Ok, thank you very very muchies for the reviews. :) Here's Chapter Two, longer than Chapter One, because I actually put some real effort into this.
Please forgive my English at points, sometimes I have problems forming sentences that make sense in English, because I'm Finnish, so... just point the mistakes out and I'll do my best to correct them. :) Also, I'd appreciate being informed about possible misspellings and grammar mistakes. Thank you. And comments are very appreciated, too. They help me in my writing process.
Then the usual...
Spoils, SH1, SH3. Silent Hill is (C) 1998-2004 Konami, please don't sue me for I make no money for writing this. This story is (C) Jonna Parkkonen; that is, me, Maternal Heart, Materna, Awnae, whatever you want to call me. Don't use it ANYWHERE without my consent, and if you do get permission to use it, post it on your site etc. do NOT alter it. If you wish to use it, e-mail me at tuulikello84@yahoo.co.uk. Oh, and notice the few references and I'll give you a big virtual kiss. :) Also, notice the overuse of ; and sentences that never seem to end. My biggest flaws in writing. Try to bear with me. :)
Written listening to Malice Mizer's songs Illuminati and Beast of Blood. So expect nothing really coherent. Ok ok, on with the story already...
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Brahms wasn't as far away from Portland as Silent Hill, but the time Heather spent staring at the raindrops drifting down the car window felt like forever. She tried to focus on her memories as Alessa to remember who Cybil was, but the memories were fading away with each passing moment; she would soon remember nothing about her tortured life in Silent Hill, whether she liked it or not, yet she desperately needed answers. The answers that only this Bennett woman could give her; if she were still sane, or even alive.
"So how do we find out where this Cybil lives?" Heather asked, lifting her gaze towards Douglas for the first time in an hour and a half.
He turned his head for a second and smiled, "Looked that up already. She uses the alias Elisabeth Barrows, lived in 56 Acorn Street, apartment 34 A. It's a bit far from the center of the town..."
"But closer than Heaven," Heather said, chuckling at her own little joke. Noticing Douglas' raised eyebrow, she laughed, "Just a little in-joke."
Douglas lifted his hand from the gear stick for a moment and pressed it on Heather's hand. "It feels good to see you smile."
"Yeah, well," she sighed, "It won't feel good if we crash since you're not paying any attention to the road, Douglas."
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The apartment complex wasn't a very pretty sigh; the paint was peeling off the walls, some of the windows were boarded and drunkards were sleeping and brawling around the trash collecting area. Heather had to navigate her way through puddles of vomit, blood and urine, not to mention tons of broken bottles, to get to the front door, which was thankfully unlocked. Douglas followed not far behind, wrinkling his nose and giving dirty looks to whatever kind of human scum decided to try and make closer contact with Heather. The inside of the building was a bit nicer; the walls had wallpaper on them; a bit torn, granted, but a lot nicer than the outside of the place; most of the doors were intact and clean, and some of the ceiling lamps worked. Heather was reminded of her own home and wondered why both her father and Cybil had chosen such horrible places to hide in. She knew her father could have afforded a much better place than their little hellhole in Portland; he used to be a best-selling author before they had to disappear, and she doubted Cybil was penniless, either.
The lift didn't work, so they had to climb to the third floor. The doorbell of Cybil's apartment looked like it had gone through extensive hammer surgery and there was no way Heather could have persuaded it to ring, so she started knocking on the door; softly at first, but when there was no answer, he increased the force of the hits until she was slamming her fists on the door.
"They're not home yet," a woman's voice could be heard from behind them. Heather turned around, startled. An older woman in a pink, tattered bathrobe stood in the doorway of the apartment opposite Cybil's. The wrinkles on her face were so deep that Heather doubted the woman had ever smiled. The curlers in her greasy hair looked glued on and Heather fought the urge to cringe at the sight.
"Do you know when Miss B... Barrows is coming back?" Douglas asked, pulling Heather's attention away from the grease-dripping curlers. The woman approached them and the stench of heavy sweat mixed with some cheap perfume invaded Heather's senses.
"Why do you want to know?" she crooned, a slight smile appearing on her face as she studied Douglas, eyes half-closed in a failed attempt of a seductive gaze.
"This lady here is..." Douglas began. Heather stepped forward, offering the woman her one of her most sickeningly sweet smiles, lifting her eyebrows to make her face more innocent; the face she usually had used on her father to get whatever she wanted. It always worked in winning people's affections.
"She's my auntie and I haven't seen her for positively AGES," she offered. She could notice the corners of Douglas' mouth twitching at her performance. The old woman looked at Heather for a moment, then squinted, "Yeees... you do look quite a lot like her... but she won't be coming home for a couple of hours, dear girl."
Heather's face formed the pout she had been practicing for the past seven years, "Oh shucks. Well, I guess we'll just have to wait here in the cold, damp stairway..."
The woman took Heather's hand and offered a grin, showing brown-ish teeth, most of them missing, and yet another mix of disgusting odors made Heather want to vomit, but she kept the pout on, the water welling up in her eyes making it seem like she was about to cry.
"I can let you in, young girl. But you," the woman said, turning her attention to Douglas, "You will have to stay outside until Miss Barrows comes home. I just made some tea, and I'm sure there's enough for two..."
Heather raised an eyebrow at Douglas, her face still showing nothing but pure innocence, but her eyes twinkled mockingly, "It's ok, Daddy. I can manage on my own, you go and have tea with this lovely lady," she said, pursing her lips to keep the burst of laughter in until the woman was out of hearing range; if that was possible. She looked like your typical listening-through-walls-and-doors-with-a-glass type, but Heather hoped Douglas could keep her occupied while she had a chat with Cybil. She sure didn't want the woman to hear their conversation.
After the woman had let her in and Douglas had followed the woman to his possible doom, Heather took a quick look around the place. It was cleaner than any place she'd even been to before. Everything was in perfect order, small aroma candles were scattered all around the apartment to give it a pleasant, calming atmosphere. The lights weren't your usual bright halogens, but very soft blue hues that reflected off the numerous mirrors of the place. The only thing that broke the harmony of the place was the large gun rack in the living room. It felt out of place but Heather understood Cybil's need to be able to defend herself; even if four shotguns and seven pistols was a bit too much. The kitchen could have been a slasher's paradise; knives of all shapes and sizes were clearly visible in a locked cupboard, and a large replica sword adorned the wall. Heather liked this Cybil woman even before meeting her.
Heather also noted that the apartment had two furnished bedrooms, both of which seemed to be in use. The closets in the smaller bedroom were filled with dreamy designer clothes, handbags, hats and shoes, which lead Heather to believe that Cybil was definitely NOT a poor woman. The larger bedroom was very classy, though the decor made it appear like something out of a French brothel. The dressers were filled with corsets, most of the underwear Heather found was either lace or silk, and the regular clothes were very generous, especially the shirts. Out of curiosity, Heather tried one of the tops; the neckline plunged so low that it hung around her navel, so it was safe to assume that whoever wore these had a rather large chest; something Heather would never have. Careful to arrange everything the way she found it, Heather made her way back to the living room and slumped on the comfy rocker. Staring at the rain outside, she eventually drifted off to sleep.
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Please forgive my English at points, sometimes I have problems forming sentences that make sense in English, because I'm Finnish, so... just point the mistakes out and I'll do my best to correct them. :) Also, I'd appreciate being informed about possible misspellings and grammar mistakes. Thank you. And comments are very appreciated, too. They help me in my writing process.
Then the usual...
Spoils, SH1, SH3. Silent Hill is (C) 1998-2004 Konami, please don't sue me for I make no money for writing this. This story is (C) Jonna Parkkonen; that is, me, Maternal Heart, Materna, Awnae, whatever you want to call me. Don't use it ANYWHERE without my consent, and if you do get permission to use it, post it on your site etc. do NOT alter it. If you wish to use it, e-mail me at tuulikello84@yahoo.co.uk. Oh, and notice the few references and I'll give you a big virtual kiss. :) Also, notice the overuse of ; and sentences that never seem to end. My biggest flaws in writing. Try to bear with me. :)
Written listening to Malice Mizer's songs Illuminati and Beast of Blood. So expect nothing really coherent. Ok ok, on with the story already...
----------------------------------------
Brahms wasn't as far away from Portland as Silent Hill, but the time Heather spent staring at the raindrops drifting down the car window felt like forever. She tried to focus on her memories as Alessa to remember who Cybil was, but the memories were fading away with each passing moment; she would soon remember nothing about her tortured life in Silent Hill, whether she liked it or not, yet she desperately needed answers. The answers that only this Bennett woman could give her; if she were still sane, or even alive.
"So how do we find out where this Cybil lives?" Heather asked, lifting her gaze towards Douglas for the first time in an hour and a half.
He turned his head for a second and smiled, "Looked that up already. She uses the alias Elisabeth Barrows, lived in 56 Acorn Street, apartment 34 A. It's a bit far from the center of the town..."
"But closer than Heaven," Heather said, chuckling at her own little joke. Noticing Douglas' raised eyebrow, she laughed, "Just a little in-joke."
Douglas lifted his hand from the gear stick for a moment and pressed it on Heather's hand. "It feels good to see you smile."
"Yeah, well," she sighed, "It won't feel good if we crash since you're not paying any attention to the road, Douglas."
----------------------------------------
The apartment complex wasn't a very pretty sigh; the paint was peeling off the walls, some of the windows were boarded and drunkards were sleeping and brawling around the trash collecting area. Heather had to navigate her way through puddles of vomit, blood and urine, not to mention tons of broken bottles, to get to the front door, which was thankfully unlocked. Douglas followed not far behind, wrinkling his nose and giving dirty looks to whatever kind of human scum decided to try and make closer contact with Heather. The inside of the building was a bit nicer; the walls had wallpaper on them; a bit torn, granted, but a lot nicer than the outside of the place; most of the doors were intact and clean, and some of the ceiling lamps worked. Heather was reminded of her own home and wondered why both her father and Cybil had chosen such horrible places to hide in. She knew her father could have afforded a much better place than their little hellhole in Portland; he used to be a best-selling author before they had to disappear, and she doubted Cybil was penniless, either.
The lift didn't work, so they had to climb to the third floor. The doorbell of Cybil's apartment looked like it had gone through extensive hammer surgery and there was no way Heather could have persuaded it to ring, so she started knocking on the door; softly at first, but when there was no answer, he increased the force of the hits until she was slamming her fists on the door.
"They're not home yet," a woman's voice could be heard from behind them. Heather turned around, startled. An older woman in a pink, tattered bathrobe stood in the doorway of the apartment opposite Cybil's. The wrinkles on her face were so deep that Heather doubted the woman had ever smiled. The curlers in her greasy hair looked glued on and Heather fought the urge to cringe at the sight.
"Do you know when Miss B... Barrows is coming back?" Douglas asked, pulling Heather's attention away from the grease-dripping curlers. The woman approached them and the stench of heavy sweat mixed with some cheap perfume invaded Heather's senses.
"Why do you want to know?" she crooned, a slight smile appearing on her face as she studied Douglas, eyes half-closed in a failed attempt of a seductive gaze.
"This lady here is..." Douglas began. Heather stepped forward, offering the woman her one of her most sickeningly sweet smiles, lifting her eyebrows to make her face more innocent; the face she usually had used on her father to get whatever she wanted. It always worked in winning people's affections.
"She's my auntie and I haven't seen her for positively AGES," she offered. She could notice the corners of Douglas' mouth twitching at her performance. The old woman looked at Heather for a moment, then squinted, "Yeees... you do look quite a lot like her... but she won't be coming home for a couple of hours, dear girl."
Heather's face formed the pout she had been practicing for the past seven years, "Oh shucks. Well, I guess we'll just have to wait here in the cold, damp stairway..."
The woman took Heather's hand and offered a grin, showing brown-ish teeth, most of them missing, and yet another mix of disgusting odors made Heather want to vomit, but she kept the pout on, the water welling up in her eyes making it seem like she was about to cry.
"I can let you in, young girl. But you," the woman said, turning her attention to Douglas, "You will have to stay outside until Miss Barrows comes home. I just made some tea, and I'm sure there's enough for two..."
Heather raised an eyebrow at Douglas, her face still showing nothing but pure innocence, but her eyes twinkled mockingly, "It's ok, Daddy. I can manage on my own, you go and have tea with this lovely lady," she said, pursing her lips to keep the burst of laughter in until the woman was out of hearing range; if that was possible. She looked like your typical listening-through-walls-and-doors-with-a-glass type, but Heather hoped Douglas could keep her occupied while she had a chat with Cybil. She sure didn't want the woman to hear their conversation.
After the woman had let her in and Douglas had followed the woman to his possible doom, Heather took a quick look around the place. It was cleaner than any place she'd even been to before. Everything was in perfect order, small aroma candles were scattered all around the apartment to give it a pleasant, calming atmosphere. The lights weren't your usual bright halogens, but very soft blue hues that reflected off the numerous mirrors of the place. The only thing that broke the harmony of the place was the large gun rack in the living room. It felt out of place but Heather understood Cybil's need to be able to defend herself; even if four shotguns and seven pistols was a bit too much. The kitchen could have been a slasher's paradise; knives of all shapes and sizes were clearly visible in a locked cupboard, and a large replica sword adorned the wall. Heather liked this Cybil woman even before meeting her.
Heather also noted that the apartment had two furnished bedrooms, both of which seemed to be in use. The closets in the smaller bedroom were filled with dreamy designer clothes, handbags, hats and shoes, which lead Heather to believe that Cybil was definitely NOT a poor woman. The larger bedroom was very classy, though the decor made it appear like something out of a French brothel. The dressers were filled with corsets, most of the underwear Heather found was either lace or silk, and the regular clothes were very generous, especially the shirts. Out of curiosity, Heather tried one of the tops; the neckline plunged so low that it hung around her navel, so it was safe to assume that whoever wore these had a rather large chest; something Heather would never have. Careful to arrange everything the way she found it, Heather made her way back to the living room and slumped on the comfy rocker. Staring at the rain outside, she eventually drifted off to sleep.
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