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WHERE TO? WHAT FOR?
CW: Self-harming ideation (cutting and drinking), references to sex (nothing explicit), blood and gore in the latter half of the chapter.
It was another long day of doing nothing, and James Sunderland was happy to be home, no matter how new said home was to him.
He shut the door to his apartment and sighed loudly, knocking his head against the wood. He was quick to lock said door, peel off his coat and boots, and make a b-line straight for his room, collapsing onto the bed facedown with a loud thud.
He inhaled the cheap laundry detergent smell of his pillow cases and was overcome with exhaustion. Not the kind that made him want to dig his eyes out with a knife, though. James Sunderland, for once, was actually quite happy.
He met somebody in therapy the day prior.
James turned over in bed, clasping his hands over his stomach and stared at the barren ceiling with a small smile on his face.
Chris was that somebody. He liked Chris.
James normally found it bizarre to take so quick a liking to somebody, but he'd since made peace with the fact that he was, admittedly, horrifically lonely. Loneliness can lead to desperation of all kinds, and he of all people would know.
He made those six years count, goddammit.
Chris was a nice man. Pleasant and careful. Carried with him a sort of quiet intelligence. A man who's been around the block of life and knew his shit. James was drawn to it, and his newfound curiosity about the man sitting aside from him was unable to be contained. However, he was blocked off with a swift 'I'm not comfortable talking about that, really' or some variation similar to that statement.
It disappointed James, but he understood the apprehension. Even if it was therapy, everyone was still kind of a stranger, and Chris didn't seem to trust strangers. He could understand that just fine.
What stood out to him the most, though, was how effortlessly Chris could weave his way through a conversation with just about anybody. When the therapist came over to check on how Chris was doing, he'd already set the stage when he flashed that grin of his, and the shrink almost seemed to melt with laughter when he quipped here and there about his piece.
Chris could put a smile on nearly anybody’s face. That’s a blessing of a trait if James ever saw one.
He grunted as he pulled himself up off the bed and wriggled out of his clothes, leaving them limp on the floor. As he was pulling the covers up and over his body, he debated on skipping dinner; James wasn’t all that hungry, but routine's incessant little hands tugged at him because he wasn't keeping up with it. He was only a week or so into this and he didn’t want his life to fall out from under him all over again. Least he could do was get something in his system.
It was decided within a split second. He’d grab a bite to eat from the fridge in his underwear.
Pacing to the kitchen, he felt a chill lap up his spine. Goosebumps prickled his arms and legs, and he immediately regretted not putting on anything before exiting the comfortable and quaint warmth of his bedroom.
He was wearing socks, though...
He shuddered as he opened the refrigerator door, bending down to eye what little there was to even eat in the first place. He spotted leftover chicken alfredo he made the night before, some cans of cheap big brand beer, a half-pint of milk nearly gone, orange juice, and small cartons of yogurt he had impulse bought the first day he went grocery shopping.
“Yogurt it is,” he thought out loud, and reached in for the last of the strawberry flavored cartons.
He pushed the fridge door closed and turned to the silverware drawer, which was barren when he opened it. James clicked his tongue in annoyance.
He then made his way towards the sink, where he was met with an assortment of plates, bowls, and cutlery all cluttering both insides of said sink. He groaned loudly.
At least this place has a dishwasher, he thought, rummaging around for a spoon.
Once he found what he was looking for, he tossed the carton to the side and hastily washed the spoon off with cold tap water and a dot of dish soap. Inside, outside, handle, done.
He wiped it down with the dish towel hanging from the oven and promptly took his place on the couch in the living room. Feeling another chill set in, he dragged the worn blanket that sat on top of one of the backrests and draped it just below his clavicle.
While peeling the carton’s foil off, his eyes cascaded over his hands and arms. Scars of all kinds littered them; self-inflicted, childhood accidents, and gifts that Silent Hill left him with. Nowadays, James often forgot that he had a body. He tried to eat and exercise regularly, sure, that was routine. It had been for a long while, now.
He never thought much of it, though. He got no real joy out of it.
Once upon a time, he took his body very seriously. He wanted to be big, strong, hulking; someone that commanded respect when he entered the room. James’ height gave him that edge—thanks, Dad—but he’d always been something of a meek soul. From the cradle to the grave, he always assumed he’d be this way.
To a degree, he still was. Probably now more than ever.
James dipped his spoon into the carton and took a bite, not caring to savor the sweet and acidic sting it had. As he swallowed, he laid his head against the backrest and he looked around his apartment in thought. His mind returned to Chris.
He seemed a plain sort, visually, but really, it was his personality that shined through. James cursed himself for never taking that into account, that perhaps to be the ideal man was to be likable both in mind and body. A body could only be so much, especially if it housed such a hurricane of a mind like his.
James knew that some would kill to look like him. To have his air of detachment, his sturdy core, strong jaw, arms and legs that could crush just about anything to dust…
But that was it.
All James felt like to other people was a body. Not in any sexual sense, but in the sense that he was an ideal of sorts. All that James could do was present his well-crafted physique and that would be all that he was.
It felt lonely. It felt awful.
...Did he want to be perceived as a sexual being?
James took another bite of his yogurt. Once, maybe. For Mary, at the very least. Mary had always found him sexy, and neither of them were all that prudish. Sex with her was good. It was fun, and he missed it. After swallowing his second bite, he pronged around the inside of his cheek with his tongue.
It felt good—great, even—when his female co-workers noticed him, noticed his body, and prodded him everywhere with their eyes. Of course, their interest varied, but set him ablaze no matter what. He loathed to admit it, but he had thought about those gazes when he... well, did the laundry.
Without Mary to come home to, things got lonely quickly, and he had to make due. It was sickening and pathetic, but it was true. James felt his face burn as he looked inside the carton of yogurt.
Half-empty. I should finish this.
Another bite. Maria was a real kick in the teeth, wasn’t she? Not that it was her fault, really. God, no. It was hard to articulate, but James felt that she was just as much of a victim as Mary was, and he deeply feared the thought of taking her home and treating her like some replacement, no matter how much she seemed to want it. It all hurt so much, though. Maria knew exactly what to say and do to put James on edge.
To test him. To test his loyalty to the love of his life.
Did he even want Mary to be that coy? To be that racy? That tantalizing and insatiable? James had often wondered while lying on his prison cot how much of Maria was Silent Hill and how much of Maria was James. He didn't dare linger on how much of her was Mary. He shook his head. Then there were those nurses, too, and also those mannequins…
James closed his eyes.
He saw their bodies fall as he dumped a round of bullets into them, stomping on their heads and spines to finish the job. He saw Maria dying, over, and over, and over again. Skewered, sliced, bludgeoned, blood oozing out of every wound she had.
He saw Mary, screaming and writhing under the pillow he held over her head while quiet tears slid down his face.
James wasn’t hungry anymore, but he shoved the last of the yogurt into his mouth and up he stood from the couch, wriggling out of the blanket on his chest. He tossed the spoon into the sink when he got there and washed out the carton half-heartedly, throwing it into the recycling bin with little fanfare.
When he finally collapsed onto the bed in his room once more, James’ mood had invariably turned for the worst. He felt that dreadful something swimming under his skin that he desperately wanted to release, but all that something could do right now was make him ball his fists into the bed sheets until his knuckles turned white.
No. No cutting. You're not gonna cut, James. Alright? Keep your promise. Don't cut. You don't wanna get sent back for something so embarrassing.
Well... maybe a drink would be better. It's not hard to be better than that.
He flopped over onto his back, arms and legs splayed outward. Either way, both of these options were too far away for him to even entertain, and that was more than fine. Sleep was the only thing that was available to him, and James was exhausted, anyways. He finally pulled the covers over him and closed his eyes.
When James opened his eyes again, he was sitting upright. The room was dimly lit and covered in rust and grime.
He recognized it. He recognized the decay, and he didn't like it.
A breath caught in his throat, and he tried to rush out of his seat, but he couldn't. James looked down and saw that he was fastened down tightly to the chair with equally rusty chains. Panic swarmed through his body as he struggled where he sat, trying everything he could to wriggle out of his bindings.
It was no use. All they did was dig into his skin. He felt like he was choking.
James whipped his head around for any sign of escape, any exits that were nearby, but that too was no use. James let a whimper escape his mouth.
He was in Silent Hill again. He had to be. He didn't know how or why, but nothing could compare to its neglected and dilapidated sights.
James winced when he suddenly heard a loud, scraping sound; the grinding of metal against metal. Someone was dragging something heavy, dragging something sharp. He gasped and struggled even harder in his seat.
"No, no, no, no…" James felt hot tears stream down his cheeks. "No, please, no, anybody but you! Anybody but you!"
The dragging only continued to get closer and louder. Through his tear-clouded vision, the familiar figure he so desperately wished never to see again came into view.
Tall, muscular, bloodied from head to toe and imposing in every sense of the word. A large, pyramid-shaped helmet with murky rust and dried blood clinging onto it sat where its head would be, and in its left hand, it firmly grasped the Great Knife. James could hear its labored breathing from where he sat, and all he could do was hang his head as sobs shook his body.
"I'm sorry…" James heaved. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I did everything I could to atone for what I did to her. I'm so sorry. I know it's all my fault. I know. I know, I know… Just- Just get it over with. Please. Please…"
He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the pain that would come with being carved into pathetic little bits.
But it didn't.
Stillness settled into the room where the duo sat. The red pyramid thing began to shake with something quietly, gurgling deep in its throat. It then burst out into cold, audacious laughter. It was raspy and awful, like the sound of someone's last dying breath.
It doubled over, pressing its free hand on its knee, continuing to titter as James lifted his head to stare at it in bewilderment.
The figure then slowly, cautiously made its way over to James, leaving the Great Knife scraping on the metallic floor. James writhed in his seat, leaning as far as he could away from the approaching being. He shut his eyes again and grit his teeth, but the pain he expected—wanted, really—still did not come his way.
Instead, he felt a gloved thumb, rough and grimy, gently sweep under his eye. James dared to open it, and what he saw made his stomach drop.
There stood Pyramid Head in all its terrifying glory, looming over him with a hand on his face. Its low, even, and hollow breathing collected inside of his ears like water, and it nonchalantly wiped away another tear sliding down his cheek.
He wanted to vomit.
Pyramid Head finally pulled its hand away, lingering with its fingertips on James' chin, and for some stomach-churning reason, James felt like... it was smiling at him.
No, no, not just smiling.
Grinning.
If it had a face, its grin would pull all the way to its ears. Its teeth would be impossibly big and shiny, struggling to fit themselves in its zipper of a mouth. Another sob bubbled out of James' throat, and it quickly pressed a single finger to his lips to shut him up.
Pyramid Head then slowly took a few steps back, letting its weapon clatter to the floor with an ear-splitting clang. James startled at the sound and jumped in his seat.
"WATCH."
The single word Pyramid Head spoke rumbled through the room like thunder, leaving James utterly reeling. Tears and drool and snot poured out of every hole in his face, and nothing he did would make the wet dissipate. He loathed the crying, loathed how helpless he felt, loathed his being tied up half-naked to a dirty chair with dirty chains in this dirty, disgusting place. What he despised most of all, though, was writhing at the whim and amusement of this monster. His monster.
He grit his teeth as he set his eyes on the awful thing. The prisoner had to ask himself at some point: when would enough be enough?
When Pyramid Head was certain James was watching, it stretched its arms out to the side, flexing its hands into open palms and closed fists. James could hear it breathe in deeply, as if it was preparing to do something strenuous. His scowl disappeared when he saw it reach its hands behind its helmet, groping at the mass of flesh that affixed the helmet to its body. It grunted as it dug its fingers into it, deeper, and deeper, and deeper. Blood started to seep from the wound it was making and the liquid cascaded down its body.
"What're- What're you doing…?" James asked weakly, eyeing the creature with shock. Pyramid Head did not answer. It continued to grunt with increasing intensity as it tore the flesh mound apart with its fingers. James gasped when he saw it lose its footing, catching itself and halting for just a moment to release a stilted breath. He could hear the sounds of tissue crackling and ripping apart, the blood spilling onto the floor with metallic pings. It all made him so sick.
Worst of all, though, was that Pyramid Head of all people, sounded like it was in agony, and that scared James to no end. It released a blood-curdling scream when it tore off a lump of flesh, and it threw it on the ground with a resounding slam.
"Stop it. Stop it! Please! Stop it!" James began to shout, feeling different kinds of tears drain from his eyes. "You're hurting yourself! Cut it out! Cut it out right now!"
"QUIET." Pyramid Head's response cut through deeper than any slice from the Great Knife could manage. James shuddered as he felt the ground under him shake, and he decidedly kept his mouth shut. Nausea sat in his throat like a rock, and he swallowed as hard as he could.
Pyramid Head was quick to resume its latent task, and continued to groan and shriek in pain as it tore apart the remainder of the flesh lump. James only just took note of the triangular metal loosening on Pyramid Head before it teetered off its head and fell onto the floor, an earth-shattering marriage of metal following in its wake. He couldn't help but gape at the helmet.
It… It’s off. It’s off. It took it off, it-
“LOOK.”
James turned his eyes upward. First, he saw the blood soaked mound of gore being firmly gripped within Pyramid Head’s hand, almost as if it was straining any remaining liquid from it. Second, he saw all the red covering its body. There was so much red, so, so much of it. It made him so dizzy. Third and last, he finally saw what it wanted to show him so eagerly.
It was his own face, grinning at him wildly.
Blood poured from every conceivable orifice, staining its moppy and matted dyed blond hair a deep crimson. Tears billowed out of its eyes, and its sclera flashed a dull pink. Its brows were knit in residual pain, but it didn’t look the slightest bit perturbed. In fact, Pyramid Head looked overjoyed.
It looked so happy to see him, its visage made known.
James Sunderland woke up screaming for his life.