She sat in the whicker chair, running a brush through her short cropped blonde locks. Her red tips had faded to a light pink, meaning it was more than time to re-dye them. The dresser she sat before was covered in make up products, hair spray cans, and many porcelain butterflies of different colors, shapes, designs, and sizes. Maria couldn't explain her love for the insect, though it was professed through the tattoo on her lower abdomen, and the decoration of her dressing room. Maybe it was because no matter how beautiful it was, it was so very weak, so fragile. She pushed back her hair, putting large good hoops through her ear lobes.
Here in Silent Hill she was trapped. Wrapped in the bondage of daily routines, requirements, and responsibilities, she was not of her own free will. Even though Maria longed to leave, she couldn't, she wasn't allowed,. . . not yet. Here she was to wait. Something, and someone would be coming for her, and when they arrived, she must be here for them.
Pale pink lips were painted over with a bright and glossy cherry red lipstick, making them the focal point of her face. It didn't matter that her face was the last thing the men ever looked at.
I'm not happy.
No one's happy.
I want to leave, and find a brightly colored town where it looks like
everything has been colored in by a child's set of crayons.
Instead of the black and white photography that Silent Hill exists in.
Everyone talks about how they remember when this place was 'nice.'
What was nice? There are no youths with guns who hold up florists
and Texxon stations, gangs don't roam the streets, and parents hold
their children's hands extra tight. But everyone lives their lives with
their doors locked and fear holding them hostage. Shoulders are looked
over twice, and laughing out loud would throw a pall of silence and
an uncomfortable feeling all around.
Because something is wrong with Silent Hill and everyone knows it. With
the fog that creeps in to sleep over night and the mutilated corpses that
appear every other week. People are leaving, quietly and quickly.
No one announces their plans to leave, or speaks about it quietly over
dinner, because if the town knew they were leaving, it wouldn't allow
them. Every morning there is another abandoned house, and somewhere a
father is gripping the steering wheel tightly on some far off high way,
with paranoia chasing after his car.
Everyone wants to leave, and slowly, they will.
When Silent Hill is a true ghost town, and everyone is saving their sanity
I will stay, and walk the streets alone, for I must wait.
Her eyelids were powdered over with blue eye shadow, and her hair was sprayed into place. A sigh rattled though her chest, flaring her nostrils. Thick chunky four-inch see through platforms clunked over the backstage floor until she had to open the door, and step out onto the stage. Maria extended a hand, grasping onto one of the dance poles, and letting her body slink against it in a sultry manner.
A dozen blank apathetic faces stared back and she pretended not to notice. Swiveling her hips to the throbbing 1980's rock music, she closed her eyes to think of some place else.
Long after the men were gone and the streets were empty . . . after the cars no longer owned rusted on the street corners, and the Heavens Night Bar and Dance club was closed for all eternity Maria would be here, waiting, and living in this world of black and white photography. He was coming with his box of crayons, and would help color over the tones of gray in her world.
That James is a bad man.
Yes, . . . I know.