Work Text:
James Sunderland was tired.
Not only had he been moving without rest for the entire day, he had rowed all alone across Toluca Lake. The fog itself had obscured any opportunity to make it to the other side easily - he imagined he'd been rowing for far longer than anyone would need to.
But still, he'd made it. The jetty that led out onto Lakeview Hotel. And that Hotel, that place - this was the last place he had to check. He brought a hand up to his eyes, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of what it was that he saw looming out of the fog in front of him. It was the Hotel, framed just as he remembered it. A three-storey building with what was easily the most class Silent Hill had to offer.
He headed up the stairs, thighs complaining against what he had put them through today. There'd been a lot of running. The things… the things he'd seen. Some of what he'd seen would haunt him forever - and - oh God - Eddie -
As his thoughts began to haul him down, he took out the photo of Mary, his wife, the only thing that had kept him going through this wretched place. As he approached the door to the hotel, he saw the two fountains, lightly wreathed in weeds that had grown up around the edges, and smiled. The hours they'd spent sitting there, just talking. The weather had been fine that day. Much better than the dense, oppressive fog there was today. That and the cold wind, and frankly revolting damp. He pulled his jacket closed with his left hand, and glanced again at the picture of Mary. She was so beautiful in that photo. And she was so close. She had to be.
"James, honey, you see that couple over there?"
The fountain splashed in the background, a soothing, bubbling brook reinforcing the gentle tone of her voice.
"That could be us one day… coming back to our favourite spots in the world."
"You ever think we'll be quite that old?" James asks. "I couldn't imagine it."
Mary turned to him, a smile on her face and some gentle witticism undoubtedly ready for him, but all of a sudden, the sun reflected off the fountain water, sparkling into his eyes. James turned away from the light, and the memory was sucked away.
He shoved the photo back into his jacket pocket, struggling to overcome the fresh wave of emotions that being here had brought up with him, and he placed his hand on the cool brass door handle. His hand was shaking. Dammit, James - you can do it. Focus.
But it had been so hard to focus recently. His work was no relief from the emptiness he had felt since Mary's death. Everything he'd done over the last three years had been an empty blot, a meaningless blur. Nothing had colour, life or flavour; without Mary, it seemed impossible. And this place - it was harder to focus here than ever before. He wasn't sure what was happening to him. Was he going crazy? At that thought, he forced the door open, fresh determination to see this through alive in his veins, and closed it forcefully behind me.
There was a dustiness to the Lakeview that made it feel out of time, somehow. Everything James remembered about it was just slightly aged. Which, of course, was no surprise. Neely's Bar had been an abandoned mess. Rosewater Park was overgrown and desolate. Except for one surprising spot of life. Mary. Or someone he thought was Mary. It was hard to tell. Apart from her clothes and hair, she looked exactly like her. But Mary hadn't had any sisters, and she certainly hadn't had a twin. But James knew he had to protect her. He'd failed to stop the disease that had killed Mary. And then, of course, he'd failed to protect this other woman. Her name… her name was hard to seize upon for some reason. Mary? His mind offered up. No, that can't be it.
He wandered through the halls, his mind in a sluggish state, listening to the echoes of his own footsteps down the hall. He absentmindedly traced a hand along the dado rail of the hallway.
James.
A whisper like that used to mean so much to him. It used to mean safety, security, happiness - being with Mary would do that to anyone, he thought. And he had been the lucky one to be with her, the two of them, in what he saw as frankly miraculous love. They'd both been regular people, but he'd been blessed. Her love was the thing that had elevated his life from mediocre to fantastic.
James. Can you go and get me some water? My throat's kind of sore.
"Sure, honey." He said out loud, realizing only he'd said it several seconds after the fact. This place… there's a weight on my mind. Pressing downwards - ever downwards. I can't take it much longer.
He turned, looked back down the corridor. He realized somehow he'd circled back around on himself - got to the end of the corridor, and then moved his way back. He was starting to lose track of time. Starting to lose track of his own mind. Someone moved through the doorway into the main hall. A woman. Mary?
James walked forwards, his movement taking the form of an occasional hurried step and a jog. He reached the door, pressed a hand against the cool doorknob, and turned it with a sudden violence that shocked himself. Mary. The echo of his thought was continual.
James. Do you think we could go out onto the lake, today?
Mary had been so beautiful that day. She'd worn her favourite sweater - and that leopard print skirt that James liked so much. Leopard print skirt? He thought that sounded wrong somehow. But he was too tired to start arguing with his memories. That, he knew, was the path into madness. He had to keep a hold on what was real.
The hall was almost empty, but it was in a pristine condition. In the corner of the room was a set of armchairs. It looked like there was a book lying open on the armchair. James stepped inside, hands clasped tight around the gun he'd drawn from his pocket, the little pistol that had seen him through the terrible events of today. It… it should have all been a dream. But if it is a dream… then Mary really is dead. And I can't accept that. This has to be real.
He moved over to the chair, sat down in the one sitting opposite to it, and reached gingerly for the book. The pages were thin and yellow-edged, the print old and staid. The Ego and the Mechanisms of Defence, by Anna Freud. He flicked through it. Words hurled past like beams of light in a dark tunnel. The very existence of neurotic symptoms indicates that I have been defeated.
James was about to close the book, barely able to focus, before he heard the clack-clack of heels coming down the stairway in the middle of the room to the second floor. He turned, eyes sparkling with hope, before he saw… nothing. Just the sound of a memory.
"James. What do you think?"
She was beautiful. That much was clear. But then he'd always known that. Her beauty, however, seemed profound, here on this holiday retreat, coming down the stairs like a queen descending to see her subjects. She had a simple beauty; she was simply beautiful. James smiled up at her, clutching a book in his hands. "I went and bought a book for you," he said.
"Oh, James… you didn't have to."
"It's a history of the area, Mary. I thought you might like it. Since you're interested in all that stuff, you know." She reached him, took the book from his hands, and turned it over in her own hands. The textured hardcover created a feeling of homeliness. She flicked open the pages. He admired her, then, all over again. He couldn't help it. Her long, blonde hair. The pink leopard choker that fit so well with her skirt - and then there was an echo of laughter from somewhere else in the hotel, and James came back to his reality.
"Mary…" he whispered. "I miss you. More than anything in the world."
He tossed the book on the floor, where it slowly flipped to another page, where two very important things were written. First, by Freud: "Even with a normal state of being in love, a person’s intellectual capabilities are reduced and his reasoning becomes less reliable than usual. The more passionately his desire to satisfy his instinctive impulses, the less, as a rule, he is inclined to use the intellect for their rational investigation and suppression." Second: I'm here for you, James. I'm real. But James saw neither of these things. He went up the stairs.
There was something stuck in his throat, he realized. A lump. Something he'd been running from this whole day. Tears. He remembered his tears that day she died. Tears pouring down his cheeks, a soundless, desolate act. Now, he realized, he needed to cry again. Just being here, being in this place that hadn't changed a bit - he remembered everything good he'd had. And how the universe had just tossed it away. How that damn disease had taken her. Why did… why did it have to be like this? What had James done to deserve such torment? Everything he'd seen today… everything he'd done… if she wasn't here, then, well, he didn't really know what he would do.
He stepped into a cold hallway. The whistling of the wind was gentle; there must be a window open around the bend. He moved through, admiring the hotel. There was an easiness about the place, now. The headache was subsiding a bit. He was reasserting his control. He knew what was real. I know what is real.
James…
Mary?
I'm here, James.
Always memories, though. That was the problem. His reality was just memories. That's how he'd lived for years, years since her death. Coasting to work. The few friends he'd had had just fallen away after Mary's death. It's not that he blamed them. He just wasn't pleasant company. He'd stayed apart from people because, well, Mary had been the person who'd encouraged him to do more. She was the social one. Then the letter. He'd dropped everything to be with her again.
James.
He remembered Rosewater Park. That perfect day. That endless day. He remembered the way she'd turned to him. Mary?
Do I look like your girlfriend?
Reality. Love.
He rounded the corner, saw a painting on the wall, about halfway down the corridor. He walked to it, slow steps, as though he was walking through water. A painting of… who was that? Laura? What did she have to do with anything?
A sudden strong gust of wind hurtled in through the window. He shivered, walked over to it, started sliding the window down, when he heard a whisper from behind him. James.
Was this it? Was she there? He turned around, as the fog gently flowed inside. No. No-one there again. His hopes were tattered, as though they were a paper lantern, riddled with bullets, spiralling towards a lake in the rain. He dropped to his knees, then transferred to leaning against the wall with his back, pressing his knees against his chest.
" You look sad, James. What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Mary - it's just, I'm tired."
"Not of me, I hope?" She smiled.
"No," he smiled briefly, before his face settled back into melancholy. He was in the hospital. "I - I'm just tired of seeing you like this."
Her face screwed up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's - I don't like seeing you suffer."
"Really? Well, it sounds like you don't like seeing me at all!"
He remembered the prison cell. A set of bars. A bed. Two chairs. And… and… what was her name, again?
She stepped in front of James. "Did you love her?"
Did I love her?
"Or maybe… you hated her?"
James looked up. "I don't hate you, Mary."
"But there's someone else, isn't there, James?"
"No, Maria - there's just you."
There's just you.
He set his gun down with shaking hands, and took his wallet from his pocket, unfolded it, and examined the picture. Long blonde hair; leopard-print skirt; choker…
"I need you, Maria. Please be real."