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✘ lost in the flames
- Day I. September 26th
- Narrow Escape: The Shiver [Narrative]
- It's Such A Gray Day | Henry Townshend
- Day II. September 27th
- Monster Hospital | Anne Cunningham's Otherworld
- The Defiled [Narrative]
- Day III. September 28th
- Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things | Alex Shepherd's Otherworld
- Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig [Narrative]
- Day IV. September 29th
- Full Circle [Narrative]
- Folosom Prison Blues {The Penitentiary} | Irene Adler
- Day V. September 30th
- Mirror, Mirror | Annie Cresta
- Roadkill {The Church} | Nepeta Leijon
- Day VI. October 1st
- The Devil You Know [Narrative]
- The Repeater I. | Nepeta Leijon {Nowhere}
- The Repeater II. | OTA {Nowhere}
- The Repeater I. | Nepeta Leijon {Nowhere}
- Day VII. October 2nd
- The Repeater III. {Nowhere} | Anne Cunningham
- Fin
- Breathing Water [Narrative]
- Flooded Area | Alex Shepherd
September 27th | The Defiled
HERE LIES A LIAR,
LYING TO BONES...
LYING, LYING, LYING...
September 28th | Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig
MEDOC, ARE YOU HERE?
I'VE BEEN SLEEPWALKING AGAIN, MY DEAR.
IT'S THE INHUMAN MONSTERS THAT I FEAR.
September 29th | Full Circle
I LOOK AT MY NEW WRISTWATCH IN THE DARK OF NIGHT.
IT TELLS ME THAT I AM CLOSER TO DEATH, SECOND BY SECOND.
THAT IS GOOD NEWS.
October 1st | The Devil You Know
WHEN YOU'RE LOOKING AT THE DEAD AND THE DEAD ARE LOOKING RIGHT BACK AT YOU,
THEN DREAMS, FANTASIES... WHAT'S THE POINT?
YOU'RE ALREADY LIVING A NIGHTMARE.
no subject
He doesn't want to be alone. This place hasn't given him much of a choice, when it doesn't seem to value the laws of teamwork. Murphy knows the crush of loneliness a little too well. Even when he does find that he's in the presence of something, he learns fast that he would rather the former solitude so much more.
Murphy doesn't know why this is happening to him again. He doesn't know what this place wants from him that he hasn't had shoved in his face already. He's done his time, and he's faced his demons. Sure, he's not the most guiltless of people, but some part of him wishes there's a reason behind this madness, and that it's not just some sick and kafkaesque joke. Regrettably, it wouldn't surprise him if it was.
Footsteps shuffled down the hallway. Murphy turned his head just in time to catch a brief glimpse of a shadow ahead, rushing from one hall to the next. A door slammed in the distance. Then, a giggle.
Was that a little girl...?
No way, this was no place for a kid to be.
"Hey, wait up!" Murphy calls out and books it, or as best as he can in his condition. His head is spinning, the sickly urge to vomit building in his stomach. He limps when he chases after the child's laughter, makes it several seconds too late to the door. Jiggling the handle, it's locked and doesn't open. "Dammit... Not this again..."
Just how many times is he going to be chasing after...
The door opens.
Murphy stares. The door opens. On its own, no less.
"That's... normal." Or not, but he isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He limps cautiously through the doorway, peering inside.
Nothing much to see here -- it's an empty room. With the exception of a mirror, which covers the entire wall.
Actually, as he approaches the room, he finds that the mirror isn't what he thinks it is at first. Standing in front of it, he doesn't see himself. The room on the other side is almost exactly the same, with a few exceptions.
He can see himself sometimes, flickering in the dark center. Every other split frame-second, however, there are glimpses of something else. Inside, or on the other side, is something monstrous in chains. The swinging lamp just sways, granting minimal light to make out the vague details with.
It's then that Murphy notices that there's something written on the wall behind him. He sees it in the reflection, and he sees it when he checks over his shoulder:
He looks back to the mirror. The flashing stops, revealing something solid where Murphy should see himself standing.
Bound by shackles, something gray and monstrous is confined here. Its emaciated shape and bony limbs stretch out longer than humanly possible. Both trapped in chains and accompanied by a faceless little girl, clinging to its side. Both are without eyes. Both are watching him -- watching Murphy.
The message makes itself so painfully clear.
Everyone knows what you did.
Murphy grips his head. They are no longer just words that he sees in the reflection. Looking at it, the creature seems to be reaching out to him.
The room is so silent his ears pop. He stifles as he stumbles back.
The little girl with no face takes notice to this. She lets go of the gargantuan creature that fills the room with chains and decay. She tilts her featureless head up at him, and for several moments, Murphy feels her reaching inside of him when she touches the glass.
"Wh--" He chokes. "What are you doing...?!"
The words are clear as ever, bleeding across the glass. Wet and thick, red dribbles down the surface sheet. Murphy is unable to move; he watches as more words begin bleeding across the mirror: "Lying liar she knows you're lying", "Stop lying", "You're lying again", "It's your fault", "They're all dying", "Must pay for what you've done", "STOP DOING THAT".
Murphy feels his throat hitch. "Don't..." He doesn't know why he even bothers. The air is still. There is no reply. He only finds himself pressing back against the wall, sliding sideways until he forces himself out of the room. Wills himself to leave, to keep moving. Can't stop, no matter how much it hurts, or how the truth he's always known heckles on the back of his mind.
They never loved you...
Nowhere | Breathing Water
IT WAS NIGHTTIME AND I WAS FLOATING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OCEAN.
I WAS TRYING TO SWIM, BUT I WAS TOO COLD. I KEPT LOOKING -- I KEPT LOOKING FOR SOMETHING TO HANG ON TO.
AND THERE WERE PRESENTS FLOATING ALL AROUND ME. THEY WERE WRAPPED UP. THEY WERE TIED WITH BOWS.
I TRIED TO GRAB ON TO THEM, BUT THEY KEPT POPPING AWAY. AND THEN I STARTED TO SINK LIKE A STONE.
THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO. I WAS FALLING.
BUT IT FELT GOOD. I WAS LETTING GO. I WAS LETTING MYSELF GO...
AND ALL I COULD SEE WAS BLACK AND ALL I COULD FEEL WAS THE DARKNESS ABOVE ME AND THE LIGHTS COMING FROM BELOW. I KNEW I WAS DYING.
AND THEN I HEARD THIS VOICE, LIKE SOMEBODY WHISPERING IN MY EAR.
"WAKE UP, NUMBER 37."
{Furnace Room Lullaby | Part I.}
What he does remember is Alex. He remembers being attacked, and the soreness of his leg, and the blood and tears on his clothes. But everything had gone by so fast. He's trying to piece together the puzzle; it's too scattered.
Useless...
He turns his head and looks up, more surprised by the fact that he recognizes the garage door. A ball rolls away from the basketball hoop, tapping the wheel of the car parked there and keeps on moving despite no boost for it.
Murphy feels his muscles ache as he pushes himself off the ground. Looking around, he notices this driveway, this whole front yard with a distinct familiarity.
"...Shit, why here...?" He asks this, though knows there's no one around to give him a straight reply.
This time, he isn't drawn to the lake by his son's cries for help. Even if he did, he's sure that he shouldn't fall into the same trap once again. That would be stupid.
Murphy does hold himself together, grabbing his ribs and using the parked car (his car) for support as he leans on it. He remembers this car, though it's been years since he's ever seen it. Last time had been after his divorce, and against his own volition, he'd sold it so he could afford to keep up with paying out for a hotel room. A temporary situation back then, as he was obsessed, and then the inevitable happened...
The garage and driveway is not without a home. He looks up at the Bostonian townhouse, and it's strange. The sky over it, and everything around him -- it's still. Like it's all part of some kind of still-screen, except the basketball is rolling away on its own. He briefly thinks about a film splice before Murphy is able to move again himself.
Somehow, part of him understands that he must do something different this time. It's just like what Anne had told him, that maybe this really is like last time. Maybe there's something that he hasn't yet finished, put behind him, or something... He's quicker to believe that than anything else.
When Murphy limps, there is no echo, no resonance with his surroundings. Only the flat of his feet over the pavement.
Weird. The gate whines as Murphy pushes it open, at least. It stays ajar, does not shift or latch afterwards. He doesn't bother to secure it -- there's nobody around, anyway.
He ascends the front stairs tentatively. He doesn't know if this is what he's supposed to do, or where he's supposed to go. Somehow, it just feels right, as if the unfinished business must be here. He can't explain it any other way.
Out the corner of his eye, something shifts the blinds in the window. He swivels his head towards it. By then, it's gone, though the lingering paranoia that he's being watched remains.
"Carol?" He doesn't know why or how he comes to this line of thinking. In a way, it strikes him as the most obvious answer. Charlie is gone. In this scene, he's been gone. Painful as it may be, as he hates to accept that, he can't see it any other way.
If there's "unfinished business" as Anne had claimed, then it has to be here.
Something clicks then. It's the front door.
He realizes that when he takes the door handle and turns it. It has been unlocked.
I'm home.
{Like A Lamb To Its Slaughter | Part I.}
When or how he even got here... This is something that Murphy can't bring himself to speculate anymore. He should be with Nepeta, but for some reason, he isn't.
Here, she's nowhere to be seen. Seriously. Again and again, he has tried calling for her, and it's like being punched in the stomach. She's just a kid, and this place isn't safe. Not for anybody. If something happens to her after promising to himself that he'd never have to watch another get hurt...
To Murphy's disappointment, a wrecked boat on the lakeside doesn't really promise an easier way out. He follows the shore, however, in hopes that maybe it will lead him somewhere helpful. Eventually, he does find something, though it's hardly what he's hoping for.
Out there in the waters, something floats. A sharp, incredulous, nonsensical sound escapes Murphy's throat, as he stumbles, knee-deep into the lake. It's freezing to the bones; he doesn't care. This time, there are no police officers to hold him back. No irrational stupidity keeping him from dashing into the cold that covers him. It crashes over him like a tidal wave. Stealing his breath. He tries to call out to the floating thing, say words that have meaning, but meaning is lost.
At first, it's difficult to say what it is. It looks like a black bag, drifting down the lake. Murphy doesn't waste more time, though he really shouldn't be out this far without a boat. Not during this time of year (and he wonders why the concern even crosses his mind). He just acts, reaching out for the bag; grabs it, and--
Something stabs in his chest. His blood runs cold; colder than the icy waters. Colder than anything Murphy Pendleton had ever felt in his entire life.
"Oh God..." Water spurts from his mouth. Murphy spits, trying to keep his head above surface as he grips the bag. It's become a lifeline now. His legs kick, propelling him back towards the shallow shore. Once his feet can touch the earth again, he turns completely, taking the bag in both hands and -- strange, it seems so much heavier now. "Oh God, oh God... oh God..."
He's shivering and tells himself that it's just the cold. It's more than the cold. This is a bag, wrapped up tight and secured by a rope on top. He wills his hands to stay still only long enough for him to unravel it.
God, no... don't do this to me again. Don't--!
"Why are you doing this...?"
Submerged halfway into the lake, face floating in the bag -- was his son.
{Meet Me Down The River Road | Part II.}
Water drains the blood away, but there is still plenty of it splotched and stained all over.
Not this... not here... not again--
His hands tremble. His gut wrenches like he's going to puke any minute. Doesn't help that his stomach is empty; it feels like he hasn't eaten in years. Even when he shuts his eyes, the rotting face of his son remains marked on the back of his lids. The way Charlie's glossed-over stare continues to linger there, holes buried in his head, mouth hung open and tongue swollen and oh God, he must have been down there for days before they fished him out of the lake...
A father trembles, hoping that he could wash it all away, and it never does. The sound of running water and approaching footsteps shake him from his current state.
No, please. Don't do this to me.
The first thing he sees, clutched in his trembling hand, is a bloody shiv. Sharpened to perfection, and recently used.
His vision blurs. Behind his perspective of the blade, is a mutilated face. A greatly respected man who's so badly beaten and marred that he can hardly be recognized anymore.
Murphy feels weak. Every bit of him does. He drops to the wet floor, soaking through his prison jumpsuit. The stench of death extends beyond Frank, though.
Lying next to the corrections officer is another body. This one is more difficult to recognize, but it's a woman. Flat on her back, limp and lifeless... bones crushed and head caved in.
There is one thing, though. One little detail that stabs Murphy in the eye, and it shakes and terrorizes him when he can recognize, mixed with blood and brain and skull, the familiar shade of auburn hair--
{Hotter Than Hell | Part III.}
what
"Assembled here to witness the state's execution of Murphy Pendleton--"
no wait stop
He tries to move his arm then, but he can't. He's been strapped down to a gurney.
"--sentenced for the murder of his six-year-old son..."
this isn't right at all
He winces under the puncture of the sharp cannula in his arms.
"The couple had divorced four years earlier, and prosecutors believe Pendleton drowned his son, Charlie, in retaliation for his ex-wife seeking sole custody."
No, this is wrong. This is fucking death row--
STOP this isn't how it's supposed to be i didn't i wouldn't i'd never JUST LISTEN TO ME FOR GOD'S SAKE
A door opens behind him. Struggling to move his head, Murphy looks over the gurney to see a tray out the corner of his eye. There's medical equipment, an IV stand, tools, and paperwork with his name on them.
Shadow men appear from the door then. Though the voice he's been hearing echoes from somewhere else. Murphy doesn't have to move much to figure it out, when one of the shadow men approach the side of the gurney. The mechanical whir sends him momentarily upright, pinned completely to the cold mat against his back.
Overlooking the windows beyond the execution room, more shadow men have gathered. In the corner, a dark-haired woman in a veil sits among them. Her eyes are closed. Black ink pours down her cheeks.
Carol.
A shadow man behind her leans towards her, placing a hand over her shoulder. When she lifts her head, she sees Murphy -- and through the glass, he sees her. Eyes erased, and slash marks disfigure her face.
The shadow man in the front row seat continues: "More recently, Pendleton was tried and convicted for the murder of decorated officer, Frank Coleridge during a Ryall State Prison riot, which expedited Pendleton's execution sentence amidst public furor."
no no no no NO I DIDN'T
Carol looks to Murphy with a cut-throat smile. Then, so do all of the shadow people.
Any last words, Pendleton?
He thinks he's going to vomit for real this time. He just might. Wouldn't that be so horrible? Choking to death before they can even kill him. At least that's on his own volition, wouldn't it?
The gurney drops back with a crash. Not very pleasant at all. Murphy gasps for air, winded.
Cop killers don't last very long.
But he isn't...
A buzzing sound grows louder. Like a hive of bees, it hums and beats and becomes deafening in his ears and his head might, just might explode.
All it takes is the flip of a switch, and he can hear the sound of the machines pumping into him. One by one... he feels tired, torn and weary. He can't even bother to breathe anymore, only slam his head against the gurney and stifle an inexplicable muffle of disbelief. He fights it at first. Thrash against the straps that hold him down as he yells.
The shadow men hover over him with their black faces and visible smiles. He remembers Carol's twisted face. Charlie's rotting body. Frank's withered form and Anne's crushed corpse. He remembers these things, and suddenly, the struggle doesn't even seem to be worth it anymore. It's just not worth it.
Maybe it's the alleged pentobarbital, or maybe it's his conscience. Maybe it's something else entirely that's making its way inside. Either way, he begins to feel weak, unable to fight this thing that's been gnawing at him for so long...
He coughs. He coughs and chokes and blood builds up in his throat. His eyes hurt so bad he feels them start to burst out of his sockets. With that, he convulses.
The heart monitor on display nearby starts beating again. This time in rapid succession. He feels hot, dizzy, blood boiling and brain coursing through the motions of several flashing images pouring from his mind's eye.
...See? I knew you'd come around, in the end.
{Are You Dead Or Are You Sleeping? | Part I.}
Not Murphy himself (though, all things considered, he feels as if he's very well about to). It's difficult enough to pull himself together. To keep himself from falling apart at the seams. He shivers and shakes himself awake.
This definitely isn't Kansas anymore, that's for damn sure. Any memory he's had of his home is now gone. He's lying down on something hard. While the pain is still real, he doesn't feel the injuries from before cover his entire body.
How long he's been out of it, he's got no idea. For several minutes, he lays there, worrying if he can even see at all -- it's so dark.
At some point, he takes notice to something swinging nearby.
It's a noose.
That's when Murphy finally sits upright from what appears to be a cot, sans the mattress. He was then greeted to a homely space. Three walls, and prison bars. He looks down, only to discover that his sleeves are different... No, not just his sleeves. His entire clothes fucking changed again. The shirt and jeans are gone, replaced by a jumpsuit with a prison number printed across the side of his chest and leg. From what he remembers, he is wearing the colors from the Overlook Penitentiary--
"No, oh God no..." This isn't happening. It can't. He's been through all of this. 'Free'. Right? But when Murphy stands up and moves to the prison bars, they're real. So real, they're cold when he touches them. This time, they don't move to release him from his terrible living space.
It's different now. There's no Frank in a wheelchair to help guide him out of his personal Hell, because Frank is dead and gone. No mysterious release to unlock him from his cell, setting him loose to face the other horrors that this place has to offer. He's given a wide view beyond his cell. However, there's not much to look at. The cell blocks are silent, accompanied only by the creaking sound of rusty metal and distant running waters. Way out there is a clear view of the guard tower. So far, but when there are solid bars between you and a possible escape, distance doesn't seem to matter for shit anymore.
There's not even a way out, when Murphy gives his space a closer inspection. Black fluids secrete from the walls, draining across the cell floor and into the main hall. Background noise was accompanied the constant dripping sound from the plumbing and the sink. There's also a ventilation shaft, which lets out a soft breeze of cool air. It has to lead somewhere, he's sure of it. When he checks out and even attempts to pry the bars covering the ventilation system, he doesn't even make a bit of progress.
"Great... Now what?"
Far as he can tell, there's no escape at all.
From elsewhere, Murphy hears the disembodied sound of something tripping. The cell blocks echo with the guttural death throes of a person choking to death.
Murphy hurries back towards the front gate, slamming himself against them and crying out between the prison bars: "Hello! Can somebody hear me?! Hello, is someone... is someone th... there...?"
He stops and stumbles away from the bars, and looks down. The water from the outside begins to pour its way inward. Murphy watches this, stumbling backwards until he hits the other side of the wall. Even then, the fluids keep on backwards-draining, until they climb up the concrete.
As Murphy looks up, he sees that the rope is now swinging on its own. Behind it, a shadow fills in the empty space. A hanging body sways in midair, though not one that can be so plainly seen.
"What...?"
What the hell is he looking at?
For some time, he stands there in the corner, almost hoping for something to happen. Little by little, the hanged man in the wall begins to fade away.
Gripping a handful of hair, Murphy shakes his head and sighs. "C'mon man, you're losin' it. You're losin' it... You gotta think. Just think..." What could have happened? Why was he here? What--
Murder's a mortal sin.
Then it dons on him.
"Shit, Carol..."
You go to Hell for murder!
"Oh Jesus, what've I...?"
Suddenly, the remains of his actions leading up to this point makes sense. Still grabbing his head, Murphy moves back and forth in his cell. The small space is all he has to move in, as he brings himself back to the memory of his wife's face. His hands on her throat. Watching her life fade and her skin go cold. Carol, his wife, his best friend... who started looking at him with hatred and blame long after Charlie was gone.
He tried. He really, really did. But no matter how many 'head doctors' they had ever gone to, none of them could ever convince her to stop looking at Murphy that way since their son was murdered. How she regarded him in even the most casual of conversations with snappish retorts. Christ, half of their arguments had been over such asinine, mundane bullshit that Murphy can't bring himself to remember what they were about anymore. It's all another time, another life. If one thing remains far clearer than any picture he's ever seen, however, it was the words his wife had said to him after Charlie was born...
I don't know what to do.
Just be a good father to our son. That's all I ask, Murphy.
Murphy was so scared back then. Terrified of screwing up, of failing. It was exactly as Carol had said... He did fail. He failed his wife, he failed his son, and nothing he could ever do would be able to undo the things he'd done.
It's not your fault.
How can he ever accept that? They're just four words, spoken by something that wasn't even really his son. It should be enough, but it wasn't. So then, when would it ever start to be enough?
Maybe he should stop lying to himself. That's what the moral of this all is, right? That's how it works? There's supposed to be something he has to finish. Well, case closed, it should be over now, right?
When Murphy looks up, the cell door remains sealed tight.
Nothing changes.
I never want to see you again.
{God I Sure Hope You Are Dead... | Part II.}
Murphy doesn't know how long he's actually been here. A long time, that much he gathers. When the bed becomes too hard to sleep on, he realizes that the floor is an easier place to lay down. He lays there for what feels like hours. Then the time seems to shift and change.
Changing...
Hours turn into days. Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months. Months fade into years and at that point, the length he's been stuck seems to be neither here nor there.
Time brings truth. What a load of bullshit. There is no truth in this. Lying here, waiting to die, be it of thirst or starvation or exposure.
One thing's for certain: Murphy Pendleton should have been dead a long time ago. Why he isn't remains another mystery, and it gets even stranger. He doesn't feel the need to eat. He also wouldn't touch the water in this cell if his life depended on it. When that doesn't seem to be the case anymore, he just abstains from it altogether.
If it's one thing that's going to kill him, that he's sure should kill him above all of these things, it's the loneliness. Christ, he wishes somebody were here. He almost didn't care who anymore. An angry prison guard, or somebody... When Murphy had endured this back at Ryall, he at least had someone come by on occasion. A chaplain who had faith in him. Told him that he could change.
The comfort that chaplain provided felt more like a terrible death sentence. Irrational as it might have been, accepting the man's kindness would have about guaranteed his demise. So Murphy kept quiet. For awhile, people talked to him, but Murphy didn't talk back. Before long, they would just give up on him.
It's strange to think about these things now. Memories are all he has. He thinks about movies on loop. Loops the diner scene between the group of criminals at the beginning of Reservoirs Dogs more times than he can count. Imagined up a better ending to Blade Runner. Replayed Jackie Brown at least four dozen times, and then many more movies after that. Murphy was starting to run out of films he had memorized by heart.
After awhile, he also got tired of trying to make casual conversation with the moving shadows, and got sick of his own damn self talking all of the time. Murphy got sick of a lot of things.
Maybe it was his sick that came to the conclusion that there's only one way to end this. It dangles from the ceiling, and has been for years. The choking sounds filling the prison cell is the final come hither before Murphy tries it. In the end, maybe that's what he was supposed to do all along. Made sense, right?
Well, of course it made sense.
Moving the cot over, Murphy holds onto a stable groove in the wall with one hand, and reaches for the hanging noose with the other. The bed, rustic and unstable, is already in a precarious position here. Though, suppose if he were to fall and break his neck, that would be that. He tries not to think about it so much. Head trauma would be a terrible way to go.
He takes deep breaths, pulling the noose towards him while balancing on the edge of the cot. The metal whines. The rope pulls over his head, round his neck. Snug and tight, like it should be. Maybe. Murphy's never been hanged before, so he doesn't know.
With a deep breath, he kicks the cot over.
For awhile, he's suspended. Legs dangle, then kick. His own shadow seems to move with a mind of its own. He tries not to think too hard. That only makes things worse. Makes him nearly regret...
Makes him regret that he's breaking the promises he's made.
Not like it's the first time...
At first, it hurts like hell. He can't imagine why anyone would want to do this.
It'd be quick. No pain.
However, falling so unexpectedly hurts even worse than dying. He's sure of that.
Murphy screams when he feels a snap in his leg, and doubles over onto his side. Curled up on the floor, the broken noose still wrapped around his neck, he gasps and yells in pain, gripping his leg after falling on it wrong. His ankle must've sprained.
Great. Just great. Stuck here, unable to eat or drink, alone in solitary confinement, possibly for forever... Now he couldn't even die the way he would've wanted to.
Panting, gasping for air, Murphy blinks hard through his misty vision, and curls up on the floor, stifling his cries.
{Ever Expanding Circles | Part II.}
With the exception of a distant static.
Ahhh...
...And that.
The front door slams behind him. Dust picks up in the air, carrying eddies across the carpet and hardwood. Murphy shuffles through the foyer, hearing the silence becomes assaulted by whisperings and hums. From the kitchen, something shimmers, and the peculiarity is too great to ignore. Because this is where the humming is coming from.
"Is anybody here...?" Carol, he wonders. He's almost certain that that's what this is about. If there's a ticket to unfinished business that could help get him out of here, it has to be her.
When Murphy stands in the entry to the kitchen, he takes notice that this is the one thing that was most definitely not present before he left. And it's definitely not Carol, either.
Funny. He's never recalled there ever being the display of a winged torso here, or anywhere in his house. But there it is, back facing him as Murphy approaches the thing, and not once does it move. If it's one thing that he knows by now, however, it's that that doesn't mean it can't hurt you.
Upon closer inspection, it looks like the lower half of a woman without an upper half. The arms simply make up the wings. Looking down at where the tips of the "feathers" ought to be, the hands stretch from the wings, pressing themselves to the floor. It remains perfectly still, plain and porcelain and statuesque. The surface of it looks so fragile that it could break with a slight touch.
It doesn't seem to like that very much. Touching, that is. Not when Murphy had started reaching out without even realizing it, eyes fixed on the mouth that's somehow stuck to the thing's back. The mouth opens. From inside, an eye opens as well -- watching him.
"Wha...!" Murphy yelps as the display springs to life without warning. The eye makes a sick sound as it shifts around, widening like saucers. The wings snap. In the blink of an eye, the torso has turned and faced him. The tip of its toes drag across the ground as it floats towards him, its speed incredible...
Rather than using the wings to fly, it defies all laws of logic. Instead, the hand-feathers lash out, both wings grabbing Murphy's arms, shoulders, and neck in attempt to pull him towards it.
He yells, foolishly deprived of a weapon at the moment, and uses his legs to kick it in the pelvic region. Such fragile-looking material doesn't give way as easily as it looks, but his efforts did earn a crack all up to the gaping hole in its chest. As it attempts to pull Murphy into it, another eye snaps open from that chest-hole, revealing a black iris watching him.
"Back off!" Murphy doesn't know why he bothers. It's not like intimidation tactics work on these things like they did on prison brothers. This is a second nature to him, though -- instinct, as he flails helplessly in the glass arms that lift him from the ground. He gasps for air, screaming and kicking in order to create as much damage as he could. The cracks extend from the area that he created, breaking into the chest-hole.
Ahhh, ahhh! AHHHHHHHH!
The hums may have been interpreted as an angelic choir. A deceptive ruse; there was nothing sweet and celestial about this thing now, when its eye rolls over. The sweet hums turned into a sick, deafening shriek, piercing his ears. Murphy's own desperate voice contributes to this horrid sound, while he struggles to escape its clutching fingers.
It won't let go.
This thing that could have been mistaken for an angel shrills. Finally, it releases him.
But he's not safe, not yet. Its still floating, quaking, screaming while the cracks that Murphy's kicks had scarred into it starts mending on its own.
Shit, that just figures. Murphy scrambles from the ground, struggling to regain equilibrium as he throws himself towards the kitchen counter. The cutting board is exactly where he remembers it's always been. Perfect.
As the figure stands in the idle process of healing itself, Murphy swings around, cutting board in both hands.
Hard wood trumps a boot-kick, as it would seem when Murphy smacks the board against the angel's wing. A hole breaks through, creating a spider-web of more cracks all around it. It's effective, so he hits it again.
Then he hits it again.
And again.
And again...
Until the winged thing crumbles. The angelic sounds stifle into nothing but dusty coughs, which actually turn out to be just Murphy trying to catch his breath.
It leaves behind a lot of dust all over the kitchen floor.
{A Strangely Shining Light | Part III.}
It's then that Murphy notices all of the strange dissimilarities from his home as he had known it. For one thing, there are loads of boxes everywhere. Most of their things, stuff that belonged to him and his wife, are all packed. The walls are bare of memories and photographs. No child's drawings from Charlie's first day of school.
What more, it looks as though someone's been in the bathroom recently. The sound of running water summons him to door near the end of the hall. The door is left slightly ajar, with mist clouding the ceiling overhead. Murphy can't see his reflection in the fogged up mirror as he approaches the doorway. Though, scrawled over the surface and steam, the glass bears a familiar message:
The bathtub is still running, and most likely has been for some time. Water flows to the brim. When Murphy enters, his feet splash over the flooded floor, which has begun soaking into the carpet.
Murphy goes to draw the curtains open, yet doesn't find anything particular. Except that no one is there to occupy the bathtub. Strange. He turns his head to the valves, then reaches for it to shut off the continual running water--
Hands whip out from behind him. All Murphy catches is a brief reflection of black hair behind a masked face. The next, his head is dunked into the lukewarm bath.
Panic sinks in. Then something else. He flails, attempting to push himself out for air by grabbing the brim. His fingers slip. When that fails, he goes to reach over his shoulder. Too far. What holds him with sharp fingernails has no intentions of letting him come up for air.
Can't keep my head above water...
He doesn't count the seconds. But they had to have turned into minutes by then, torturing him with every agonizing moment he tries to come up for air. By then, his lungs are full of fire. His skin burns, and it isn't the lukewarm water's doing, but the inevitability and defeat. He pushes himself up for air. The panic evolves something more. It's the terror of breathing in for air, only to suffocate under the foolish weight of his impulse. The hands clutching his shoulders grip tighter, digging fingernails through Murphy's shirt. Blood oozes down his arms. His wounds were going to burst, he knew it. And the worst part is how that would be the least of his concerns.
Muscle spasms now. Losing control over his own reflexes, he flips like a dying fish, caught in a desperate struggle between life and death. What concerns him now is the eventual blackness that closes in, clouding his mind and easing his fears. Whatever has him, whatever is keeping him under, does so in vitriol and wants him dead. So why fight? He's so tired of fighting.
He's so tired...
It must have been when the hands released him, pulled him out of water, thrown him onto his back... When Murphy comes to, he's staring up at a dying lamplight that hung over the ceiling.
He hated that light. It always burns out too easily. The landlord had told them that the building was old, though recently renovated, so there was nothing to worry about. Cost was cheap back then. Murphy and Carol had come house searching at a convenient time. They were just starting out their lives, readying to bring a new one into the world, and then...
Murphy chokes out a cough. Then, he chokes up water. He flops over the floor, arms supporting him while he spits most of the water he had inhaled from the bathtub. After several seconds of hysterical wheezing, Murphy is too tired to even move. Every inch of him aches. Between the injuries he had already sustained, and all that had happened so far, a little reprieve is all he asks. It's all he ever asked for.
Knowing that he hasn't earned that luxury, he moves on. Or tries to. Murphy helps himself onto his feet, grabbing the sink for support. Something shifts behind him. He doesn't even bother looking in the reflection of the misty mirror. Just turns around, to see a shape that's blocking the doorway.
POP!
That damn light. Always burning out at the most inappropriate times.
Not that he needs it. When the silhouette steps back, the rest of her is revealed. To Murphy, it might as well be as clear as daylight. He doesn't need to see her in order to recognize the one person who mattered to him the most for so long. Who forgave him for all the things that he had done, even when she had no reason to. His best friend. Lover. His wife.
{Little Man Being Erased | Part IV.}
Though he expected it, Murphy can't help but exhale in disbelief. "Carol?"
She looks no different than he remembers, though it's weird seeing her wearing that hospital gown. However, her hair is the same length, her eyes are the same, narrow shapes. She even wears the same look of anger and revulsion. It's no different than the way she has always looked at him, ever since Charlie died.
Heartbroken by that very look, Murphy still approaches her the only way he knows how to. He lifts his hand, gets a better look at her face. Hoping that maybe, maybe there will be some traces of the wife he once knew, the woman he'd fallen in love and had a son with, somewhere in there.
Part of him has always wanted this, has been waiting for this moment. He imagined what it must be like, to seize the opportunity of a second chance. A chance for change, and renewal. Sometimes, it's all he can ever think about. What their lives would be like if she had forgiven him back then, if she could ever find it in her to love him as much as he still loved her. How he was willing to sacrifice everything he had left in order to bring her (and his own demons) the peace of mind, knowing that their son's killer was no longer alive. It's what she wanted, wasn't it?
So why isn't she happy for him?
"Carol..." Murphy repeats her name again like a mantra. What should he feel right now? Relief? Dread? "I'm sor--"
But he was wrong, he's always been wrong. All that's left is the same distaste, her hatred written all over when she rolls her cheek away from his touch. Murphy stops in the doorway. She's backed herself into the hallway wall. Even then, her eyes might as well be darting needles with all the fierceness of a mountain lion.
"What did I tell you about asking me for forgiveness?" Carol snaps. On top of all that is similar, she even sounds the same, except for one thing. Her voices are piled on top of each other. Emotions of sadness and anguish, happiness and relief, anger and ire, all is rolled into one speech. Her spite vibrates in the blood coursing through Murphy's veins, when his wife sneers at him in disdain. "How dare you try to touch me, Murphy. How dare you come here! DON'T LOOK AT ME--"
Murphy went to make his first mistake, and that was trying to close the distance between him and Carol. Immediately, she whips her palm across his face. Once he was looking at Carol's seething despair -- now he is staring at the wall. His brows furrow then. He notices that the paint is old and chipping away. It was never like that before.
"What did you think was going to happen, Murphy? That I would accept you, take you back? Happy ending?! What's wrong with you--" More and more, Carol's rage evolves into something else. She begins swinging her fists at him, pounding his chest. It hurts a lot more than it should, though not because of anything that can physically assault him. "DID YOU FORGET? HE'S GONE BECAUSE OF YOU -- OUR SON IS GONE. YOU'VE DESTROYED MY LIFE, MURPHY, AND I CAN'T JUST...! I CAN'T!"
As Carol screams, smoke seeps from the wall paint. Only it does not smell like burning wood. No, it smells like flesh. Skin and bone and hair. A horrible smell. There's a moment in which he remembers what it's like. Standing on the shore, watching the officers fishing the canvas sack from the bottom of the lake. He's reminded of the dead, watery smell. How small and fragile the shape within the sack looked before the contents had even been revealed.
It goes on like this for some time with Carol, their home, and remembering. Every passing second is a moment relived. After awhile, her berating words start to take form. It's as though their meaning sharpens the spear. Either Carol's gotten bigger, towering, or Murphy is getting smaller. The only change in their surroundings is the way the walls crinkle and peel; fire and rainwater seep through the cracks of their home. Carol, on the other hand, is rising. Her hospital gown tears, looks older, more worn out. Her long, graying black hair thins. Dark eyes become even darker when black ink pours into them, tearing down her cheeks. Carol rants and shrieks, her words forming together into the same mantra of her disgust and hatred. Murphy can't help but stare. This boils her even more...
"WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?"
This time, when her hand sweeps across his face, Murphy does not roll with the punch. It's impossible, because this time, he's thrown. Hurled down the hallway, he hits the floor again with abrasive force. He drags, rolling into the main entrance.
Fire continues to burn all around them, in spite of the continual rainfall pouring from the exposed ceiling. Above, everything from the second and third floor is caving in, though miraculously missing Murphy and his wife in the wave. The crumbing debris reveals a burning sky and rapidly shifting clouds, as if time is speeding forwards or backwards or doesn't even mean jack shit anymore. He isn't given much time to muse over this, when Carol retrieves him with her claws, lifts Murphy's upper half up off the ground, and starts digging the claws from her other hand into his chest.
He yells as the four-pointed needles dig deeper. When he does this, it only angers his wife even further, when he sees her. Her inhuman, twisted face, mostly shrouded behind a tattered black veil. Murphy immediately recognizes what she's wearing.
It's the dress and veil that Carol wore to Charlie's funeral.
Suddenly, Murphy doesn't feel much like screaming any more than he was sure to puke. What does this matter to her, other than to fuel her hatred for him and dig her claws even deeper into his skin. The cloth of his green overshirt shreds, exposing his bloodied chest that blooms out and soaks into his clothes.
"DO YOU REALLY THINK THIS IS WHAT CHARLIE FELT? IS THIS THE PAIN YOU THINK HE WENT THROUGH, WHEN YOU WEREN'T THERE TO PROTECT HIM? WHERE WERE YOU WHEN HE NEEDED YOU, MURPHY? WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU WHEN THAT MONSTER HAD HIM! YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID TO OUR SON. YOU KNOW--"
"Yes! I know!" Murphy cried. He couldn't tell if these were tears on his face, or drops of water as the rain fell down harder. These halls were once their beautiful home, full of life and love. Now all that's left is pain, and broken people. "I tried, Carol, but I didn't know what else to do! I can't bring him back. I can't--"
The sharp daggers of his wife's fingernails drilled into Murphy's chest, puncturing his lungs. Despite one of them spearing through his heart, he could feel it, continuing to beat rapidly in his ribs.
By all counts, Murphy Pendleton should be dead. Impaled by his ex-wife's hands.
"I can't do this anymore..."
He's tired. He can't take this. He thought he could come back here, make amends with her, find peace and maybe move on. But it's too late for that.
It's too late for the both of them.
He's colder than he's ever been now. More so when his arm swings out to grab hold of something. Carol's eyes widen when Murphy brings his arm right back. The blade of a kitchen knife dives into her side. As a result, her fingers stab so far into him that her claws rip out of his back and pin him to the ground. Completely, entirely, and wholly at the mercy of her fury, unable to run.
Dying.
"It's alright. You don't forgive me, and I know you never will." He wrenches the knife out of Carol's side. He grips it tight, steeling himself to drive it in again. And again. And again. Teeth clenched. Screaming on the inside as he watches the life disappear from the monstrous visage that could have, should have once been his wife. "I'm sorry. It's alright. I can't fix it. I can't... I'm so sorry, it's alright..."
Maybe it's death talking now. After several attempts to drive the blade through her ribs and chest, Murphy makes the final blow. The knife cuts clean through the side of Carol's neck, just like butter.
{The Sinking Man}
Murphy remembers the gardens, the way the world shifted and changed like a horrible nightmare coming to claim him once more. He can still see the visions beyond the red windows, picture them in his head as he falls -- and ran into Townshend when he had.
After twists of hallways, the ship no longer bore any likeness to the Tranquility. No, it had been a hospital. And before long something had struck him from behind. The next thing he knew, something had been carting him down myriad corridors; the churning of rusty metal of the wheelchair still lingers around him. And Anne--
I love you.
Anne.
Once again he had done wrong by her. Couldn't even speak the words back when he had the chance, before they were separated, before the drugs had taken him and he couldn't think, see, or hear anything. But the words don't give up still ring true in his mind, and that is something he doesn't want to forget.
He's falling deeper into the water now, and he still remembers. It's impossible to forget that boy, Alex...
He tried to help. He wanted to, very badly. But Alex was gone. Dead, most likely, sunken into the ground where he can't ever see...
Then there was Carol.
Murphy tries not to think about Carol.
That prison continues to haunt him. In the passing of the days, weeks, months... maybe years. In that sliver of time, he had given up. He would have even let Silent Hill have its way. These bars might as well have been his home now. He ought to get used to the cramped corners of his confinement.
It's enough that he can't bring himself to regret the fact that he resorted to begging. To Adler, of all people.
But it got him out, didn't it? It got him...
Nepeta.
Oh, God. Help him. Nepeta is gone. He hurt her, so bad. It wasn't him, but he watched it happen. He let himself slip away while that thing had her. He lost control in that nowhere-place. For awhile, there was no finding his way back. Nothing.
It almost wound up doing the same to Anne... It wasn't him, but, again... he sees himself. In the waters, far off, he sees himself. The masked monster, staring back at him, with its arms held out and joints bent and twisted in ways that no human would be able to survive.
Then Murphy remembers how many times it had forced Anne to shoot him. How many bullets did he have in him? How many injuries?
There is no sound when he screams. Only the airy pitch that reverberates in the water, now black and red creeping from his wounds.
He twists, the maddening agony creeping in every corner of his panic. Blood drains from his injuries, but stops when he feels as though something inside of him is burning.
Suddenly, the blood stops flowing.
Murphy doesn't move.
In an instant, as easy and swift as that, he doesn't struggle anymore. He just can't.
It doesn't hurt so much now. The final moments are a bit peaceful, actually. For those brief fragments of time as he descends deeper into the vacuum of the water, down into that nothing, he realizes -- he is oddly thankful. This is the closest that Murphy Pendleton has ever felt to his son since before he died.