(--Prologue--)
11436 Sanguine Rd.
She watched from her living room window for the mail carrier, not that she would get any real mail in the first place. Probably just bills again. Or maybe Zachary. Not that it mattered. She would not get back together with that moron if he paid her to. Actually, his new Mitsubishi looked nice, she might be able to weasel it out of him for a kiss. She visibly shivered at the thought. She peered through her ankle-length black hair at the mailman who had just pulled up, for the green-eyed atheist didn't have anything better to do. She did not like cutting her hair, because the thought of willingly taking yourself apart was not something that appealed to her. The postal worker was actually somewhat cute, for a minimum wage sucker.
She waited for the paper-pusher to leave, then she brushed her hair (it took a while), put on a long black dress, fed her cat, a tabby named Chaser, and went out into the snowy streets. There was no wind, thank goodness, for the tall, pale 19-year old girl disliked the wind. It had also stopped snowing for a while. She pried open the rusty green mailbox with her inch-long garbage-brown fingernails (those talons of hers were the pride of her life and she hasn't been able to break those perfectly straight finger-knives yet, so she wasn't worried)
She reached in, groping around inside the mailbox for her letters.
"OUCH!"
She quickly withdrew her hand, blood dripping from a hole in the palm that went all the way through. She wasn't averse to pain, indeed she enjoyed it sometimes. Scars were a thing of beauty, something to be admired. But this strike had been so quick, and powerful it had surprised her, which wasn't an easy thing to do. She reached in again, ignoring the cuts and scrapes of rusty nails in the box, pulling out letters from three weeks before.
"Bills. Bills. Bills. yeah, yeah."
She rewrote the address on the envelopes to her father's address, since he paid her bills. She didn't have a job, and didn't care. As she sifted through the letters, keeping her sore palm away from them, she saw one of the letters were leaking something. Blood. Her blood. Now she was intrigued. She dumped the rest of the letters on the ground, and opened the blood-soaked one.
Dear Margaret Deluge,
You have been given an all-expense-paid
trip to Silent Hill by Zachary Priest! A
car will come to pick you up at 12:30 AM
on the Saturday following the day you read
this message!
"Weird."
11436 Sanguine Rd.
She watched from her living room window for the mail carrier, not that she would get any real mail in the first place. Probably just bills again. Or maybe Zachary. Not that it mattered. She would not get back together with that moron if he paid her to. Actually, his new Mitsubishi looked nice, she might be able to weasel it out of him for a kiss. She visibly shivered at the thought. She peered through her ankle-length black hair at the mailman who had just pulled up, for the green-eyed atheist didn't have anything better to do. She did not like cutting her hair, because the thought of willingly taking yourself apart was not something that appealed to her. The postal worker was actually somewhat cute, for a minimum wage sucker.
She waited for the paper-pusher to leave, then she brushed her hair (it took a while), put on a long black dress, fed her cat, a tabby named Chaser, and went out into the snowy streets. There was no wind, thank goodness, for the tall, pale 19-year old girl disliked the wind. It had also stopped snowing for a while. She pried open the rusty green mailbox with her inch-long garbage-brown fingernails (those talons of hers were the pride of her life and she hasn't been able to break those perfectly straight finger-knives yet, so she wasn't worried)
She reached in, groping around inside the mailbox for her letters.
"OUCH!"
She quickly withdrew her hand, blood dripping from a hole in the palm that went all the way through. She wasn't averse to pain, indeed she enjoyed it sometimes. Scars were a thing of beauty, something to be admired. But this strike had been so quick, and powerful it had surprised her, which wasn't an easy thing to do. She reached in again, ignoring the cuts and scrapes of rusty nails in the box, pulling out letters from three weeks before.
"Bills. Bills. Bills. yeah, yeah."
She rewrote the address on the envelopes to her father's address, since he paid her bills. She didn't have a job, and didn't care. As she sifted through the letters, keeping her sore palm away from them, she saw one of the letters were leaking something. Blood. Her blood. Now she was intrigued. She dumped the rest of the letters on the ground, and opened the blood-soaked one.
Dear Margaret Deluge,
You have been given an all-expense-paid
trip to Silent Hill by Zachary Priest! A
car will come to pick you up at 12:30 AM
on the Saturday following the day you read
this message!
"Weird."
