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In my restless dreams, I see that town…"Mary…are you feeling okay?"
"Okay? What do you mean 'okay'? James, look at me. Look at my face…does that look okay to you?" The disease had swallowed her—he could not deny that. Sprouting from her skin were little bumps, colored dangerously red, growing larger by the day. The edges of the flesh peeled slightly, causing a glimpse of the inside to show, to glisten, remind him of things he wanted to cure, couldn't cure. She covered most of them out of embarrassment.
"Is there…anything I can do for you? Anything that I can get?"
Silent Hill.
You promised me you'd take me
there again someday.
But you never did.
"Oh, James…" Her knuckles were white with the grip she used to hold the flowers he had brought her. They were pretty flowers—colors of red, and a vibrant purple, and even yellow. The yellow reminded him of her soft hair, almost as golden as her smile. But she was not smiling now…not smiling anymore. God, did he miss that smile. "Why…why do you continue to come? I don't want you here anymore. I don't want anyone here anymore…can't you just tell them to leave me alone? I'm going to die, anyways. I'm going to die…"
"Don't say that Mary…please…" James's face shadowed as it bowed low; he didn't want to look at the bitter expression she was probably shooting him. It was nothing new, now. It seemed as though she only had hatred left in her, and it was all for him, wrapped in a majestic bow of scowls and snaps. He had done everything he could for, and he still was, and yet it was not enough. But could he blame her?
His eyes followed the bouquet as it smashed to the ground—leaves crushed, petals shriveled from the fall. He felt like those flowers. She swung her leg around to the side of the bed, grinding the sole of her soft, white shoe into the very face of a large sunflower. He couldn't help wincing lightly. Where was she, now? This was not his Mary.
Well, I'm alone there now...
In our "special place"
Waiting for you...
She was no longer in this place. His Mary would never snarl so viciously at him. She was not that kind of person, and yet, here he stood with her, reverting his eyes from her gaze.
Waiting for you to
come to see me.
There he stood, heart heavy and throat full of knots.
But you never do.
"Get out of here! Didn't you hear me?" her screeches echoed from the hospital walls. "You're letting them do this to me! You're letting them kill me slowly, with those damn pills! With those pills that never work! You know they'll never work, James, you know just as well as I!"
And so I wait, wrapped in my
cocoon of pain and loneliness.
James did not move. He was as stiff as a wooden board, fighting the tears that were about to roll over and flood down his cheeks. Not uncontrollable sobs—just a deep hurt, that could not possibly be shown by the mere leak of salty water from his eyes. He did not cry…not yet, no. He couldn't cry in front of Mary. It would make her feel bad.
I know I've done a terrible
thing to you. Something you'll
never forgive me for.
Going to die, going to die...that's all she ever talked about these days. Never about getting better, or hoping the medicine would work. They never talked about places to go anymore, books to read, people to meet up with. She didn't even look out the window anymore.
I wish I could change
that, but I can't.
I feel so pathetic and ugly
laying here, waiting for you...
That was the first few months.
Every day I stare up at the cracks
in the ceiling and all I can think
about is how unfair it all is...
The doctor came today.
He told me I could go
home for a short stay.
It's not that I'm getting better.
It's just that this may be
my last chance...
I think you know what I mean...
James, at first, was not ecstatic about the news the doctor had given him. Would Mary be any different when coming home? Would she magically transform back into the old Mary, his sweet wife with the gentle touch? Or would she be as loathing as before? As the weeks flew past, he knew Mary's life was sailing along with it.
Even so, I'm glad to be coming
home. I've missed you terribly.
But I'm afraid James.
I'm afraid you don't really
want me to come home.
Whenever you come see me,
I can tell how hard it is on you...
I don't know if you
hate me or pity me...
Or maybe I just disgust you...
But she had not changed since she had come home for that short while. He couldn't understand her...why she had to be so repulsive during her last few—oh he didn't know, years?—of life. He didn't hate her, of course not. But he was not sure if he loved her as he had before, either.
And there she would lie, in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Not even bothering to look at the gorgeous autumn leaves which fell from the enormous oak outside their residence. Not even bothering to turn her head so that she could spare him a few or more words.
I'm sorry about that.
When I first learned that
I was going to die, I just
didn't want to accept it.
I was so angry all the time and I
struck out at everyone I loved most.
Especially you, James.
That's why I understand
if you do hate me.
He remembered the time he took her on that vacation to Silent Hill. He could recall the dreamy look in her eye, the sigh of content as she exclaimed her love of the tranquility of the town. It was a fairly nice place to stay, yes, but he never quite understood why she adored it so obsessively. She had always asked him to take her back. But he couldn't take her back now, not with her sickness. If only they could go again, together. It was their town.
But I want you to
know this, James.
I'll always love you.
Even though our life together had
to end like this, I still wouldn't
trade it for the world. We had
some wonderful years together.
But it was too late.
Well this letter has gone on
too long so I'll say goodbye.
I told the nurse to give
this to you after I'm gone.
That means that as you read
this, I'm already dead.
I can't tell you to remember me,
but I can't bear for you to
forget me.
"I wish they'd just kill me and get it over with. I wish I could just die, without having to sit here and slowly fade away. James, close the door!"
These last few years since I
became ill...I'm so sorry for
what I did to you, did to us...
You've given me so much and
I haven't been able to return
a single thing.
James sat beside her deathbed, the bed that would claim her fate. The bed that resisted against those futile pills—those greedy doctors. They wanted to hook her up to machines until she lost breath, or until her heart gave away. It was eating at her inside, and she was eating at him.
That's why I want you to live
for yourself now.
Do what's best for you, James.
"Mary…"
James...
His fingers crept their way around her neck.
You made me happy.