NEXT
YOU'VE GOT TO GET ME OUT OF HERE!
CW: Brief suicidal ideation near the end of the chapter.
James Sunderland wasn't sure whether or not he could do this.
There he sat, in a room painted off-white, at a long, curved table amid the troop of people for the day. The fluorescent lighting above hummed between his ears, and in his lap, he picked at the hangnails coating his fingers. If he didn't bite his fingernails down to the bed, this wouldn't a problem, he'd scolded himself, but it hung low in the rankings of problems that ruled his life. So he picked at them, anyways.
In front of him lay a rectangle mirror, propped up with books to keep it from falling over. He looked into it to see the miserable, sunken face that was regretfully his and quickly tore his eyes away from it.
He decided to leer down at the sheet of printer paper placed within arms reach instead. Along with the all the drawing utensils lined up neatly at his disposal, the sight felt oppressive. Nauseating. James drew his hand towards his mouth and tugged at a sore hangnail with his teeth, furrowing his brows as the throb shot through his thumb.
I can always just go back, he thought. I can just leave right now, make up some excuse to tell my officer, and get back in my cell. Sure, I'd break some hearts, but for God's sake... nothing gets worse than this. James squeezed his eyes shut and held his head in his hands, resting his elbows on the table.
Structure. There's structure in doing hard time. He always liked that about prison, funnily enough; the routine it stamped into him. He'd wake up, do roll call, and get the self-care and eating out of the way before he got to work. Sometimes exercise would be among the equation, but that depended on how nice the higher-ups were with his freedom in their hands. After the day was done, he'd do one more round of roll call and go to sleep. And when he woke up, he'd do it all over again.
Even worse is that it became something of a safety net to him. It felt... right.
He could die a vindicated man behind bars, because at least his life had a path carved out for him. It tickled a particular part of his brain that always enjoyed the repetition, where others would often find it monotonous or doom-inspiring.
He didn't exactly think about what would happen if he was offered parole, however. James had a habit of doing that: never truly thinking ahead. The same happened when he smothered Mary with that pillow six years ago.
After wiping his eyes, fully realizing what he had just done and what he was to set into motion, he wrapped her body in the linens on which she lay, and placed her in the backseat of his blue Pontiac. After driving for countless miles, far, far away from their quiet little house, he had reached his final destination. Their final destination.
Silent Hill.
He thought about the letter Mary had written him, calling to him yet telling him to live for himself. He thought about all the blood and monsters, the putrid stench of death that hung over the town. He thought about poor Angela, poor Eddie, poor Maria, and the poorest of all, poor Laura.
He couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear to raise Laura by himself, much less after what he'd done not only to his wife but to her in committing his crime. He knew Mary would've wanted it for him, but he had to give her up. He wondered if Laura was okay, if she had found a home with happy, functional people who loved her. He hoped that was the case.
He hoped he didn't linger in her thoughts like a dirty stain.
James sighed and lifted his head from his hands, now resting his chin on his knuckles. The thought of him becoming a father after what he had done sickened him. James was tired of running away, of being a coward. If Silent Hill couldn't be his tomb, prison would be, and he was more than willing to dig his own grave in the floor of his cell.
Here he sat now, in a miserably lit room full of miserable people like him drawing pictures about how miserable they were. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He was getting a second chance he didn't want or need, but after he'd fallen into line, those that for whatever reason took a liking to him believed in him, and they firmly insisted that he give this tentative freedom a shot.
As per usual, he buckled under the pressure and relented, saying he would give it 'the old college try.'
He scanned the room for anybody of interest. Some were furiously scribbling on their sheets, and some were taking it easy. One was balancing a pencil on their upper lip. James couldn't help a wry smile. At least he wasn't the only one.
He looked to his left; a woman with wavy red hair and freckles dotting her pale skin stared at her reflection in the mirror in front of her with exhausted eyes. She gripped the marker in her hand as she drew with a tension that matched his own. She seemed no older than twenty and she already looked so sad. James' residual smile was pulled down into a frown, and decided to look away before the woman noticed.
He looked to his right this time. A man with warm brown skin, a strong, aquiline nose, and long black hair pulled back into a low ponytail sat aside from James. He was hunched over his self-portrait, tongue peeking out of his lips in concentration. Crow's feet hugged the corners of his eyes, and loose strands of varying length hung down from his hairline. It made James wonder off-hand how satisfying it was for him to slick them back into the places they needed to be. The man was graying, too, but he didn't look all that old.
Paranoid type, maybe?
It'd make sense, given how he was scrutinizing every last detail of his drawing like the deadline for it was yesterday.
The man suddenly pulled away, sitting up and stretching out his back, grunting as he did. It gave James an excuse to lean in a bit closer to see what he was working on.
His self-portrait wasn't anything to write home about. It clearly wasn’t of any merit in terms of technical skill, but it was… earnest. James found the eyes particularly interesting, being the most detailed thing on the drawing.
The ex-convict felt bad for assuming this man was as neurotic as he. Perhaps he was just detail oriented! He was very clearly into what he was doing. The aura he exuded backed that up, too.
This had to be a man that wanted to get better.
He then grabbed a pair of glasses James neglected to notice off the table and put them on. He lifted the sheet and brought it close to his face, squinting his eyes at it before a small chuckle rumbled out of his now smiling mouth.
James pulled away and swallowed hard. He'd since concluded that this guy was the most interesting person in this room right now and he really, really wanted to say hi. There was something about it, the isolation that prison brought. He was used to it—he told himself such—but there was a feeling writhing inside of him. He was made insatiable by it. He didn't know what do to with himself.
That was the problem. His craving for newness, and that he didn't know how to say hi without some kind of caveat. The closest thing he had to a friend was his parole officer, and even he bungled that first meeting, having startled her when he had been expected to arrive on time instead of several minutes before.
James continued to stare at the man, opening and closing his mouth as he decided for and against catching his attention. He didn't have to say anything, though, as the man peered over at James before turning his head with a look of interest on his face.
They locked eyes.
James turned stone cold, pressing his lips together firmly. The man then looked down at James' self-portrait, or, rather, a lack thereof and he quirked an eyebrow.
"You're a polar bear lost in a snowstorm, huh?" The man spoke at last, and his voice was warm. Warm like a hug.
James goggled at him before looking down at his self-portrait, too.
Oh. That's what he meant.
The tips of his ears blistered with embarrassment. James pressed an open palm a little bit too quickly over the empty sheet, slapping the table in turn and eliciting the red-headed woman's attention with a quick, curt glance. Realizing how idiotic of a notion that was, considering there was nothing to hide, he removed his hand instead to press against the underside of his chin. He turned the other cheek to hide his reddening face.
"I'm- I'm not much of an artist," He managed unsteadily, and the man chuckled again. James' jaw clenched, trying to deduce in the moment whether or not this guy was being good natured or disparaging. He was almost tempted to start a fight. That'd definitely land him back behind bars.
"I'm sorry," the man said again, assuming a more apologetic tone. "I didn't mean to put you on the spot there." James felt the rising animosity simmer a bit, but responded with only a huff.
A moment of awkward silence drifted between the two of them before the man started up again, pushing the bridge of his glasses up his nose.
"Um, if… it makes you feel any better, I'm not much of an artist either. See?" James heard the sound of paper turning in one's hands and reluctantly looked to see the man sheepishly show what he had been working so hard on.
"Pretty shitty, right?" The man gave him a disarming grin, and James found himself shaking his head.
"I think it looks nice, actually." James said, and the man was awash with surprise. "Maybe it's not something you'd find in the Louvre, but it's… it's real. I like the way you did your eyes."
The man parted his lips in what could've only been embarrasment, and James cringed inwardly. What the Hell was he saying? All his words ever did for him was get him into trouble, and he dreaded the incumbent fallout. He needed to apologize.
"I- I'm sorry, I didn't-" James began shakily, and the man shook his head while waving his free hand to relax him.
"No, no! You don't need to apologize! …That makes me really happy." The man looked aside from James for a moment with a soft smile on his face. He flipped the sheet of paper in his hands so he could look at it again.
"It's real," the man echoed, as if he were spinning the words James said to him like a coin between his fingers. He turned in his seat back towards the table and got back to work on his portrait, looking far more confident than he did before, and all James could do was stare at him in awe. Without thinking, he reached his hand over to brush against the man's shoulder.
"Um," James tried, and recoiled when the man started, looking towards James with an expression of shock on his face. "Shit! Shit, shit, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have-" James dug his thumb into his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut again as he inhaled. "Dammit, I'm sorry... that's not- ugh..."
The man, while definitely startled, did his best to try and diffuse the tension with reassuring gestures, and only did his words reach him when he sat there with his thumb threatening to bore a hole into his head. You don't just touch people without asking them, James! What the Hell is your problem?!
"You're fine! You're fine, I'm just a jumpy guy is all. You didn't know that. It's okay. Really, it's okay…" The man spoke gently, which only made James feel worse, somehow. He relented, however, and his hand fell back into his lap. The man bobbed his head to the side expectantly.
"Did you… need something?" He asked and James couldn't meet his gaze, picking at his hangnails instead. He decided to shake his head.
"No, it's alright. I… I won't bother you anymore. Sorry." James finally said, low and morose. He picked up a crayon as if he was finally going to start drawing. The man beside him deflated a bit, but resigned himself to resuming his portrait.
Good, James thought, turning the crayon in his hands with burning eyes. Aqua blue, he read on the label.
He wanted to snap this crayon in two. He wanted to stomp on it and grind it into a waxy mess with his heel. All he ever did was fuck things up. All he ever did was make the people around him uncomfortable. They hated him. They wanted him to die. He wanted to die. He'd be better off dead, anyways.
He should've driven his car into Toluca Lake and-
"My name is Christopher, by the way," the man said, and James spun his head up towards him. He was smiling brightly at him, not unlike the grin he had when he showed him his portrait, and James felt his heart lurching up from newly sour depths. He gave him a small smile in return.
"James. James Sunderland."
"Nice to meet you, James," Chris said with a laugh.
James nodded. "You too, Chris."