What he found was that there was not much left of Harry to greet. A great icy knife skewered his heart and stole his breath when he laid eyes upon the pulverized remains of Harry Mason. His body lay where he left him on the couch, his arm hung lifelessly off the side, where thickening blood paved streams down his hand and collected at his fingertips, dropping red beads into its self-made lake. James threw his hand to the doorway to help support his weakening knees.

Something had come silently in the night and beat on the innocent man so badly that his face was reduced to a meaty slurry. The couch was covered in his viscera and bone. His chest was concave and his clothes were soaked nearly to his shoes. The walls and drapes were splattered like modern art, made from his organic pulp. Harry had been brutalized, and as it appeared, done so completely off guard. The book he had been reading lay by his side on the floor, tented and ruined, keeping the place he had left off.

The murder was degrading for a man like him.

James's rotten gut wrung harder than ever. A knee gave out, the doorway caught his shoulder and he struggled to keep his weight up on his other leg. How could he have not heard it? James hadn't wanted him here and he needed to get him out, but not like this, god dammit how could he have fucked up so badly, failed to help him, been so callous and cold and cowardly and self absorbed to give him even a moment of his time.

He swallowed hard and dropped his head in humiliation. He knew this would happen. Harry was led into a trap. He would never find his daughter. James had been his guide, and headed the path to his death. The town gave him enough time to feel a crumb of hope for Harry, perhaps even the first nibble of enjoyment he'd gotten since he arrived all those years ago. Harry tried to befriend him. James couldn't allow it for he knew, in the back of his mind, that this result was too high of a risk for him to feel any attachment.

James couldn't feel attached. He was lonely and damned. Harry was noble and pure-hearted. He had no business wandering into South Vale, and James rued the town for orchestrating their encounter. The cold began to bloom on his shoulders and creep up to the top of his skull, and spread down his back. Harry was just a plaything to amplify James's suffering. He was destined for failure. Silent Hill would gloat until the world died.

The burden of his incompetence began to force James to the floor. It was over. His limbs were as useless as a ragdoll's. It was Maria all over again. If he couldn't save her, why would he be able to save Harry? Perhaps Harry was spared the torture, unlike her. Maria had been flayed, ripped apart, and oh how her screams filled his ears. He'd heard nothing all night. It was designed that way. Silent Hill crafted a personalized present and cleverly wrapped it up all nice for him to discover like it was Christmas morning.

He deserved this. The blame was laid entirely at his feet, and this sentence was just.

James's head was heavy. His body was too weak. The cold was freezing him from the inside as he began to fold on himself and the water poured, god, how the water poured—

— and James was shaken so hard that he had the first case of whiplash in over a decade.

"James!" Harry shouted in his face, his hands so tight on his arms he'd be sore for the rest of the day. "Hey! Hey," he said hurriedly, his voice sliding into a distressed hush. "Hey, it's okay. C'mon man, you alright? James," he said soothingly, disorienting James in its tenderness, "talk to me, buddy."

Harry was shifting his deadweighted body to prop him up on the threshold. James's neck remembered how to hold his head, and it thudded gently on the paneling. He stared numbly up at a man so shaken and distraught that the wash of guilt infected his entire body to the marrows. Smothered emotions paralyzed and separated him from his physical form, but he had enough cognizance to recognize that his waterfall had been a hallucination.

A hallucination.

Contempt rose to his head. Harry was alive and well, save for his panic, and had not a scratch on him. This was one of the cruelest pranks in the world, James thought hatefully as he barely registered Harry's hand running through his hair, or the brush of his thumb on his cold forehead. He stared hollowly into Harry's face. Brown eyes were prematurely red under the threat of frightened tears, with the symbols of age folding at the corners and his teeth grit with fear. The paternal nature coaxed James out of his disassociation. It made him feel sorry that he was so dead to Harry's anguish.

"James," Harry pleaded quite literally on his knees, his hands now cradling the resident's neck. "Can you talk to me? Please? Say something? You're scaring me, buddy. You're really scaring me and I don't know what to do here."

Harry looked so relieved when the younger man took a shallow breath. The sincerity of his compassion severed any emotional response from the one who sat broken on the floor. His tongue searched for words in his mouth while Harry waited too hopefully than James cared for.

"I'm okay."

Harry looked betrayed that he would lie so boldly to his face. He didn't expect the blond to answer truthfully, but it didn't wound him any less. James felt his warm thumbs on his jaw, gently petting his skin in a simple effort to calm them both.

James didn't attribute regaining himself from the void of disassociation to his touch, though it truly did help. His eyelids fluttered, and he sighed, then brought his weighted eyes to Harry's. "I'm sorry. I just got really lightheaded. I dunno why, it just hit me out of the blue."

More lies, but Harry appeared to accept this one at face value. "Yeah? You scared the bejeezus out of me, man," he tried to joke under a weak chuckle. "You looked like you saw a ghost and then tanked out of nowhere. Whew," he exhaled, his hands thumping on James's shoulders as he sat back on his feet. "Well, good morning!" Harry laughed, already sounding lighter and more like himself. "That was more jolting than a hot cup of coffee! How about some bacon and eggs from the little place down the street?"

James would've smiled if he could muster it. Harry clapped James's shoulders twice more and rocked back onto his feet, gripping his knees for leverage as he slowly, and painfully groaning, got up. He sounded like Frank whenever he'd get up. It didn't matter if it was from easy chair or from a bar stool, he always moaned and strained and it made James roll his eyes at the drama of it.

While he was still grounded and waited for his body to remember how to work its limbs, he watched Harry stretch and go to pick up his book. It was placed on the misaligned shelf where James couldn't see it against the wall behind him, and heard his feet shuffle as he tried to figure out what to do with himself until the man in green recovered. James closed his eyes and sucked in a slow breath and willed his muscles into functioning.

He stood as achingly as Harry had, without the melodrama, and took an extra moment to lean on the threshold to steady his trembling legs. A light headed feeling washed over, but not from the sudden rush of blood that affected most people. It came from the emotional exertion of that whole ordeal now that he could move again.

James pushed off the doorway. He tugged on his jacket, aligning it to his comfort, and stepped into the living room. The men looked at each other, Harry doing his best to trap the fret from showing on his face, and James doing nothing to shield his angst and misery.

Harry lowered his eyes first. That was James's cue to pick up his weapons make for the door, and lead a mentally fatigued father down to the street.

After a minute of walking, Harry fully caught up to James and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. The latter guessed that he had conquered his determination to find normalcy again, because the older man gave an animated sigh.

"Welp," he started, wiggling his shoulders as he dug his fists deep into his jacket, "Where're we gonna find a good place to eat around here?"

James wished he knew. Being in Silent Hill negated their need to eat or drink. In the middle of the third day, Harry chucked the cans out the window, making a game of trying to hit a passing monster. He discovered more quickly that he would not have to face the horrors of the bathrooms either, since the town checked off that need too. When he made light conversation about the convenience of it, James mentioned that Harry also wouldn't have to shave, as hair didn't grow. Time stopped two essential bodily needs and one of vanity.

I should've known, Harry shrugged at the time.

Why?

I don't really see you finding a mirror and giving yourself a haircut.

Perhaps James would have taken some minor offense to that years ago, but now he had to agree with him.

As predicted, there was no immediate answer to Harry's question. James heard him sniff and hum contemplatively to himself, his leather jacket squeaking as he strolled along.

"Ooh, I know!" Harry exclaimed, jarring James ever so slightly. "How about the strip club?"

James's face contorted with undertones of disgust, shooting a glance at his grinning companion. "What?"

"Oh come on, you're kidding me! Didn't you know they served breakfast buffets?"

Baffled, James shook his head and gave Harry a truly skeptical look. "No? Why would they serve breakfast? "

Harry scoffed impishly. "C'maaahn, they open at nine or ten and the regulars come shuffling in for free food, their first paying drink of the day, and a couple of girls to look at. It's a gimmick to hustle people in early in the morning."

James was aghast. What in the hell had he been missing on the outside? He hadn't really been one to make the occasional trip to the nudie bar. In fact, he had to be strongarmed into one for his bachelor party by Mary's cousins and the one friend he had, and he spent a large portion of the time blushing furiously and refusing to even look at any dancer. Even after downing five cocktails that would exact their revenge in the morning, he was too sloshed to have improvements towards his willingness to enjoy the exotic scenery.

Eddie probably would have been the type of patron to have a punch card with the temptation of rewards at a place like that.

Harry's niche knowledge immediately changed James's assumptions about how pure he actually was. "How do you know that? " he asked the mischievous smirk. "What were you, a frequent flier?"

"Nah. I once went to one to meet a shady agent," Harry shrugged. "I knew the moment he suggested a strip club for breakfast that there was no way he was going to get my business representing me, but I was too curious not to say no."

James must've looked dubious, because Harry veered to playfully nudge his elbow into his arm. "I promise I'm not that kind of guy. It was probably my third time in any strip club because I was dragged there by other guys. Craig turned twenty-one, Benny was getting married," he drawled, tipping his head side to side as he rattled off the short list, "Stuart got a divorce— oh, okay. Four times, including the most informative meeting I've ever had with an agent."

"Remarkable."

It was arguably stupid that Harry getting his jollies at a strip club would affect his feelings towards him. Not that James was any moral paragon himself, but he did skew on the conservative side when it came to lustful pursuits. His concern was short-lived.

James was able to feel a brush of humor about the situation. He'd gone four days since their introduction without much of it to give, and after the rocky start this morning, they both needed a splash of amusement.

He hadn't stepped into Heaven's Night since his initial trip with Maria. After all, he wasn't so keen on wandering back inside considering all he went through with her, though maybe Harry could help set a different tone for the place. Self-imposed indignity and stigma had attached itself to the deserted bar. James was making a huge effort regarding the icy, uphill battle towards feeling human.

That was too high a hill to climb right then, so he didn't. He accompanied Harry through the streets, only once having to hurry to avoid a passing abomination.

Their arrival was welcomed by neon lights that never went out. For a very long time, James avoided Carroll Street altogether. It bore tarnished hopes and disgraced memories. Maria hated bowling, and James couldn't think about pizza without getting a little nauseated. The alleys reminded him of Laura's escape through their narrow halls that led the fated travelers to Heaven's Night, where the implications of Maria's past draped him in regret and embarrassment.

James lingered at the mouth of the alley that ended at the door to Heaven's Night. He felt cold with uncertainty. Harry had already taken lead, large strides turning into light steps as he skipped up the metal stairs. If he had any luck, James hoped, knowing he was surely not to, the door would be securely locked along with the side entrance. Of course, this was too wrenching for James to relive, so Silent Hill granted, to the writer's delight, total access.

"Hey, whaddya know!" he grinned back at James, who still avoiding the boundary between the sidewalk and the alley. "We're not too early."

When James neglected to move, Harry's shoulders dropped with a sigh and he stared flatly down at hm. "James, humor me for once," he gently scolded. "It's not gonna bite you. Something inside might," he added, correcting himself, "but the place itself is fine." When James continued to hesitate, he tried one more tactic. "I promise I won't tell your wife."

Well, that made his heart skip too many beats. Mary had heard all about the trip to the skin club and she tried to laugh it off and call those boys scoundrels, but James had seen the disdain on her face. She had avoided his eyes for the rest of the day, nailing dishonor to his chest. The hangover he nursed also distanced her from him, and they'd had a minor fight about her jealousy before bed.

I swear, nothing happened! I didn't even want to be there! Peter dragged me, literally dragged mein. I didn't want to go at all.

Well, did you at least enjoy getting your last look of seeing other naked women much prettier than me before you get tied down by marriage?

There are no other women prettier than you, Mary. You're the only woman I want. I'd never cheat on you.

Isn't this already cheating? You could have tried harder not to go.

Mary, honey..

Really, I hope you had fun with one of your last nights as a free man. Why should I be so upset? That's just what guys do for their bachelor parties.

I'm not single. I'm engaged. To you. You're my one and only. You're the one that I want.

Whatever, James. Let's just forget it. I don't want to talk about this anymore.

James shifted his weight uncomfortably. The past was the past. Mary wasn't around to care about him willingly strolling into a den of iniquity. Even when Maria told him they had to cut through to follow Laura, he felt he was pressured into it in the name of a little girl's survival. He didn't dwell so much on it at the time, though standing here now, he had much more free will to make a choice.

Or so he thought. If he didn't give in, he'd disappoint Harry over such a small attempt at getting some amusement out of the rotten town and simultaneously clear the heavy air over what happened that morning. He stepped forward and walked the one-way path to the open door, and Harry's relieved smile. James opted to believe that he was doing this on his own accord, though he was just bending to others' wishes again.

"Attaboy," Harry praised him, clapping him on the back as James passed by. The door shut with a clang that startled them both. Inside, the club was cramped even with its sparse table arrangement and booths lined up at the opposite wall. The men hugged the wall at the door, getting a full view of the place. It was drab and dark, the best light coming from the outstandingly bright neon signs that hung behind and around them. None were enough to reach the shadows in the far corners by the stage, giving the establishment a lonely feeling that was a leftover from its glory days. Even without the infernal touch of Silent Hill, it probably had always looked like this.

Harry strode to the bar. He set down his trusty pipe and leaned into the tall counter, laying his arm on its foul surface.

"Yeah, uhh, can I get a Samuel Adams?" he asked an invisible bartender. "How about you, bud?" He looked over at James, illuminated in a halo of magenta. There was a softness that paused the playfulness on Harry's face, which James erroneously took for sadness. James worked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, trying to gather the desire to go along with the game.

He wracked his brain for the name of a beer he used to know. James hadn't even considered a drink after he was forced into sobriety by the town. Vague remembrance of his brush with alcoholism tingled his brain. That was forever ago.

"Uh.. it's been awhile," James answered. "I guess I'll take a vodka tonic."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat."

"So a Samuel Adams and a vodka tonic," Harry relayed to the empty bar. While he waited for drinks that'd never come, he tilted his head at James in amusement. "Vodka tonic, huh? Not a beer guy, I take it."

"Not really. I couldn't get past the aftertaste."

"So you like the burn, huh?"

Yeah. He really liked the burn and the warmth that relaxed his whole body and took his mind away from all the problems in the world. "It was alright. I dunno, I preferred the taste and the bite more than any beer I've tried."

Harry chuckled and drummed his fingers. "I couldn't really get into the hard stuff. Maybe once in a while on a blue moon I'd have a little brandy, but that shit made me cough the first few sips."

James smiled faintly. "Yeah, it'll do that to ya."

Harry looked back at the well-stocked collection of bottles and overturned glasses tucked into the dusty cubbies. "Man! The service here sucks. They're definitely going to get a one star rating on Yelp. This place is a total bust."

Confusion scrunched James's face. "Yelp?"

He got a delayed response, and it wasn't an explanation on whatever Yelp was. Harry struck his hand on the counter and huffed. "Ghost town! Dammit, I should've said ghost town. Oh, that was a wasted opportunity."

James held a look of uncertainty. Harry reminded him of his father the more he made jokes that would make a middle aged man proud. He turned his wrinkled face to the floor and lightly shook his head. Every now and then, Harry gave him serious second hand embarrassment.

He lifted his head when he heard the bar's hinged door creak open. Harry ventured behind it and inspected the fading names on tinted labels, and lifted a couple off the shelf to experimentally give them a shake. "Aw, shucks." He replaced them and tried a few more, getting the same result each time. "Someone came in here and cleaned them out. Was it you?"

Dear god, James wanted it to be him. "No sir," he said.

"Maybe our friends out there did it, then. It'd explain why they stagger around like drunks."

Harry stepped out and closed the slab door. James watched him pick up his pipe and swing it loosely at his side then meander to a table, where it was set down again. "Well, we're too late for breakfast, and the bartender's out to lunch. What're our chances of seeing a dance or two?"

The chair skipped on the linoleum as Harry drew it from the table and took a seat. He leaned back and stretched a leg out, sliding his hands back into the leather pockets. James sighed, overcome with exhaustion. He approached as he was silently asked to, and laid his shotgun beside the bloodied, rusted pipe.

Harry smiled at him as James pulled out a chair for himself and slowly sat down. His posture was stiff in contrast to Harry's due to the uneasiness he felt being in this place. James set his hands on his knees and directed his stare at the edge of the table, too embarrassed to look at the stage.

Clouded in his own miserable thoughts, he didn't notice the tender worry on Harry's face. He also misread the aura that came off his charge; relaxation and concern were wrongly taken as awkward friction. James wasn't very good at distinguishing his projections onto people from the truth of the matter. Because of this, the men sat in the stuffy quiet of the club, and waited for each other to say something.

The lapse gave James time to disconnect from his surroundings and replay the gruesome trick from before. True terrors and unfathomable sadness always triggered the water to emerge, the past week being the most he'd had in a very long time. The act of it erred on the side of frustrated annoyance, and even though it probably only happened a meager handful of times in the first two days, it seemed a lot more to James.

So it bugged him that intensity of the water was all a part of the hallucination, as the severity of the scene should have left him so drenched that the lakewater would have reached across the floor. It shouldn't have been an illusion. James couldn't control whether it happened or not, though this time, its absence filled him with trepidation.

If there was a reason why he was barred from understanding it, James wasn't sure how committed he was to figuring it out right now. The whole thing rubbed him in all the wrong ways. He hated how Silent Hill was viciously dominating him after all the time it spent being lazy and disinterested.

Harry spoke. "What're you thinking about?"

James drew up his head. Harry's friendly eyes didn't penetrate the bland lack of emotion that met him. What was he thinking about? Frankly, it wasn't any of Harry's business what—

Suddenly James was gripped in a throttle that could've crushed him like a can. The air was forced from his lungs and every nerve was alight with blistering pain. He tried to breathe and found his chest too constricted for even a hiccup. Grabbing his shirt, he stumbled out of the chair (which clattered to the floor) and staggered on legs impaired by shooting needles of pain to the front door as he choked.

The door thrust open so hard it bounced off the railing and swept James off his unstable feet. His body ricocheted off the opposite side and careened down the stairs, dumping him in a crumpled heap at its base. The shout of his name was lost in the horrible buzzing in his ears. He crawled blindly on his forearms to what he trusted was a wall, and struck it with the top of his head. James had a small window to brace his hand on it and hopefully give enough space between it and himself to vomit.

His stomach tied itself into knots. A devastating ache tore through his body. Silent Hill was vehemently angry and twisted its longtime resident in retaliation for a crime he didn't commit. His head was pounding so hard he thought it'd burst wide open and the secondhand hatred unloaded unseen rocks of ice upon his psychologically bruised body.

James shook as he uselessly gasped for breath. Someone was here. They were not in South Vale but they were here , trespassing on hallowed ground. He strained to push himself away from his sick, and didn't have to bother as he was scooped up under his arms and dragged to the middle of the alley.

Someone is here, the town thundered in his head in the form of disorienting throbbing. They are here and they're not alone they're not alone they're supposedto be here alone they are not alone are not alone SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ALONE

James was rolled onto his side. Air finally lurched into his lungs and he sucked for it greedily, his vision sparkling to haziness, away from the void that had enveloped his eyes. His coughs shuddered his frame, curling him in on himself with every hack, and worsening the soreness that soaked him. Panic trembled Harry's voice despite how calm he struggled to be as he kept James propped on his side. The muffled hum in his ears began to subside, opening his eardrums as the swell of Harry's voice floated into his head.

Eyes fluttering, James rolled them to the corners, straining to look up at Harry. The most anxious expression hung close to his head, shadowing him from the gleam of the neon hung high above the door behind them. He was taken off guard with how Harry appeared lambent.

This day was becoming too much. Any more of these pretty surprises was going to become an enormous burden on both of them.

"Jesus Christ, James! What the fuck happened? Are you okay? Are you with me?"

James took a couple labored breaths. "I have had it up to here with today," he replied, and earned a shaky chuckle from Harry.

"No kidding," he exhaled. "You've given me two heart attacks and it's not even noon."

James groaned and pulled away from Harry's hands to flop on his back. His mouth was sour with the taste of vomit. He had nothing but acid and watery mud to expel, and the grit of dirt crunched in his teeth. Though his stomach still washed with nausea, he swallowed thickly and again turned his eyes to Harry.

He had no idea how to explain the chaos. Harry hunched over him helplessly, setting one comforting hand on James's shoulder. James was so tired with feeling pity and guilt towards Harry. That paternal, caring face made him bitter that it was focused on his wellbeing. They stared at each other as the older man calmed himself enough to relax his shoulders, and the overbearing drain of today's events caused them to sag lower.

"You scared the shit out of me," Harry told him quietly. "You looked like death itself was banging on your door."

That voice was coated in fatigued relief. Harry was a sincere, gravely compassionate man that James found too overwhelming. He could hardly deal with his caretaking, no matter how small it was. Right now he couldn't bring himself to let it bother him. His body was aching and his head was thudding with the dying whispers the town invaded him with.

James feebly dragged his hand down half of his face. If only death had been coming for him, permanently, he wouldn't have fought hard against its call. He dropped his arm and slowly pushed himself up to sit. Harry was quick to assist, steadying him with his hand on his back as James locked his arm and leaned into it. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and, disgusted by the sheen that smeared his skin, cleaned it off on the side of his thigh.

He turned his head from Harry and spat out the rancid taste. Slumping on his arm, he stared listlessly at his knees and worked through the riot in his brain to formulate a lie to tell him.

So many lies have already been told, and so many more lies were yet to come.

"It was Silent Hill," James said, deciding to spin a white lie. "It threw a fit."

"Why was it throwing a fit?" he was asked, and James glanced over to see Harry sitting back on his calves.

"I don't know. Something must've really upset it."

Harry looked strained. "Do you know what it was?"

James shook his head, taking his eyes to the cement beneath his legs. "No. No clue. Something.. really terrible's happened. It doesn't tell me everything," he explained, dropping his head to his risen shoulder. "I think it just wants to kick the shit out of someone and that someone gets to be me."

Harry exhaled his breath in a whoosh and rubbed at his knees. "I don't get it," he murmured. "I don't understand how you can feel what the town does." Before James could shoot him that warning frown, Harry went on, aggravation tainting his level tone. "I know you hate that question and I know you won't answer me, but goddammit, James, I am tired of being surprised by shit like this, and having zero idea how to handle it!"

They came to another standoff. James glared up at him sidelong from under his brows. Harry faced him full on, genuine resentment desecrating his kind face. "I don't know how much of this I can take if I don't know what the fuck is happening. This is traumatizing. I am gonna lose it if it keeps going on like this, especially in such a short time span, one after the other."

"I can't do shit about it," James bit back, brandishing his teeth. "I don't get a say in any of this! I can't control jack shit. Don't you get it?" He winced as he tried to sit up more, but his body wasn't yet in his favor. That only escalated his ill temper. "I am not trying to fuck with you! I just can't tell you how or why this happens, so you need to trust me on it, okay?"

"No, not okay!" Harry rebuked, raising his voice. "No James, I can't trust you! Look," he tried again, forcing his volume down to a normal, if not tense pitch. "I know this place is dangerous, I know that it messes with your head, and I know that things are much, much worse than they appear. I get that. Completely. Trust me on that," he said, brazenly throwing James's words back in his face. "I have been trying, so hard, to avoid asking you so many questions because you told me not to, and you have been keeping so many secrets from me and— I know you have to," he ruefully admitted. "Like you said, I can't know everything. But there have got to be some things you can share with me, James. Please. Clue me in. Give me something to work with. Anything . Just tell me something that can make these episodes or whatever a little easier on me."

James set his jaw and radiated so much contempt that Harry's demeanor changed from controlled outrage to emotional depletion.

"If we're going to be stuck together here for a long time, I don't want us to end up hating each other because we're too stubborn to open up or seem weak," he begged at a hush. "I have my secrets too. Contrary to popular belief I don't want you to know everything about me. I don't expect to get your life story and I'm not asking for it, I just want to have the ability to help where I can and cope where I can't. This is important, James. I'll ask for just this one thing from you right now. I know it's a lot to get from you, but I promise , sharing this is going to make things a hell of a lot easier on the both of us in the future."

James knew Harry was right. His ignorance put them both at an unfair disadvantage. In keeping these mysteries from him, James assumed he was doing the right thing. If Harry didn't know, he'd be safer. The town would have to work harder to needle at him and make him crack, though it seemed it had already started ahead of schedule. James was not as disappointed as he imagined he'd be in the event that Harry broke early on. It wasn't directly due to the town, either: it was James's selfish shoulders that bore the sanity that Harry so desperately needed to hang on to.

James got up. He avoided Harry's dejected, pleading face and brushed himself off, and frowned at the stain that his sick left on his shirt. Without acknowledging him just yet, he coldly walked past Harry and climbed the stairs to Heaven's Night.

Inside, when the door clicked into place, James balled up his fists and dug them into his eyes. Stars burst behind their violent pressure and he shoved his knuckles so hard into the sockets that he could've crushed his eyes to popping if he had the willpower. He wanted to scream his throat raw. His fists flashed open and went straight for his scalp, digging his dull nails into his head and yanking his hair painfully taut. For the last time that day his weight buckled in half as he threw his head between his knees, spending the scream he couldn't release on clawing deeply at his skull.

The strength he used to dig into himself should've stripped his hair cleanly from its roots in chunks. Silent Hill was beyond torturing him; it was flaying and keel hauling him through tracks of razors. It was laughing uproariously. The evil forces that infested this town to the core of the earth had not gotten what they wanted, and like a spoiled child, turned their spite on the man they tethered to its wretched world. It fed off his agony and sucked down his despair like a dehydrated runner. The more that James succumbed to the unrelenting depression and subsequent unavoidable urge to brand himself with his own violence, the greater the dark power that Silent Hill siphoned from him.

Harry was right . James was so fucking stupid to think that his silence would save him forever. He unwittingly put that poor man in the immediate path of danger and turned his back on him while congratulating himself on his brilliance. There was no real protection in leaving Harry in the dark about what James meant to Silent Hill. This horrible truth ruined his fantasy that Harry would never be the wiser to the town's machinations. He was supposed to collect his daughter without too much strife and be on his merry way out evermore. Instead, James promptly jeopardized Harry's chances of making it out alive by choosing to keep such valuable information from him in the name of his own misbegotten pride.

James tore at his head. The soft skin flaked under his nails and dampened his roots with blood. His frame shook with unreleased rage and he hurled himself back to standing, ripping his hands from his hair. Staring at the ceiling he panted hard through his nose, mentally pushing to get himself in control. Cold wet stung the cuts on his scalp and he closed his eyes. The phenomenon rarely cooled his agony, but now it soothed his broken mentality's demand for inflicting his own punishment.

For that, he was grateful. The trickles felt warm on his icy skin, though he knew that was only because their temperature was slightly above that of his body. He passed his hands over and through his hair, using the dampness from the water to comb it down from its unruly condition. James mellowed as he got what he came for. The dramatic swing of his mental state now shoveled him into a numbing stage in order to cope. The water ceased, its brief appearance serving an unusually charitable duty, and the godforsaken man was able to conceal its visit.

When James emerged from the club bearing the weapons that had been patiently waiting on the table, he found Harry where he left him. His dark head turned when he heard the door open and close, and further to watch James over his shoulder as he descended the stairs. Harry took his weight off his legs and stiffly got to his feet (and not without the throaty griping that James expected, and right then appreciated to hear).

Harry accepted his beloved pipe when offered back to him. Though the air between them felt slandered, neither were too cowardly to look the other in the eye. There was no challenge made, and no forgiveness offered.

James, though still numbed, could feel sorry for being the cause of that beaten down look on Harry's face. The situation made an enormous dent in their already tentative relationship. He twisted his hand on the shotgun's barrel. "We should look for anything we missed," he said. "Ammo, better weapons.. whatever. When you think you've picked a place dry, you really haven't." He looked down. "Oh. And I should find another shirt."

He didn't have to see it to know that Harry smiled. James took temporary lead until they got to the street, where they stood together and wondered which way to go. Before they pitched a direction to each other, James flicked his eyes to the lost father. "By the way," he mentioned, "I'll consider it. I need to figure out how to tell you about all this. I've never had to talk about it before."

Harry didn't look as uplifted by that as he imagined he would. He looked like he needed to lie down and sleep for two days, and so soundly that he could miss a tornado passing right by his window. "Thanks," he said, diluted by his lost energy. "I appreciate it."

"Yeah."

The men set off. James wasn't wrong to suggest they take another sweep for supplies. It was a good excuse to find the words to come clean to Harry. Moreover, it served as a delay for the reveal of information so valuable that he couldn't let it pile more turbulence on to the day.

Maybe it was sadistic of James not to tell Harry that his daughter had arrived, but the choices he made were never meant to be easy.