arelia set her duffle bag down on the stoop, pausing for a moment to catch her breath. The house she had known all her life stood before her, alien and foreboding the way it should not have been. She removed her Marine cover from the top of her head and tucked it into her belt. Her uniform, newly pressed, smelled of fabric softener and cigarettes. She took off her shades, and knocked on the oak door.
A few moments passed before an old woman came to answer. She drew back the curtain to look Arelia over, then disappeared again into the cover of the house. Many locks on the door snapped and clicked before allowing it to open, revealing the atrium, bright and polished.
"Mom," Arelia said with a nod and a forced smile. Mrs. Mitchel stared at her daughter with harsh brown eyes that scanned every inch of her without moving.
"Leave the bag out there," she said stiffly. "I don't imagine you'll be here that long." Without missing a beat, Arelia opened the screen door shielding her from her mother and stepped into the house, her shoes making dull taps on the tile.
"Dad, you don't understand," she said across the table. "Joining the Marines was my career choice. It has nothing to do with my ethical values, or the way I've been brought up. It allowed me a free college education. I have a master's degree in psychology." The gruff, unshaven man to whom she spoke never allowed his cold blue eyes a moment of softness for his daughter. He held his coffee mug tightly and shook his head.
"I don't care what fancy diploma you got, or what you been doin' for the past couple years. Ain't none of us got that, and we done turned out fine." He surveyed the room idly. "You should've been here helpin' your mother an' me. That's all there is to it."
Arelia gritted her teeth. "I don't have that obligation to you anymore," she hissed. "I've got a life of my own. It does not involve your caretaking, something which you two seem to be doing well enough on your own without." She stopped and looked around. "Where's Yura? I want to see her."
"Never you mind where Yura is," Mr. Mitchel said. "We're talkin' about your mistakes right now."
"My mistakes?! You were the ones who made the mistake!" Arelia was on her feet, her chair sprawled on its back. "Where is Yura?"
"She's out workin' for us, like you should be."
"You didn't," she whispered, eyes narrowed. "Tell me you didn't, because if you did, I swear to God I'll kill you both right here and now." Mrs. Mitchel picked up the chair.
"You shut the fuck up, girl, or I'll take the belt to your goddamn filthy mouth," Mr. Mitchel growled as he stood. "Your cunt ain't worth shit to us now, so if you don't like how we handle family affairs, you can get the Hell out of here." He lifted up his mug. "And don't let the damn door hit your good-for-nothin'-ass on the way out."
Arelia kicked the chair over again to spite her mother's efforts and hurried to the door, face tinged red with anger. "You'll both get what's coming to you," she promised. "Yura's too damn good for you." She picked up her duffel bag and slammed the door behind her, flying down the front garden steps to her truck. She ran over the mailbox on her way out.
The road was dark and slick with rain. Arelia, her Marine jacket having been thrown in the back, drove through gigantic puddles and became airborne over speedbumps in her short-sleeved undershirt, uniform pants and shoes. Her angry tears slid unnoticed down her cheeks, the bloodshot whites of her eyes hidden behind shades. Perhaps she was moving too fast, but it was no issue to her.
She had to find Yura before she suffered the same fate she had years ago.
In her headlights, the pale pink of a tricycle was illuminated. The light reflected back and blinded her momentarily. She hit the brakes and skidded headlong into the bike.
A sharp, piercing scream cut the night air. Then all was blue and red, blue and red, blue and red...
Her pain not yet fully realized, Arelia twisted and writhed slightly on the couch. It was as if she were being intentionally held on the brink of full remembering, but not allowed to cross over. She whimpered softly; the noise did not awake Bishop on the opposite couch. His own dreams were plagued by his own personal demons. He frowned in sleep and tensed as sirens cut through the air.
"Get back! Come on, now, get back!" he yelled at the hysterical woman trying to overpower him. Flares ignited like the eyes of demons in the night. Police and ambulance lights flashed. The woman began to push him back.
"Ma'am, come on, now!" He put his hand on her chest and tried to force her back toward the cruisers; she grabbed his wrist and twisted it hard, moving him out of her way. He grabbed her leg and pulled her down to him. The two wrestled with each other; he called for help even as she pinned him by his throat.
Under the woman's left front tire, a tricycle lay crushed and mangled. Tassels gleamed in her headlights. One wheel still spun.
Bishop finally managed to kick her off him and drag her into the concentration of police officers and paramedics. He watched the latter of the two rush past toward the concealed accident site. As he helped load the woman into the ambulance, she leaned forward and whispered into his ear.
"Samael is coming. They've brought on the Change, and I... I...!"
Bishop turned to look into her eyes. Two emerald orbs filled with pain and terror. Two eyes producing blood at the corners.
"It's all their guilt!" she cried, still resisting assistance. The chief paramedic glanced down at Bishop, who stood trembling, touching the ear she had brushed her lips so softly against.
"She's delusional," he said evenly. "I'm sorry she put you through so much trouble. They get like this after traumatic experiences, sometimes."
"You'll take her to Alchemilla?"
"Of course," the paramedic smiled. "Dr. Kaufmann's the best for stuff like this."
On the curb, Bishop watched silently as the ambulance closed its doors and took off wailing down the main road. To his left, he heard the quiet conversation of the remaining medics.
"Time of death?"
"9:18 PM."
The two mangled protagonists slept through the hours this way, trapped within their own internal conflicts previous repressed. Inside them beat two fierce hearts that fluttered, died, and were reborn each moment. The moment they stopped would be the moment the entire world came crashing down, and the theory of mortality would be broken forever.