Wretched

Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill

II. The Second Day

A/N: For every one review, I'll update. Short or long, doesn't matter. Just remember that I have about seven or so more chapters that are complete and waiting to be uploaded. I just hate updating in bulk. (I'm very cheap, I know.)

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The second day wasn't quite as bad as the first. She was smart enough to figure out that he needed food, so she'd pulled up a rickety wooden chair and interrogated him into the ground.

"I need to get you food, Pyramid Head. You'll die otherwise."

He watched, rather than listened, to her as she talked. Her mouth formed the words seamlessly, her tongue occasionally pressing against her teeth or slipping out to lick the dryness away from her lips. Her voice droned on and on, and he probably would have been lulled into some sort of half-hypnotic state had she not abruptly stood up and strode out the door. He couldn't remember what she had said before making her leave, mainly because he hadn't been listening.

She returned about an hour later, though, carrying a large burlap sack of what he could only imagine was food. He probably should have told her that his diet consisted of the monsters that roamed his territory. But then again, he didn't really owe her anything. If she wanted to die early, that was fine by him. He'd gladly help her along.

She collapsed directly after closing the door, startling him for a moment. The sack withered open, and various cans of food and bottles of water—dirtied and ridiculously dusty—rolled to rest against his side.

Her face displayed the telltale signs of struggle and fatigue, and she leaned against the wall for a long time after that, breathing heavily and keeping her eyes closed. He thought she'd fallen asleep before she slumped forward, resting her hands on her knees.

When she lifted her head, her hair fell over her eyes again. She smiled sort of shy-like, yet the tugging at the corner of her lips belied the exhaustion that racked her body violently. "I…I was almost attacked on the way here. I had to…to run." She glanced around at the cans and bottles speckling the ground, and then at Pyramid Head, himself. "I suppose…you couldn't tell me what you'd like to eat first?"

He wanted to kill her very badly then, but obvious bodily restrictions held him from doing so. So he watched as she grabbed the nearest can, inspected the label, and then pulled a Swiss army knife out of her boot.

"Sliced peaches," she said as she worked to open the can, quite sloppily at that. "Let's hope you like sliced peaches."

With a start, he realized that she would need to actually touch him to be able to feed him. He'd never been touched in any innocent sort of gesture; everybody and everything that touched him wanted to either kill him or defend themselves, and most of the time even both.

She crawled over to him—reproachfully, for she was still very apparently frightened of him—and pulled a slick, dripping peach slice from the can. "Uh…I assume…that you do have a mouth under that helmet?"

Of course he had a mouth, how else would he eat? She obviously thought that he was some sort of immortal. He ate, he drank, and sometimes he even had to sleep. There was just no other way around it, and she was, once again, a filthy, disgusting, vile bitch for thinking any different.

Her hand touched his helmet in such a shaky, harmless way, but it was a knee-jerk reaction for him nonetheless, and a feral growl tore from his throat. She immediately withdrew and stared at him in unimaginable fear, but then a look of stern determination crossed her features. "Pyramid Head, you son-of-a-bitch" she said, as if she was reprimanding a child. "To keep my end of the bargain, I have to help you eat. And in order for me to do that, I have to touch your helmet." She wagged a finger at him mockingly. "So quit growling and scaring me half to death!"

If only growls could scare someone half to death. The next thing he knew, she was lifting his helmet up by the rim to gaze at his jaw. Muscles all over his body clenched and twitched, and the voice was as prevalent as ever.

Kill her. Kill her. Kill, kill, kill!

He was much inclined to listen to the voice, but he still wasn't in any state to get up and do as he wished.

One of her fingers felt around his chin with the lightest of touches, still trembling as if it would suddenly be sucked into his own body and fused with him, before it finally came to rest upon his lower lip. Quicker than he could bite the tip of her dainty little appendage clean off, she slipped the peach slice in his mouth.

And it was the most rancid thing he'd ever tasted in his life.

His throat, upon receiving the message that his tongue was just not going to accept such a sugary-sweet flavor, instantly started the retching process, but it was too late. The peach slice was too slippery, and it slid down to his stomach in record time. Once there, he could feel the walls groan and shake before, all at once, he began to gag. It was a very interesting experience, indeed, for he couldn't remember the last time his gut had ever rejected nourishment so avidly.

The girl screeched an awful sound and grabbed him by the shoulders—probably and instinctive act—to lay him so that the opening of his helmet faced the floor. When he finally regurgitated the foul piece of fruit along with whatever else resided in his bowels, the contents fell onto the ground beside him instead of all over his chest. It was a sick, dark reddish-brown in color, and he couldn't help but stare at it in fascination.

She set him down as carefully as possible, still holding onto his shoulders as if he would suddenly disintegrate before her eyes. "Damn! I'm sorry; I didn't know they were bad!" She let him go and rushed to check the expiration date on the can, which she had knocked over in her haste. "But…it says that it doesn't expire for another year."

The taste that lingered in his mouth was one of the most sordidly puissant flavors that he'd ever had the displeasure of trying, and as the girl rolled him to his former position, he stared at one of the water bottles with a fiery intensity that could rival the sun.

She gaped like an idiot for a moment before following to where the tip of his pyramid helmet pointed—straight at one of the bottles. "Water!" she exclaimed, practically throwing herself at the container. "That's right; I bet you have a terrible taste in your mouth." One of her hands closed around the cap and she twisted, where it came off in a wet pop. "I always hate it when I throw up," she rambled on, moving toward him and spilling a little bit of the water along the way. "It leaves my throat raw, and then I get really hungry a few minutes later."

Her gaze flashed over the length of his body for a moment—from the tip of his helmet to his lax toes—and she tried to string a coherent sentence together. "I don't think…this is… If you drink lying down, I might drown you." When she tried to lift his torso up with just one hand it proved unfruitful, for the most she could accomplish was digging her blunt nails into his tattered skin.

She'd probably have to hold him against her body, he briefly realized. And before he could make any objections to this, she had done just that, temporarily setting down the bottle in favor of lifting him, with effort, and then setting him against her entire front. He was in between her legs, her knees brushing against the skin of his stomach as she drew them together to keep him in place. He was able to keep his head up and slightly steady, but his arms fell helplessly limp at his sides.

She actually managed to pull his head back to rest against the front of her right shoulder—after much whining and complaining about his metal headpiece digging into her flesh and ripping her jacket—and she grabbed his jaw again to hold him steady.

Her legs tightened around him in a mad sort of manner as she leaned over to grab the bottle of water, and a pinprick of desire coiled in his abdomen warmly. He sneered and was able to, surprisingly, bate the insistent commands of his subconscious counterpart.

"This is awkward," she muttered to herself, and he felt her stare ominously at the sharp corners of his helmet protruding near her person. She was obviously uncomfortable, and he mentally noted that she wasn't the only one. He was trapped inside his own body, unable to do anything to satiate the urgings of what he had never denied before. And on top of that, the need to kill was surreptitiously growing larger every minute.

The rim of the bottle touched his chin, and at the first tip that the girl made with it, water splashed down his neck and over his chest. Agitated beyond the capacity to even grunt, Pyramid Head grabbed the bottle rim with his teeth and held it in place, proceeding to suck the water greedily. He hadn't really known how thirsty he was after days and days of absolutely no sustenance whatsoever.

The girl sighed and relaxed a little bit, letting her head droop to rest gently against his helmet. He would have bucked sharply, causing her copious amounts of pain and him great pleasure, but he was too engrossed in drawing every last bit of water out of the bottle as possible. She sniffed a little bit, and then drew back. "Pyramid Head, you smell really bad."

The voice didn't really have anything to say to this.

She was eventually forced to relinquish him to his earlier position, and then went on to try various different foods on him. His favorite probably had to be the chicken noodle soup, though it was slightly stale, and she stayed far away from anymore canned fruit. He was able to shove down some of the vegetables, but by the time his stomach was full and she began to partake in her own share, he dearly missed red meat.