Wretched
Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill.
VI. The Sixth Day
A/N: First things first: I realize that Pyramid Head doesn't really have a personality. He's sort of a figment of James's imagination—a lawman in Silent Hill. But this means that I've had to mold a character for Pyramid Head, and then keep him in that character. It just made it all that much harder.
Don't worry, children; this isn't the end.
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Maybe, Pyramid Head pondered, he should just stop falling asleep.
When he awoke that morning, feeling rested and rearing to spend the day vegetating—and he was being completely sarcastic, of course—when he noticed that something was amiss.
He spent a few moments trying to figure out what that "something" was until it hit him. And when it hit him, it hit him hard.
Maria was gone, and there was blood everywhere.
Rage boiled in his veins as he followed the trail of smeared red through the room, out the open door, and then hanging a left once there. Calm, calm, he had to stay calm, because he would only go crazy in his current predicament. He wasn't able to do a damned thing, and he knew that that fact would only rile him more.
So he sat. And he waited. And to his surprise, he realized that he was able to move his arms to an extent.
The day passed with an unbearable slowness, with random monsters stopping near the doorway to paw, sniff, and lick at the blood. He watched them anxiously—the armless creatures that teetered along, feet turned in as they whirled around to find the source of the scent of the blood, the faceless nurses that stopped and stared at him, the blood, and then him again before wandering off, and the flesh-eating bugs that decided against entering the room with him.
Time, time, time. It was his worst enemy as he laid there, thinking of where Maria was and what had taken her away, kicking and screaming, in the night while he slept. He vowed that whatever had abducted her would become very intimately acquainted with the blade of his Great Knife.
Hours and hours and hours later, he heard panting and heavy breathing. It sounded like Maria, so he immediately turned his attention toward the door expectantly, his heart leaping in his chest.
However, it was not Maria who appeared, but a man with messy blond hair and a pathetic little weapon that didn't even deserve his attention.
It was James Sunderland, stained with blood.
He didn't even glance over at Pyramid Head as he lay there, bending over to grasp his knees as labored breaths wracked his frame. He swallowed a cough and looked up. "Maria!" he called, still staring straight ahead. "Maria, where are you?" He waited for a few more moments before continuing on, the light in his breast pocket illuminating the path before him. Pyramid Head watched with amusement as a horde of flesh-eating bugs followed his trail.
His enjoyment died, though, when the reality sunk in. Maria was gone, and if she wasn't with James Sunderland, then she was in danger. She could be dead—dead by any other hand than his own, and it filled him with a wretched anger to even think such a thing.
Another hour passed in silence as he watched the doorway with strained eyes, his head occasionally lolling as what he assumed was night fell.
She'd come back, he tried to console himself and his incessant fury. She would return to him, because buried underneath the layers of seductive façades and tough-girl fronts, she was actually a good person. She didn't have to help him. She didn't give a damn whether or not he told his "lackeys" to back off or not. All she cared about was whether or not she would help a suffering person or let him rot.
She was so undeserving of Silent Hill, no matter how much the town decided otherwise. So she had some issues—didn't everyone? She'd never killed a loved one. She'd never ignored the plea of someone in need.
The pieces all came together suddenly and Pyramid Head scowled beneath his helmet. They all had their respective roles in the play. James was the hero, Maria was the human sacrifice, and he was the executioner.
His left hand curled into a fist.
Never. He'd never let it happen, because he would not fall victim to the wishes of whatever higher powers governed Silent Hill. He'd find the one loophole—the one grey area that allowed him to do what he needed to but still keep his inclinations in mind.
At that moment, he knew that Maria would return.
And she did.
She gasped and stumbled, slamming the door behind her. Her clothes were ripped beyond repair, and a blotch of blood stained the front of her shredded jacket. She collapsed to her knees, resting her forearms on the cement and trembling. Her hair was a matted mess, but all Pyramid Head cared about at the moment was that she wasn't dead.
Somehow, he found the strength to completely sit up. "Maria," he said, without really realizing what he was doing.
She crumpled, falling to lie on her side, still fighting for air. Blood stained through her shirt, still pooling beneath her.
She needed help.
He needed to help her.
"Maria," he said again, leaning toward her, only to fall down on one forearm. He wasn't paralyzed as much as he was before, but his movement was still limited. For the first time in his life, he cursed himself for weakness.
She lay there for about an hour afterward, until finally, she raised her head to stare at him, tears and blood fighting a glorious battle across her face. "I'm sorry," was all she said before she starting sobbing.
He swallowed a rather painful lump in his throat.
"I was attacked," she said after a while, still curled in a fetal position. "A couple nurses caught me off guard."
So that was where the gash in her gut came from. He'd make sure that the nurses obtained their just retribution.
"I tried to find a first-aid kit, but…I couldn't find any." She smiled wryly then. "I guess James found them all."
He decided not to tell her about James's impromptu visit.
She managed to sit up, still quivering, and coughed. "You can move your upper body, now?"
He shook his head. "Arms." As if for emphasis, he crossed them over his chest. He'd been put through too much mental stress lately to care about whether or not he spoke to her.
"That's good," she said, taking a wracking breath. "It means you're getting better. Maybe by tomorrow you'll be fully healed?"
He doubted it.
She inched over to him, inspecting his mobile arms. And, surprisingly, he didn't feel any inclination at all the strangle her. No underlying drive forced him to want to kill her, and he wondered if that was because she'd obtained a salvation of sorts.
"I'm so tired," she whispered before she lowered herself onto his chest, her ear pressed against the place where his heart would be. "So, so tired…"
He frowned, suddenly not wanting her to fall asleep.
"I'm sorry that I made such a sorry mess," she mumbled, and he could feel the vibrations of her throat. "I'll try and clean it…tomorrow."
"No," he said. She'd done enough for the both of them, and he'd make sure she was rewarded for it.
She took a couple deep breaths before continuing. "Okay. Thank you, Pyramid Head."
She shouldn't be thanking him; he should be thanking her for all that she'd done—all that she'd sacrificed, even though it caused her immense pain and suffering to do so. She was the strongest person he'd ever known in such a short amount of time.
"It's funny," she said, her voice sounding far-off. "I've never once thought of you as a monster."
"Why?"
She didn't answer, only huffed a small chuckle. Her face fell lax.
"Maria," Pyramid Head said.
She didn't answer.
"Maria," he said again. And this time, when no reply came, he held her, choking back the urge to kill anything and everything in his path. Even when he knew he had regained the feeling in his legs, he didn't release her. She deserved at least this much for her efforts, and he'd deal with the repercussions when morning came.
She died peacefully in the arms of her nightmare.