A/N:  Please don't kill me!  Cybil died for a reason!  Trust me!  Really!

Score!  I'm done with SH2!  He he. 
Since Silent Hill is a Japanese game, I thought it should be only fair that someone spoke a bit of the language.  Translation, through my dabbling in the language, would be something along the lines of:

"Shi-ne na wa iya"= I don't want to die
"Shi-ne!"= DIE!
"Shi…ne…iya…onegai…watashi wa kowaii…shi…ne"= Die…no…please…I'm scared…die…

Yes, someone wants someone to die.  But that first someone go bye-bye, ne?

Thanks to all who have reviewed so far!  You should be knighted for staying with me this long!  Things are gonna really heat up soon, I promise!

Cheers,
~Rumer


Autopsy Report: Chapter Seven

I dreamed.  I dreamed of sirens blaring in my ears and darkness so thick it seemed to squeeze the air out of my lungs.  I remember thinking something along the lines of 'who died and went to hell'?  I suppose it didn't really register that it was me.  The darkness was suddenly illuminated by a sheen of bright light, revealing the modest suburb streets of Silent Hill.  Absolutely lovely.  The light I saw was moving.  I walked towards it.  'Go to the light, Kira', my ass.  The light led me to an abandoned building, where light shone through smoky windows in brilliant flickers.  I found an opening in, and I entered.  When I got inside, I saw the freakiest scene imaginable.  A middle-aged man with a metal pole stood with a flashlight affixed to the front of his jacket.  Surrounding him were several human-looking creatures, but not really.  Like they'd somehow missed a step in the evolutionary period.  It didn't matter anyway, because a fresh, sharp wave of pain radiated through my consciousness, shattering the dream.  Part of me was glad; it freaked the hell out of me.  I thought I'd have preferred the dream to the pain, but that was the stupid me talking.  And yes, there is such a thing, believe it or not.  The stupid me was what got me shot in the first place. 

It's not fun being shot.  The pain is so great that you can't focus on anything at all.  You just drift in and out of consciousness.  I seem to remember opening my eyes briefly enough to register that I was on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance.  Oh yeah,  and thinking that whoever made those flashing lights on the tops of ambulances should be shot.  Hey, then they'd get to go through what I was going through and they'd agree with me.  Bully for me.  Sirens filled my ears, clouded my thoughts.  Some distant part of me that I could barely access said that the sirens I heard weren't the ones on the ambulance, but before I could give a crap about anything at the moment, I lapsed back into darkness.

I remember waking some in the operating room.  But I couldn't open my eyes.  That was really frustrating; I could feel someone poking around my innards, but I couldn't see who it was.  I'm one of those people who like to see who they're hitting.  But sadly I couldn't move a muscle.  It's the worst feeling in the world, being totally helpless.  But since I was obviously pumped full of anesthetics, I didn't give a flying fuu about anything at the moment.  So I fell back into the black abyss of unconsciousness.  Fun.

I have no idea how long I drifted.  But I do remember suddenly snapping my eyes open, completely awake and raring to go.  I sat up-and immediately lay back down.  The pain that shot through my chest when I moved was enough to wake a cry in the biggest bully on the block.  I fought down the urge to scream by just uttering a few cries and gasps.  I know what you're thinking: 'Aww, the big, bad forensic pathologist can't handle a widdle bitty bullet wound?'.  Shut up.

I clutched at my side and found I was no longer wearing my jammies.  Well, they weren't jammies in the first place, just a pair of dark blue boxers and an oversized gray t-shirt with the NYPD Athletic Department logo emblazoned across the front.  In any case, they were gone, replaced by a light blue hospital gown.  I hated hospital gowns with a passion.  You have to be completely nude underneath them, and I tried not to think about how I even got into the gown.  Things like that were best left alone.  I pulled my left arm through its sleeve and into the main part of the gown, feeling for the hurt.  I found bandages wrapped around my entire chest.  Good, at least I wasn't completely nude.  Considerate of them.  Well, that's what half of what I thought.  The other half screamed, "Perverts!"  But these were hospital people doing their job, so I let it go.  It's not good to hurt people who do what they're told.  I found the hurt to the far right of my chest, almost a graze except for the fact that the wound was in at least two inches from the air.  Whatever Cybil shot at me must have been small or it would had completely blown away my chest cavity.  That surprised me; revolvers usually pack quite a punch.

I started to rub the hurt gently, trying to ease the pain.  What I wound up doing was getting some slick liquid smeared on my fingers.  I rummaged for the sleeve again and poked my hand through.  When I brought it into the light, I saw my fingers smeared with blood.  Great.  Gritting my teeth, I reached for the "Help" button on the wall.  My finger found and pushed the little red button, smearing it with a slightly darker red.  At least I did something for the décor.  Bully for me.  The pain suddenly reached its zenith.  So, being the sensible person I was, I passed out.  That sure beat battling pain for hours on end.  I filed it for future reference.

The next time I woke up it was barely light out, and I felt higher than a kite.  I looked at the IV hookup and read that I was now receiving a continuous flow of morphine.  Wonderful.  Not only was I hurt and immobile, I was now also drugged beyond belief.  How peachy.  I looked around my room with fogged vision and saw that some time had passed since my last visit to the land of the living.  I gave a groggy laugh.  Me, inactive?  Funny.  Really funny.  I was one of those people who had to be doing something every second or I get really edgy.  I craned my neck to see around the dim room better.  I could make out a bunch of fire lilies, some hibiscus plants, and some cards.  Wasn't that just too sweet.  Someone thought of me.  It made me want to cry.  Really. 

Suddenly I felt really lightheaded, almost nauseous.  So this time I threw up, then passed out.  Doing something different every time.  Good for me.

I woke up presumably a day later, considering the time I was out.  When you're unconscious, an hour can seem like a second, and in this case, I was unconscious for about eight seconds.  Woo hoo.

As if on cue, a nurse walked in the room, balancing a food tray in one hand and a tray of needles in the other.  Immediately, I seized up.

Needles?

I fought to keep a scream down.  I hated needles.  Hated them.  Yeah, some people have a slight phobia, right?  Mine is a full-blown, bed-wetting, near-death-experience fear.  Guess how enthusiastic I was about getting a shot, if not several?

Almost as enthusiastic as the nurse was when she saw I was awake.  Yeah, we were both pretty much unconscious by that point.  Except I passed out from fear.  I don't know what she passed out for, but my reason was better.  Ha.

***

About an hour later, after the needles were done and disposed of (they had thought to inject me while I was unconscious; smart people!), I woke up to stare into the faces of several concerned-looking doctors.  After much questioning and much explaining, I finally had a grip on what had happened.  The bullet that Cybil had fired had punctured my left lung.  I was not a happy camper, so they said.  For a while, they said they'd given up hope on me.  Me, die?  Naw.  They managed to keep my lung from collapsing, which was good.  I spent over a week in surgery before being sent to my room, the immediate recovery ward.  Sad to say, all my work was being dumped on Dr. Lecter.  Not that the man had other things to do, but hey.  Nothing from Silent Hill had been on his list of autopsies, and I was happy.  Silent Hill had to be a hell of a creepy place.

That was all fine and dandy to me, but I figured out why that silly nurse collapsed.  The doctors had previously ruled that I would probably not wake up until several months later.  That's me, beating the quota.  Sheesh, didn't these people know who I was?  Cybil, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky.  Turns out I had emptied my entire clip into her, just as I thought.  My Ruger is filled with Glazer safety rounds, with can take off a limb with a single glancing shot.  I made sure to send Cybil's family a nice card.  "Dear Mr. And Mrs. Bennett, I'm sorry to say I shot and killed your daughter, but she shot me first.  I hope this card makes up for it."  How tactful.  But then, that's me entirely, right?

***

Approximately two days later, I was up and about again; ready to go back to work.  Whoopee.  Work, fun!  They have brainwashed me well.  That's fine with me.  I have my ways of remaining sane.  One of which would include requesting a questioning session with Harry Mason, the man who went insane after a seemingly innocent visit to Silent Hill.  I asked Dr. Lecter, as he was already a good friend of mine.

"Are you freaking insane?"

He took it better than I thought.

"Listen, Dr. Lecter," I said calmly, "I want to see if these homicides I've been being sent have any sort of connection at all.  To do that I want to get an inside opinion from a man who saw Silent Hill through different perspectives.  I'm sure there's a reason he came back insane.  I want to find out what it is.  If you have a problem with that, I believe you can go to hell."

There was a stunned silence as I finished my sentence.  It's normally not good to tell your superior to go to hell, but I'd done it more than once before.  The only reason I still had a job was because I was always right every time I'd said it.

"Okay, Kira…" Dr. Lecter said with an exasperated sigh.  "You can go.  Hell, this is supposed to be your vacation.  I'll tell you what.  You go to Silent Hill, and not on vacation time.  Consider this last week you took on vacation unspent.  It wasn't any vacation for you anyway."

You gotta love Dr. Lecter.  Such a nice man.  I told him thanks and left, promising a favor the next time he needed one.  Sure, add that one to the list.  Still, not many people had my promise of a favor when needed.  Not many people owed me favors, either, but the ones who did owe me owed me for something major.  Like saving a life.  One of these people would be my friend Jay Haley, who happens to be the director of the Kipling Institute for the Criminally Insane.  How convenient, eh?  Later that day, I gave him a call.  After the brief exchange of greetings ("You're not dead yet, I see."  "Keep comments like that up and you'll be taking my place."), I reminded him of his promise and he happily arranged a meeting ("No way, Kira!  You killed the last inmate who escaped, who knows what you'll do the rest?"  "Jay…if you don't do this, I will let it slip that you were the one who cheated during the election."), and graciously offered to take me to dinner beforehand ("I'm getting some Subway.  Want me to pick you up something?"  "Turkey and cheese combo, thanks.") which I humbly accepted.  That done, I hopped in my Audi and headed to the outskirts of the city.  Funny where mental institutions were located.  I suppose it's about an hour away from everything for a reason, but that didn't stop Cybil, did it?  My side ached just thinking about it.  I put it out of my mind as I rolled into the small parking lot for the nut house.

The building was tall, almost 250 feet to the tallest turret.  Almost like a torture tower taken right out of the medieval era, but sort of modern.  After all, King Arthur didn't have barbed wire back in his day.  The institution was made entirely of stone; some bits carved, some not.  It was a big building, about as big as a football field.  I refused to believe there were enough crazy people to fill the thing until I realized that it doubled as a prison.  Oh, so that's why it looked like a dungeon.  Oddly enough, it fit.

I walked through the big double doors and into the lobby of the institute.  The lobby had white walls and marble floor.  The temperature was so low I could see my breath.  Barely, but it could be seen.  I felt like I was trapped in an ice cube.  Before I could even ring the bell, Jay came out of his side office to the rear of the room.  He didn't seem overjoyed to see me, but he didn't look too hostile either.  I assumed that was a good sign.

"Dr. Haley," I nodded in greeting.  He returned the nod with a smile.

"Dr. Devereaux.  It's been a while."  He held up a plastic bag containing a Subway sub and a bag of Ruffles.  My dinner, woo hoo.  "Come on back to the office.  It's not good to leave people waiting in the lobby."  How considerate.  I followed him to his office, plastic bag in hand.  The large office was just how I'd remembered it.  A polished mahogany desk sat to the side of a large window, several bookshelves lined the walls containing titles like Strategies of Psychotherapy and Schizophrenia and You: Dealing With Your
Other Selves, and vivid oil paintings of landscapes hung on the pale blue walls.  He closed the door behind me and motioned to a leather-padded chair in front of the desk.  Crème de-la crème.  "I'm sorry for my reluctance to return the favor, Kira, but you have to understand my position," he said, sliding into another leather chair behind the desk.  "During the past week, there's been nothing but havoc here.  Inmates have been acting aggressively to the extreme.  I've had to hospitalize two nurses after two different patients nearly beat them to death with broken off table legs.  Then with Bennett escaping and her death, it's been a veritable hellhole.  Especially where you're going."

I chewed a bite of my sandwich thoughtfully.  "Where am I going, Doctor?"

Jay looked grim.  "The below-ground holding block.  Or the Tomb, as we call it.  That's where we put the criminally insane patients."

I gulped down some coke and popped the last of the sub into my mouth.  "Is there any major danger as long as I don't go in any cells?"

"No, I don't think so, but just the same.  There's always that one time, you know?"

I nodded.  "I do know.  I appreciate your concern, but I sort of want to get this done and over with.  Then I'll be out of your hair.  Okay?"

Jay stood up.  I followed suit.  "Okay," he said, "but half an hour.  That's it.  That's all I can give, Kira.  I'd make it longer, but under the circumstances…" he trailed off.  I let him.

"Lead the way, Doctor."  I stood and brushed off a few crumbs that had fallen on my lap.  They stood out plainly on the ivy green skirt and blazer.  Jay strode out of the office, locking the door as soon as I'd followed.  He led me down a veritable maze of passages, going deeper and deeper until we finally got to a double-gated hall.  It was relatively quiet.  Jay took a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors.  As soon as we'd stepped through, the gates slammed shut behind us.  I almost jumped out of my skin.  Jay raised an eyebrow.

"It's a precaution.  Nothing to worry about."  He walked to the end of the hall, and I followed.  We came to another set of gates.   A guard was standing beyond this set, and when Jay showed his ID and I mine, the guard carefully unlocked both gates and let us through.  Immediately I noticed the tiny room we were in contained a veritable arsenal of firepower.  Guns lined the walls, shock prods stood on stands on the counters.  Ammunition in the hundreds were stacked on the shelves.  I raised my eyebrows.

"I guess this is it, huh?"  I crossed my arms.  Jay nodded.

"Stay in the middle.  Mason's at the end of the row, on the right.  There should be a fold-out chair.  Good luck."  Without another word, the gates were unlocked, and he was gone.  Now it was just me, the guards, and the crazy old coots.  Lucky me.  One of the guards unlocked the door to the ward, and I stepped through.  The door slammed shut behind me.  That seemed to be a common occurrence.  I tried not to look in the cells as I walked down the hall to the far cell with the chair.  The inmates were either in awe of me or just sleeping.  I preferred the latter.  Either way, there wasn't a sound.  My heels clacked on the cold stone of the floor and I reached the cell.

Harry Mason was reclined on the small cot in the corner of the cell, hands clasped over his chest like a vampire.  His eyes were open, though, and he was supposedly staring at the ceiling before I came into sight.  Now they glanced over to me, mouth curling into a smile.  I suppressed a gasp.

I knew him.

The man from my dream.

Who says hospital dreams aren't accurate?

~~~

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