Wretched

Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.

V. The Fifth Day

A/N: I'm pretty sure that this is the last of the chapters I have complete. The updates might slow down to one every few days.

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The first thing that Pyramid Head noticed upon Maria walking in was that she was naked. The second thing that Pyramid Head noticed upon Maria walking in was that he had never wanted sex more in his life. And the third thing that Pyramid Head noticed upon Maria walking in was that his helmet was missing. This simply should have bothered him more, really, but when he tried to stand up and do something about it, Maria stopped him with two words.

"Fuck me," she murmured, and by the look on her face as she climbed to straddle his torso, she was serious. "You're really not so bad." Her mouth closed over the place where his neck and shoulder met. "Without your helmet, that is," she clarified.

Some quiet thing in the far corners of his mind, far outdone by the voice that was having a rambunctious heyday, was whispering that something wasn't right. Something was far too off; the whole deal seemed too magical or surreal to be considered legitimate.

Maria, somehow, had found the most sensitive part of his skin just at the inward curve of his hip. Her hands smoothed over his chest, counting ribs and heartbeats, and the closer she came to dropping all silly little advances and taking him full in her mouth, the closer he came to growling in frustration. What was this, suddenly seducing him like those desperate faceless nurses? Not that he was complaining, of course… Oh, no, he would never complain—not when she did things to him that he'd only ever imagined before.

She mumbled something into his skin, and the vibrations tickled every nerve ending. He couldn't help it. He groaned and blinked once—hard. She was a filthy, disgusting, vile bitch, but he thanked whoever was the creator of mankind that she was.

When she seemed to finish with whatever it was she was trying to accomplish by giving him to most persistent erection he'd ever had to endure, she panted, sitting up straight. She must have felt what he hoped she would feel and dutifully take care of, because she gasped a raspy, stunted sort of breath and rolled her hips.

He almost choked on a grunt of half pain, half pleasure. The places she had touched him felt like fire, and he watched over the heaving of his chest as she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his own in a desperate, almost frantic movement.

She was soft and warm and nothing he'd ever expected. He'd never kissed before in his life, though he knew how the general mechanics of one worked. There was never any real reason for him to kiss his victims. He just fucked them, and that was it. Nothing more to it. But this was…it was different, and he could tell. That thought almost startled him.

"I want you," she said against him, her hair shuffling over his cheeks, and her mouth tasted oddly like sliced peaches. "I want you, I want you."

Had all of his senses been in the right order, he might have replied with a satisfied smirk and nothing else, but because he was actually, in real life, very rattled and disjointed, he could only manage to grunt. It was a foreign feeling to not be the one in control for once; he was the victim, she was the attacker, and he absolutely loved it. He'd never known that feeling helpless could be such an advantageous thing.

Small hands, smelling like dish soap, metal, and Maria, fisted and threaded into the hair at the back of his head, the hair that nobody but himself on rare occasions had seen before. It was a sensation that was not completely unwelcome, and he leaned into her touch, groaning in a way that was surprisingly human for the current situation.

"I want you so bad," she said between a rather fervent kiss. She leaned in again, angling her mouth in such a way that Pyramid Head's brain temporarily shut down. One of her hands detangled from his hair, brushed down his chest and made the muscles flinch, and then stopped to place a burning palm over his lower abdomen.

His breath caught in his throat at the implications, and she bent to his ear to whisper, "I need you." Her free hand took hold of his and placed it flat against her stomach, mimicking the palm she had laid flat against his. "Right here—no holding back." The fingers lying on his stomach flexed. "Inside me."

And then suddenly he could move again, because he grabbed hold of her by her shoulders and slammed her to the floor beside them, then hovered half over her, his torso twisting to accommodate such a position.

Her eyes, full of anticipation, danced.

His hands gripped each of hers, fingers falling between each other, crushing them to the ground on either side of her head. Out of his peripheral vision he caught sight of his helmet, lying discarded in the open doorway, but he paid no attention to it. He was here with her; in the throes of consummating something he'd been waiting far too long to do, he had no time to slip his helmet-slash-security-blanket over his head to hide whatever face was behind the blood-encrusted façade.

She smiled deviously and arched her back. "Not so bad," she repeated. "No helmet, no problem."

He wholeheartedly agreed, even as he readjusted himself so that one of his large hands was clasping both of her wrists above her head, and the other was clutching hard at her hip. He didn't wait for her to urge him to continue, because really, he didn't care. Five days was longer than he'd ever had to wait to sink himself into some dark, tight place, and he wasn't about to let an opportunity just slip through his fingers like water.

At the first push into her he felt something shatter and scream, and he realized that it was Maria. Her hands wriggled beneath his, but he just tightened his grip. He pulled out halfway and then pushed in again, and by the way she was elevating herself off the ground, it looked as if her spine would snap. She screamed again, but he didn't—couldn't—wouldn't stop.

To his amazement and delight, she choked out, "Faster."

He was only too happy to oblige.

Her legs wrapped around his middle, offering him better leverage and causing her to shudder and writhe under the grip of his hand and the force of his thrusts. The hand that had once been squeezing her hip slammed into the ground at his side, and his blunt nails dug into the concrete vainly.

She screamed again, this time much louder than last time, and tried to free her arms, tossing her head to try and throw his hold. But he didn't move—he just kept branding finger marks into her skin.

"More," she pleaded on a breath, as though he wasn't about to actually break her pelvic bone from the strain. "Please!"

He laughed despite himself and finally released her arms, opting for steadying himself with both hands instead of just one. As soon as he'd let her go she reached up to brush some hair out of his face, and his rhythm stuttered. He'd never known his head to be so receptive to any touch, let alone hers.

"So beautiful," she said, probably without even realizing what she was saying, looking directly into his eyes. A string of tension tugged her lips upward and she sucked in a breath, her head tossing backward and splaying her short blonde hair around her.

Beautiful, beautiful, no, no, no—she was the one who was beautiful when she laughed in that shrill manner as he slid in and out, and in and then out again, and he didn't think he'd even last past the first hint of penetration…

She panted and mewled as her hands wandered over his cheekbones, neck, and jaw. She couldn't keep still, and he didn't blame her. It was barely enough for him to pound again and again into her: he needed to scrape at the ground with his fingers, as well, to try and prolong such a fortuitous situation.

She clenched around him almost painfully for a second, and in a brief moment of reflex, he grabbed her by the chin to look at him. She did, and her face contorted in pleasure when he purposely leaned down and kissed her hard on the lips.

"Beautiful," she muttered through his ministrations. "More than I could ever—ah—ask for…"

He could feel that wonderful friction coiling and compounding in his gut, pulling tightly against his inhibitions and causing any and all restraint he had been using to disappear.

"You're so much better," she whispered, "than what you have here."

He shook his head angrily. Shut up, shut up, shut up.

"Come with me. Leave. Never come back, and leave her."

He almost halted, but his animalistic behavior wouldn't allow him. "Her"? Who was "her"?

"Can't you see?" She ended the question with a long gasp, holding onto his shoulders tightly. "Can't you…can't you just…she's dead."

Who was dead?

Her climax spiraled around him, closing in on him as he continued to grind her into the ground, and he gritted his teeth against it. It wasn't fair, wasn't fair, and he was so close, so close, so…incredibly…

"You have to know I love you, James."

Then Pyramid Head woke up.

Maria was standing across from where he lay, humming and scrubbing the walls with some sort of disinfectant, by the smell of it.

It was a dream. All a dream—every single bit of it. From her tugging impatiently at his hair to him managing to have sex—make love? No, that was ridiculous—with someone without killing them. And the first time that he'd successfully completed this, even in his dreams, it had fallen to hell.

The voice was gone when he needed it most, most likely lying in dejection on the floor somewhere.

James Sunderland, James Sunderland, James Sunderland. Maria was in love with James Sunderland, and there was nothing he could do about it. One way or the other, given the chance, she'd drop every bit of half-assed camaraderie she'd formed with Pyramid Head just to rush to the blond man's aid.

Maria, obviously sensing movement, looked across her shoulder at him, and then smiled. "Oh, well good morning," she said sarcastically, but he could tell she was still in a slightly better mood than she had been the other day. "Were you having a bad dream? You kept mumbling."

He didn't answer, so she went back to her task, still talking with him—to him.

"I decided to clean this room," she said, grimacing as she finished with one wall and turned to the next. "If I'm going to be spending any lengthy amount of time in here, it should at least be clean."

Soon her voice droned, and he fell into a state of mild hypnosis, staring at nothing blankly while his mind briefly ghosted over anything and everything in his life: Maria, the pyramid helmet, his paralysis, Maria, the Great Knife, the faceless nurses, James Sunderland, Maria, the little girl who sometimes ran the streets listlessly, his raging sex drive, Maria.

She'd become too important in his life. She was a constant figure, now, and he hated it. If she were to suddenly up and disappear, it would take him time to adjust, he knew. She was an asset—not as important as his helmet or the Great Knife, perhaps, but an asset all the same.

He wondered if the monsters ever spoke about him in their odd monster-speak, and if they did, if Maria was ever in the same sentence.

Monster, monster, monster, the voice breathed, because it had apparently decided to join the internal monologue. He commended its phenomenal conversational skills.

But still, there was a point to the voice's half-lecture. He was as much a monster as the armless creatures, and he wouldn't have it any other way. But still, as he looked down at his clean apron and skin smelling like citrus soap, he couldn't help but feel that that image had deteriorated a little bit at the cause of this woman.

He'd read a magazine article once from the trash bin when he'd been incredibly bored, and it had stated that if two people hated each other, then they also had the capability to love, as well; if they didn't harbor any feelings at all, then that was just a step backward.

Pyramid Head had never really hated anyone—he just liked to kill. There was a driving force behind each slaying telling him that this was what he was supposed to do. That this was his divine occupation. He murdered only those that deserved it, and that was simply that.

So maybe he wasn't a bad person, per se, because it wasn't entirely his fault that he did the things he did. Silent Hill had a strange effect on anybody and everybody. The faceless nurses, who had once been people who helped and healed and loved strangers that just wandered in off the streets, were reduced to convulsing vessels of iniquity, slashing scalpels at any innocent passersby. And the armless men had just been poor, lost souls, feeling trapped within their own bodies. They hadn't done anything to deserve an eternity in a straight-jacket skin. Though, he had to admit, it was hilarious beyond all reason to knock them down and watch them skitter around on the ground like idiots.

Okay, so maybe he had to take the blame for some of the things he did. After all, if he were to be deemed blameless by all accounts, then he wouldn't enjoy killing things. But he did. He felt a sick sort of completion and satisfaction at gutting people sitting in a scared stupor, watching a mindless television set. He loved killing the football guru, and he knew he would love to kill James Sunderland even more.

However…there was one thing that honestly bothered him. To even think about killing Maria prompted a constricting feeling in his chest, and he didn't like that feeling at all. So did that mean he hated her, or just had the capacity to l—?

"Damn."

He glanced over at Maria, who was staring at the watch on her arm. She sighed and began to move things to their appointed spots.

"I stayed too late," she said, frowning. "I'm not about to go out there in the dark." She picked up the blanket that had once been draped over him and threw it on the floor, just against the wall farthest from the door.

She immediately lay down on it, smiling at Pyramid Head. "I guess I'm crashing here tonight," she said, shrugging as she rolled over, her back to him.

He took this time to survey the room. Everything was spotless, from the walls to the floor to even the door and the railing he had fallen on. The ceiling, of course, needed work, but she couldn't very well reach that.

In time, as he stared up at the cracks in the roof over his head, Maria fell asleep, her breathing evening and deepening. He listened to her for a while before she rolled over, facing him.

He turned to see if she had woken up, but she hadn't, so he just watched her face with mild interest.

And, surprisingly, not once did his gaze stray to the hike of her skirt. He was much too preoccupied.