Lay down

Your sweet and weary head

Night is falling

You have come to journey's end

...

Silent Hill

Photographic Memory

...

...

Warmth... and cold... warm in some places and cold in others...

Feeling... like floating in water... without getting wet...

He sort of tried opening his eyes, flexing his fingers... but then he wondered...

What's the point?

So he let them still, eyelids closing. Deeper and deeper he fell into his own truth, until all there was, was inside...

...

"Henry! ... Henry! Henry Townshend!"

The boy was five, sitting on the swing in his family's backyard. It was a very large, suburban household, with three stories, a pool, and an large backyard. It was a lot of space for one little boy to play in, and often he was hard to find, being so quiet.

His mother was shouting for him from the door, looking for him across the yard, but he was only sitting on the swing on the back porch, only a few feet from her.

Henry's father approached, glancing outside. "Lost again?"

Sighing, she nodded. "Little guy can disappear like that. And he's so quiet, I can't get him to speak for anything."

"We need to teach him to answer when we call; if he doesn't, it could be really dangerous -"

"I know, Charlie; I'm trying. He's just so... I don't know, it's weird."

"He's a strange child. My brother did something like that when he was a kid, he refused to sleep at all and nobody could get him to. You could lie him down and he'd just lay there and -" But Charlie's wife, Gina, had stopped paying attention. Now, having turned about, she saw Henry on the swing.

"Henry!" Hands on her hips, she shouted his name again. "Henry Townshend, you answer when your mother calls you!"

The boy got off the swing and slowly walked to his mother. When he stood in front of her, she knelt down to look him in the face. "Don't scare me like that, okay honey?"

Henry nodded, cheeks flushing a bit. "Didn't mean to scare mommy."

The woman smiled. "That's okay sweetie." Standing, she put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't we have a little snack, huh? You hungry?"

Nodding eagerly, the boy rushed in towards the kitchen counter. Charlie chuckled as the boy climbed up on the stool.

"Excited now, huh?" He came to stand by his son, hand on his shoulder. "You know your mother and I worry about you, son. Don't do that again."

The boy nodded as his mother brought over a jar of cookies. "Charlie I already told him. Let's be gentle."

The husband held up his hands in defeat and scowled. "All right. Just thought we'd be a team here." But he tried to smile as his son happily examined the cookie jar's outside.

"What kind?" Mom asked.

Henry thought for a minute. His little hands clenched in fists, he set his elbows on the counter and rested his head on them. Both parents watched, not surprised at all by his quiet demeanor. For a few minutes, that was all he did.

Charlie leaned towards his wife. "You sure -" She shushed him, and the man frowned.

Then, the boy sat back up. "A sugar cookie please!"

A big smile came across his mother's face as she removed the cookie. "See?" She grinned at her husband. "Choosing the best cookie is very important. Requires a lot of thought." Charlie shrugged, seemingly unconvinced.

"Right."

Henry didn't mind what they were saying, eagerly taking the treat. He held it for a second, before beginning to take small bites out of the edge. His mother stared on, heart warm, arms on the counter. Mother and son's bond seemed ever stronger, as Father sighed and walked away.

"You know, if you go along with his weird habits, they'll only get worse as he gets older."

Mother simply kissed his forehead as she walked by, approaching the couch where her husband sat.

"Every child is a little strange. When I was a kid, I stole my family's underwear and wore it on my head." Charlie gave her a funny look, to which she only laughed. "He's a kid. By definition, they're special."

Grunting, he grabbed the remote and gave in. They both quieted when the TV was on. "Maybe he's autistic."

The wife simply rolled her eyes.

And all the while Henry sat on his stool, nibbling away on the edges of the cookie, happily content.

...

...

Henry was twelve, and the house was loud.

"Gina, we don't have that much!"

"It's school pictures, Charlie, how much can they be?"

"The package you're asking for is almost one hundred dollars!" Raised voices echoed back and forth through the living room; Henry was in the hall, tucked into the corner before the stairwell. Sitting with his knees under his chin, he listened as he always did.

His mother stormed by in his vision, leaving the kitchen to approach her husband. "Then what's all these things we have, huh? We live rather nicely to be so poor!"

"We're in DEBT!" Charlie screamed, and Henry felt his hands clench. He wanted to stand. Brow furrowed, the boy remained where he was.

"... I know that, Charlie. ... I know." He heard his mother sigh and collapse onto the couch. "... this bad?"

Charlie let out a heaving sigh too. "... yeah. This bad."

Their anger seemingly spent, Henry turned and began moving up the stairs on all fours. He pulled himself up and ran the last half, then turned left to his bedroom.

...

Days later and it happened again.

"It's groceries, Charlie! How can you live if you don't eat!"

"Two hundred dollars on groceries! Oh, and I'm sure that this twenty dollar book is quite edible!"

Henry, standing above them on the path that led from the stairwell to the bedrooms, watched his parents pace and argue.

"It was for your son! He wanted the book!"

"What book?"

It was currently on Henry's bedside table.

"Some coffee table picture book, you know. The ones with all the scenic stuff."

His father gawked, his face as red as fire. "What the hell does he want one of those for? Fucking useless, overly expensive pieces of shit!" Charlie got louder and louder as he spoke, kicking the doorframe. Gina stared, shocked, before her angry husband stormed out onto the back porch.

Henry stood, and entered his bedroom. There was the book; "Treasures of the World", with photographs of beautiful people and places from all over Earth. It was very nice. Hardback, with a gorgeous picture of Niagara Falls on the front. Sitting on his bed, Henry sat the book in his lap and opened it up.

He scanned the images of people walking through dry desert, of jungles in South America, temples in the East. He looked it all the way through, then stood, and took it out of his room with him.

Downstairs, he approached his mother. She was red eyed, but quiet. Henry approached and held the book out.

Gina glanced at her son, holding the coffee table book, his face calm and quiet as ever. She shook her head slowly.

"No, son. You keep that book." She smiled, and pressed it back against his chest. "That... that twenty dollars is the least of our concerns. And I don't think I'll be able to buy you much in the future, for a while, so you keep that." With one last smile, she turned and leaned against the counter, head down.

Henry looked at his book, then at his mother. Then he set the book on the counter, and wrapped his arms around her waist. Only then did she begin to cry.

...

...

At fourteen, the arguments were about anything. Money. Work. Politics. ... Him.

"Why doesn't he ever bring anybody over?" Charlie muttered, sitting at the counter with a cigarette. His wife was doing dishes, her hair in a loose bun.

"Who, Henry?" The woman shrugged. "He's a reserved child. I think he likes being alone."

"Nobody likes being alone that much." Charlie insisted. "He doesn't even talk about friends."

Sighing, Gina turned tired eyes towards him. "Not everyone makes friends that easy." She wiped her hands on a towel. "I can name two friends I had in school. I don't know either of them anymore, and I think I could have lived without them."

"You're just as weird as he is. I had tons of friends." Charlie insisted. "That's what school is about. Making friends, participating. He isn't involved at all, he should be."

Gina glanced over her husband's shoulder. "Henry?"

The boy, after a moment, walked out from the hallway. Smiling, his mother asked. "What is school about? For you?"

The boy glanced up timidly. "... Learning."

The smile grew broader as she turned back to Charlie. "Everyone's different, hon. He's an intellectual. He's quiet but thoughtful. He's got all these thoughts in his head and doesn't know how to let them out. But he's a good kid. I think he'll blossom when he's in college. People there are smarter, more driven about the future. He'll fit right in."

Charlie grunted, but he shut up.

...

Despite understanding her son's introverted nature, Henry's mother began to insist he spend more time with them and less time alone in his room. Henry decided he could do that; it wasn't so hard.

So it came to be that Henry was sitting with his mother and father, watching the news after dinner. His mother had a magazine, his father a newspaper, while he paid closer attention to the TV.

There was a report about someone being killed in Silent Hill. It had been very grotesque, the bodies carved up and hearts removed.

Charlie grabbed the remote and suddenly the TV was showing football.

"Wait!" Henry jumped, spinning to his father. "Please go back!"

"A boy your age doesn't need to see that." His father insisted.

Gina stood and manually changed the channel back at the TV. "It's fine Charlie; they won't actually show anything. He's just a curious boy."

Henry stared thankfully at his mother, and then became enraptured by the TV again.

Behind their son, Charlie glared. "You coddle him."

Gina glared back. "And you don't pay him any attention."

Having nothing to say, Charlie returned to his newspaper.

Their son remained transfixed by the strange report of the man who was killing ten people in ten days...

...

Henry liked to wander South Ashfield.

His high school was nearby, and school ended at 3, but his mother couldn't come for him until after work. There were no buses that went all the way from South Ashfield to his home in suburbia. So, he wandered the town.

He liked South Ashfield; it had nice, homely scenery. It wasn't perfect, and most of it was rather abused and somewhat dirty, but there was something warm about it. Henry reached into his pocket and removed a camera.

It was a nice, expensive one, and the best thing his mother had bought him since the book two years ago. His father didn't know about it, and his mother had paid entirely in cash, all from her paycheck. He felt really bad about it, but he loved the camera. His mother's only request was that he show her all the pictures he took.

Lifting it, Henry adjusted the settings, changed his stance a bit, and then - click. The shutter flashed. He wouldn't be able to see the picture until he went home, but he had a good feeling about that one. Henry looked over South Ashfield Apartments one more time, before moving on to a new focal point.

He crossed the street to go to the tall shopping center on the other side. There was a pet shop there, his favorite place, along with a bar and a sports center and some other things. Henry went to the pet shop immediately, an idea for an image in mind.

The store was small, but had tons of cute little animals and pets. Recently, in one of the books Henry had checked out from the library, he'd seen a whole series of photographs based on animals. He decided he wanted to try that.

He walked the aisles, looking at the cute, fuzzy things. There was an entire row of adorable kittens, which warmed his heart. That was what he wanted, he decided. Henry stepped back, examining the row, before lifting the camera.

A flash, and one of the older cats let out a fierce yowl.

"What are you doing!"

Henry jumped, spinning around, and in doing so he hit a cage and aggravated another animal. The store owner turned red, livid, and rushed out from behind the counter. Henry tried to stammer an apology, but as usual, words escaped him.

"Get out of here, you annoying brat! Get out! Go!" The man started beating at his legs with a broom as if he was some invading pest. Henry was still trying to apologize when he tripped backwards out of the doorway, losing hold of his precious camera.

But before he could hit the ground, an arm wrapped around his waist and gave him support. The shop owner turned and glared at this new person.

"And you! Both of you, get the hell out of here!" Then he turned and slammed the door shut.

Breathing harshly and red in embarrassment, Henry lowered his head.

"T - Thanks."

Whoever it was, they were tall, and somewhat bulky, though the big jacket probably exaggerated that. The man lifted his hand, revealing he held the camera. Henry's anxious hands reached out and grabbed it, hugging it to his chest. But he said no more.

The hand was still holding him, Henry realized as he finally stood on his own two feet. The stranger backed off a little.

"He can be very cruel. I would avoid him... and this place."

Henry somehow managed to find the strength to look up at him. The man had long, blonde hair, framing a handsome face. He was probably in his mid twenties, a good ten years older than Henry. The boy blushed and tried to speak.

"I - I'm sorry..."

The man just smiled. "It's okay." He turned to go.

Henry suddenly found he was running towards him, and stopped himself halfway there. "I -!" The man paused, and turned. Scarlet in the cheeks, he glanced back down. "... do you live... here?"

"I work here." Surprised, Henry looked up wide eyed, and pointed at the Pet Shop. The man laughed, a dark, deep chuckle that made Henry shiver.

"The Sports store." Oh, Henry knew the place. He nodded. After a pause, the man turned to go again, but once again Henry found his feet jumping ahead of him.

"Uh - sir?" The man chuckled at the title, which made Henry's blush deeper. "C - Can... I take your picture?"

A slow, steady smile spread across the man's face. He nodded. Henry couldn't believe his luck. Frantically he glanced around, looking for the perfect place for the shot. Then, he realized what he wanted, and felt nerves choke him.

"Uh... never mind."

But the blond shook his head. "You can take it."

Henry, holding his camera nervously as if it would support him, glanced down. "... the apartments. It would be perfect, but..." He didn't want to make this stranger walk all the way down the building and across the street.

To his surprise, the blond looked up, to South Ashfield Heights, and smiled. "You're right. It would be perfect."

Henry watched, mouth gaping, as the stranger walked down the hall to the elevator. The doors opened, and he stepped in. The man leant against the back wall and stared at Henry expectantly.

The boy froze. The doors to the elevator began to close, and then Henry finally awoke.

"Wait!"

The man stuck his arm in the way, so the doors began opening again. Henry stumbled through the opening, almost slamming his nose into the back wall. The man chuckled again - a sound Henry knew he loved.

They rode it down and left the shopping center, crossing the street. The man walked ahead of him, Henry racing to keep up with his long legs. But he was happy, a big grin on his face.

They came to the apartments, and Henry began to look them over. The stranger stood by, arms crossed, watching as Henry tried to find the perfect view. Then, it became obvious.

"H - Here, please." Henry gestured to a stop in front of the trees. There, the man would lean against the trunk, with the third floor row of apartments in view behind him. The man did as he was told, leaning on the trunk just so, crossing his arms like this, tilting his head right. Henry walked up and adjusted his pose manually, moving his feet a little, even bravely touching his chin and tilting his head a little more to the right. The man was patient and let him do as he pleased.

Then, the boy backed up, and lifted his camera. For a moment he just stared through the lens at this amazing image. If I'm ever famous... if I'm ever a professional... the boy thought as he finally let the picture take. This will be the best image I ever take.

Henry took two, then lowered his camera reluctantly. He stared for a moment, as the man remained still against the tree.

"I - I can bring you a copy, by the store, if you want." Henry stammered quietly. The man smirked.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" The boy flushed, but spoke louder.

"I can bring you a copy!"

The man stood up off the tree and shrugged, but said nothing else.

A car pulled up by the street, the window rolling down. Henry knew who it was even as he turned.

"Henry, ready to go?"

The boy turned back to the stranger. "That's my mom."

The man's eyes flashed. "Your... mother?"

Nodding, Henry lowered his camera. "Yeah. She's really nice. She bought me this." He gestured to the item in his hands.

The man glanced at it and nodded. "I'm glad."

The car horn honked. "Henry! We have to go!"

The boy began backing up. "Thanks again." he murmured, and the man smiled.

"Take care, Henry."

When he got in the car, his mother was pale.

"Be more careful, Henry!" The woman insisted. "There's a killer on the lose, you need to be careful around strangers!" She began driving them home. "That's it, I'm going to insist on leaving early. I've got a kid,and the world's more dangerous than ever, you can't be wandering the town during a time like this."

Henry listened quietly, staring at his camera. He knew the picture would be wonderful - but he had a feeling he wouldn't show his mother. It felt... too personal.

"That man... he didn't look like he'd bathed in a while. Probably homeless and harmless, but a mother worries. Poor fellow." Her brow furrowed, and she sighed.

It was then Henry realized he'd never told the stranger his name.

...

That night, Henry looked through the finished photos of all the pictures he'd taken that day, and smiled when he came to the last one.

There was the stranger, by South Ashfield Apartments. Henry knew this one was going into his photo book. Something about it felt - just amazing. Henry stared for another moment at the rugged face, the tall form, the long blond hair. The burning green eyes. He flushed and tucked the pictures back with the rest in his drawer.

"Henry, dinner time."

The boy stood and headed back out into the living room. As he did, someone rushed by him, bumping hard into his shoulder. Henry turned to see his father storm down the hall and out the front door. He slammed it so hard the walls shook.

Walking towards the kitchen, Henry saw dinner. It was on the table, set with utensils and dishes and candle light. Mom sat at one end, head in her hands.

"Mom?"

The woman didn't move, didn't look up. Henry approached, setting his hands on the back of his chair.

"Eat... eat your dinner, sweetheart."

Slowly, he pulled the chair out and sat in its cold embrace. The food felt tasteless in his mouth: that was strange. His mother's cooking was always warm, filling. This was... sad.

Gina never looked up, never touched her food. Henry ate in silence.

...

The shopping center was attacked.

Henry felt his heart stop when he heard the news: The pet shop owner and all his animals, gunned down. The man in the sports store, beaten to death with a golf club. The watch maker and the bar tender, both of them gone. All in the course of one night.

Blood flowing cold in his veins, Henry could only think of one thing.

"That man..." He whispered. Hurriedly he pulled the picture from the drawer. What if he had been working that night? Had he been attacked, or hurt? The news said only those four were killed... but Henry couldn't help but worry.

Nervous, Henry reached into the drawer and drew out his camera. Maybe that would calm him. Henry looked out the window at the darkening sky as twilight descended. He'd never tried pictures at night before.

The boy stood, put the blond man's picture back, and left the room with his camera. His heart had lifted a little, but he still felt horribly for all those people, even the mean pet shop man. They were dead... gone, just like that, and he'd been there only a few days ago...

Lost in his thoughts, Henry didn't notice someone else was in the room when he crossed to the back door.

"Henry."

The boy froze. That voice... a voice quiet and tight, promising unreleased anger. Henry turned slowly to face his father, who sat with his arms on his knees on the couch.

"Henry... what's in your hands?"

The boy felt his palms grow sweaty. His mouth went dry.

"Answer me when I speak to you, boy!"

Henry jumped, fumbling with the camera. "I - It's a cam - camera, s - sir."

"A camera?" The man muttered. He held his hand out. Henry almost wanted to say no, to run and never look back. Instead, fearful, trembling hands reached out and handed it to him. Charlie snatched it, looking it over, brow furrowed deeply.

"... how fucking expensive was this thing?" The man's face was already turning a nasty shade of blotchy red. Henry was shivering.

"... I - I don't know."

His father's burning eyes looked up at him. "Did you steal it?"

"No!" Shaking his head fiercely, Henry resisted the urge to reach out and save his precious camera. "I didn't!"

"Then how'd you get it?"

"... it was a g - gift."

"Gift?" The man stood, towering above his shorter, rail thin son.

"I bought it."

Both of them spun, turning to see Gina standing in the hallway. Henry almost gasped, fear rising in his chest; but his mother simply walked into the room, shoulders tight, but her gaze was strong.

"You?" Charlie's lip curled. "You spent how much fucking money on this piece of shit!" Charlie lifted it and Henry felt his heart stop.

"No!" He grabbed his father's arm, but the man was strong and ripped his arm away. A hand came crashing against Henry's face and he tumbled onto the sofa.

"HENRY!"

Gina was stopped by her husband turning his angry glare on her. "It's time you stopped babying him! He's hardly a man! Spends all his time alone, messing with this trash!" He gestured to the camera. "The brat's gonna grow up to be a freak like that guy running around killing people, or one of those Columbine types!"

Sobs welled up in the woman's throat as she shook her head wildly, no no no. "H - He's a good boy."

Henry's cheek was burning as he tried to stand. "D - Dad... please..."

"Shut up!"

The boy flinched, and remained on the floor. His father turned, grimacing down on the trembling child.

"It's time you stopped messing around and got yourself straight."

Then, he turned and walked out the door. Gina raced to her son.

"Oh, god, Henry, did he hurt you?" Grasping his shoulders she ran fearful eyes over him, as Henry shook his head.

"I - I'm fine." He burned only slightly from pain but mostly from anger and embarrassment.

The front door slammed, and Charlie stormed back in, right up the staircase, across the bridge above, to the bedroom. That door slammed shut, and both mother and child released fearful, choking breaths. Henry's mother pulled him to her chest tight, sucking in air.

"Oh god... Henry..."

The camera was gone.

...

Henry was fifteen, and school was tolerable.

He'd never really had friends in class, though most people liked him. As resident smart kid, willing to help explain everything in a patient and quiet manner, others usually came to him for help. They liked him because he was willing to listen, but they thought he was strange since he hardly spoke back. But they liked him; the class genius, the class recluse.

"Hey, Henry." A girl waved as she walked by. Henry glanced up, and nodded, but she was gone by then and probably hadn't seen his greeting. He looked back down.

Girls thought he was shy and they liked that, the vulnerable brunet. Henry tried to avoid them; girls made him uncomfortable. They were usually nice, and smiling, sweet and well meaning.

They reminded him of his mother.

Class was about to begin, and most of the students were pouring in. Henry had already been there, having spent lunch with the teacher, reading. It was easier to read in the classroom than the cafeteria, and his teacher didn't mind. Most of his teachers either pitied him, or emphasized with him. A lot of them had been just like him in school.

Henry frowned, putting his lunch away, as he realized he was probably more like his teachers than his fellows.

At the head of the class a teen walked in who made Henry glance back up. He was sort of tall, with blond hair so long it was pulled into a pony tail. He wasn't... bad looking. The eyes were a dull brown, hardly captivating, but there was something about him that made Henry pause.

He wore a loose gym shirt and baggy blue jeans, very unlike that man from a year ago. But, if Henry squinted, maybe the slightly tall form with long blond hair would resemble that man... maybe.

Blushing, Henry glanced back down as this student, who he'd never seen before, entered the room.

The teacher explained his presence as soon as class began.

"We have a new student. Everyone, let's welcome Malcolm Jennings..."

Malcolm. The name doesn't fit, Henry thought with a frown, glancing at the boy at the front. He didn't listen to the rest, which was why he only realized Malcolm's new seat when the boy sat beside him.

Color rushed up his face. Just great, Henry frowned. It was going to be a long day.

...

Mom had a bruise the size of a baseball on the side of her arm. Henry tried to ignore it, he tried pretending it wasn't there. The boy breathed a sigh of relief when she put on a jacket that hid the mark.

Shame burned him from deep within, and Henry hung his head.

It's all... all because of me...

...

A new day, a new school project. Henry dreaded projects, because they usually involved working with other people. That was usually difficult since speech barriers couldn't be overcome.

Today, the groups were assigned: work with the person next to you. Henry felt chills run up his spine, as Malcolm turned to him slightly.

"Guess that's you and me, buddy," The way he turned, blond hair fell over his eyes just slightly, and around his cheek, just the way they had in that picture...

Henry glanced down at the desk and nodded.

...

Malcolm and Henry ended up working as partners for many more projects. The first one had gone very well; Henry had hardly said a word, but with visual cues the two managed. Malcolm seemed unbothered by his quiet demeanor, but he spoke a lot. As usual, Henry listened.

By the time they were working together for the fifth time on a lab report, Henry realized something about himself that he had never brought into words before, not even in his own mind.

But as soon as he thought it, he tossed it away, locked it out, and tried to get his frightfully beating heart to calm down.

...

Henry stared at the blond man's picture and wondered if he was alive.

Downstairs, his father was yelling. Mom shouted something back, and the shouts turned to screams. In the morning, he would find his father with scratches on his cheek, and his mother seemed more downtrodden than usual.

His birthday was in a week.

...

Henry was sixteen, and Malcolm was his only true friend.

"Good to see you, Malcolm." Henry's father shook his hand as the boy came inside. They got to talking near the door. Henry grinned at the sight of the other boy, glad his father approved.

His mother approached behind him and squeezed his hand. "He seems like a good boy." She smiled. "I'm sure your father doesn't like the long hair, but I think it's just a statement. Kids your age... always have to be different." Mom turned back around and entered the kitchen, as Henry smiled and approached his friend.

"Oh, Henry." Charlie smiled, then turned to Malcolm. "I'll let you kids go. Have fun." Then he turned to Henry and nodded, and the boy felt some of the tightness in his chest release.

Maybe... maybe he approves?

...

On his seventeenth birthday, Henry was given his first kiss.

He and Malcolm were upstairs, playing video games. Their little characters crashed their cars on the screen as the boys let go of the controllers, and held each other instead. It was chaste and soft, and Henry felt bubbling joy in his chest.

Malcolm grinned as the younger boy shyly glanced down.

"That was... nice." Henry nodded, then glanced back up. He moved towards the other's lips, but Malcolm put a finger on his chin. "Not yet. Not until you tell me... something. Anything."

Henry, mouth dry and lips sore, tried thinking of something. "Like what?"

"Something about yourself. I want you to talk to me for a change."

An image flashed in Henry's mind.

"I..."

"I first paid attention to you because you... y - you reminded me of someone. Someone I used to know."

"Hm?" Malcolm blinked. "Somebody you... l~iked?" He grinned at the blush on Henry's face.

"S - Shut -"

He was silenced with a kiss.

...

Later that night, after Malcolm had left, Henry reentered his room to find a present on his bed.

Shock filled him as he approached it nervously. His parents had already given him something - a very, very cheap car that probably pained his father to buy. Malcolm didn't have much money, his parents were rather poor. But maybe the boy had found him something?

Curiosity filled him as Henry sat on the bed and picked up the present, wrapped in newspaper. It was about the size of a basketball, with a note clumsily taped to the top. The decoration certainly seemed like something Malcolm would do.

He opened the note... was that blood?

Don't worry. Only seven more.

Confused, Henry looked over the front and back. Nothing. Only a few specks of blood and those words. The boy huffed and set it aside, taking the newspaper off the present.

Inside the box was one of the nicest cameras Henry had ever seen - nicer than the one he'd had years ago, nicer than anything he could ever afford. Shock and awe filled him as he realized Malcolm could never have done this; Malcolm didn't even know he ... used to like taking pictures. But who? Mom couldn't have spent that much money...

Henry stared at it in awe and wonderment, unsure of whether to throw it away like it was on fire, or clutch it protectively to his chest.

That night, the news reported the death of Peter Walls.

...

With his new car and new camera, his newfound happiness and freedom, Henry had found a pleasant way to spend his time.

Often, he and Malcolm would drive around town together, talking some, taking pictures, and sharing a few intimate touches here and there. Henry was still very shy, hard to talk to or to touch. But Malcolm was nice about it, and never went too far.

They spent weeks like that - but peace for Henry never lasted long. In truth, it was all his fault. He should've known better. But he was deliriously happy, so when Malcolm walked him from the car to his house and gave him a warm kiss goodnight, he hardly thought anything of it.

Until the scream.

Angry and rushing through the air, Henry heard the shouting and broke away, realizing what he'd done.

Horror filled his being. Looking up at Malcolm, Henry dryly whispered. "Dad!"

Charlie burst out the front door just then, lunging at Henry, who frightfully ducked away. Malcolm stared in shock and horror as the boy raced from his enraged father, running as hell itself was on his heels.

"HENRY!"

His mother raced out the doorway, her voice shrill and fearful, watching as her husband chased her son down, grabbing him by the neck and dragging him back to the house.

"Should've fucking known..." Charlie murmured dangerously. "Should've... fucking... known!" As he passed Malcolm, who stood staring in horror, his eyes flashed like fire.

"Get out of here. And never. come. back."

Malcolm turned tail and ran.

"Charlie, he's just a kid! Charlie -!"

The man threw his son into the hallway, slamming the front door shut. "SHUT UP!" The voice rang out, startling Gina as she fell back against the wall. "This is your fault. Your babying, treating him like a girl! You think my father would've let me run around with that long haired freak! Or avoid everyone human to read or draw or whatever the fuck he does!" Snarling, Charlie turned on his son, who had begun to crawl away, and snatched him back up. Henry was dragged over the tile, through the house, his mother chasing behind.

"Charlie! Charlie! Charlie, what are you doing, CHARLIE!"

Charlie threw him forward and Henry felt his head crack against something hard like brick. Then, the man leaned down. The bag around his shoulder was torn off, and the boy felt something worse than dread slither through him.

His father stared into the unzipped bag, eyes wide with hate.

"... what's this?"

"I - I -"

"What. THE FUCK. Is this!"

Charlie ripped the camera from the bag and turned his vengeance on his wife. "YOU!"

The woman jumped, tears streaming down her face. "Cha - Charlie -"

The man crossed the room in two heartbeats and brought the camera down hard on his wife's face.

Henry shot up. "MOTHER!"

"SHUT UP!" Charlie screeched, pulling his sobbing wife, whose forehead was drenched in blood, back up by her hair. "BOTH OF YOU! Fucking idiots, stupid fucking - !"

The man never finished his sentence as Henry ran screaming at his back.

Wrapping his thin arms around the taller man's throat, Henry squeezed and squeezed as best he could. A startled choking sound came from his father, but it wasn't long before the man turned and slammed Henry against the fireplace. The boy let out a tired groan and slumped to the floor.

He opened his eyes just in time to see the camera collide with his nose.

Blood spurted across the room, all over his clothes, as agonizing pain erupted in the center of his face. Henry screamed and clutched his nose as the camera came back down on the back of his face.

More pain exploding in his head as he crumpled to the floor, dizzy and shaking in fear. More screaming from both mother and father filled the room as Henry's mother stood.

"LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

The frail woman was nothing to this enraged giant, who thrashed and sent her flying into the coffee table. Slowly, Henry sat up, holding his throbbing, bleeding head, and watched in horror as his helpless mother was beaten by his father's fists.

"DAD! STOP!"

Henry stood again, but this time, his father was ready. Charlie got up and grabbed Henry by the collar and lifted him into the air.

"It's time I took over raising you, you little bastard. Your mother has ruined you enough." Henry gasped in horror as his father's fist was raised.

Blow after blow rained down on him, first his face; then his father dropped him and kicked his side multiple times. The boy curled up and clutched his head, crying into his elbow, as his mother watched horrified from the couch, only able to see with one eye.

Then, suddenly, it stopped.

Henry glanced up, hardly able to see from blood loss and his swollen face, but he saw his father stumble. The larger man was suddenly groaning, and grasping at his chest.

Then, the man fell to the left, and started twitching. His head hit the floor hard, and Henry watched as he shook, bubbles falling out of his mouth. Horrified, Henry tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't support him.

His mother leapt from the couch and ran at the phone.

...

...

The hospital took the whole Townshend family in that night.

His father was cuffed to his bed. Mother was in tears the whole time, trying to insist it wasn't his fault, he wasn't like this, something was wrong. And Henry said nothing.

They asked questions. He would nod, or shrug, or look away.

His legs were bruised all up and down, his brow and cheeks swollen. A big gash was stitched up on the back of his head, and his chest was so sore it hurt to move. He refused to see anyone - when the nurses told him a friend from school wanted to see him, Henry simply glanced away.

Malcolm came in with a bouquet of flowers.

Henry looked up and spoke for the first time since the incident. "What am I... a girl?"

Malcolm, eyes wide as if he'd been the one beaten, broken, and defeated, left the flowers by his bedside and didn't come back.

Henry remained in the hospital for many weeks, longer than his mother, but less than his father. His father hadn't woken up since that day and no one could really explain why. Henry didn't care.

His mother sat beside him, bandages wrapped all around her head, her hands. Black circles lined her eyes, and more than that, she seemed so dull.

"I..." She glanced away. The two sat in silence, unable to say anything.

Then his mother left too.

After he and his mother went back home, life was quiet. The two never spoke to each other - for the most part, they lived as if the other did not exist. Henry tried not to look at her, to see the scars the beating had left. Every time he did, shame scalded his heart, and tears burned his eyes.

The camera was still usable, somehow, but blood stained it on all sides. One day, it disappeared, and the next day it was clean. Henry had a feeling his mother was trying to apologize.

She doesn't need to, he thought glumly, holding the thing in his hands.

That night, he got out his suitcase. He packed some clothes, some bathroom essentials, tooth brush and tooth paste. He got a crate out of the garage and put a few boxes of food, crackers, popcorn, a box of soda. A cooler filled with perishables went into his trunk. In a separate bag he put his camera and his favorite books. All his favorite pictures he'd taken were stuffed into a box, which he taped shut, and put in the bag. The one of the blond was on top.

The boy sprayed his car with cleaner before putting the rest of his luggage in. It still smelled of teenage romance and broken dreams.

Then, he ate his microwave dinner, wrote a short and curt note, and turned to go.

His mother sat on the stairs.

They both stared quietly at the floor. Henry waited; waited for the tears to come, the begging, the motherly care and affection. But as he waited he remembered the few times in his life she had really shown him affection. And he realized she probably loved her abuser more than she loved him.

Henry walked out of his childhood home and no one tried to stop him.

...

His high school career ended before twelfth grade even began. Henry never went back; with all his belongings in his beat up car, he drove out of Ashfield, into the night.

The boy laughed darkly as he realized he hardly knew where he was going, and he didn't care. The important part was the "going".

On and on he drove for about a day, until he came to a new town, a new place he'd never been to. The boy drove around Toluca Lake towards his destination, almost nervous about what he might find.

Silent Hill.

It was a quaint place, a tourist town. Everyone kept to themselves, and no one asked why the tall, gangly boy who lived in his car was taking pictures of the scenery and architecture.

That was all Henry did; to forget it all, he focused on the images. He searched day and night for beautiful things, beautiful scenes. The Balkan Church. The Lighthouse. The Amusement park, the Lakeview Hotel, Toluca Lake itself. For days Henry lived off what little he had in his trunk and took pictures of the town.

Eventually people began to notice him (what a change, Henry thought), and, since it was a tourist trap, began to think he was a professional photographer. They thought it was his job to take pictures for the tourists. People started asking him for photos.

So he started giving.

Henry managed to make it by in the town by taking pictures of tourists and big tourist sites. In a way he became part of the lore; the quiet, poor young man with an eye for beauty. People loved the poetic side of it.

Henry loved being able to buy food.

For perhaps two years he lived in Silent Hill as a photographer, and even managed to set a little money aside. There was so much that he feared it being stolen, so, despite his nerves, he went to a bank.

What would happen he wondered. Was he considered a run away? Would someone come take him back home?

"Your name, son?" The teller asked.

"Henry Townshend."

He was able to set up an account and deposit some money, no problem. Henry smiled darkly as he realized his mother had never reported him missing.

...

Two years later Henry moved out of Silent Hill and decided to go back home. Back to Ashfield. He looked his mother up and checked on his old home: but the home was abandoned and his mother's cell number had changed. Mom had a sister he could call, but he didn't know her name or number.

Henry focused on getting himself situated.

An apartment was first and foremost, he realized, but he didn't know where to live. He tried remembering all those places he'd traveled to during his youth. What was his favorite? And, also important, what wouldn't be too expensive?

Sighing, Henry realized he didn't really care. A home... home implied safety and peace. He could never find that anywhere.

The next few years of his life were spent wandering aimlessly, an exile of life. He would live in an apartment for perhaps a few months, then move to a different one, sometimes across the street, sometimes across town. Being a talented photographer seemed to get him jobs, despite his lack of even a high school diploma, and the money was enough to live. Once a month he left for groceries, and bought enough to last him the next three weeks.

The rest of his time would be spent in his apartment, whichever one it currently was. Writing, reading, sometimes drawing... using the internet, watching TV and movies, listening to music... playing video games... staring outside. Staring at the wall. Listening to neighbors nearby.

Then, someone in the hall would smile or nod at him. Maybe a guy about his age would say hello and try to talk to him. A girl might shyly look up and give a tantalizing smile.

And he would move.

For a while he tried to find his family, find out what happened to his parents. It didn't take long for him to figure out that his father had died in the hospital. As for his mother... he eventually gave up trying.

Six years of his life were eaten up by bitter loneliness and fear. Fear of the blow that never came. Fear of the love that he didn't deserve. Six years dreaming of the night he watched his mother bleed, helpless on the couch, dreaming of his father kneeling over him, unable to fight back. Always helpless.

Henry Townshend became almost a mute, speaking only polite things like "Hello", "Thank you", and "good bye". In those years his voice became lower, darker.

He finally became a bit bigger. The man looked in the mirror and wondered why he couldn't have fleshed out before the attack. Maybe things would be different; his mother would be safe, and he might be at home. A college student... or something.

Henry was alone.

...

Six years, and Henry found himself ready to move again. He was looking through the ads when something caught his eye. It was cheap, it was small, and the building housing it was familiar.

"South Ashfield Heights..." Henry whispered. Vaguely he remembered the beautiful structure, surrounded by a peaceful street. Something about it had made him calm. Distant memories... he remembered taking some good pictures there, but he hadn't looked at the pictures in the box in ten years. The box hadn't been opened since the day he'd packed it.

It was time to move.

...

"I'll take it."

He hadn't been standing in Room 302 for half a minute before he agreed to sign the lease. Something about it called to Henry, called to part of him that had been lonely and broken for a long time. Frank, the super, seemed surprised, but also somewhat relieved. By the end of the week, Henry was moved in and living peacefully in his new home.

The other tenants ignored him mostly. He found the little attention they did give him - a nod of the head or a smile - didn't set him off the way it used to. Instead of flinching away, he would simply return the nod, and walk off.

Then, he would enter Room 302 and slide down to the ground, clutching his knees.

He was still afraid.

...

Sixth months had been spent at South Ashfield, and Henry didn't feel like moving. For once, he found his feet planted firmly in the ground.

It was then the peace shattered.

After a day spent taking pictures for work, Henry walked home. The location hadn't been far: an apartment nearby, a party of some sort. Tomorrow he would bring the images to the family, and get the payment. As he walked, someone caught sight of him. They stared for a moment. Henry suddenly felt nervous as he heard hurried footsteps behind him.

"Henry. Henry Townshend?"

The man slid to a halt and wondered who the hell could recognize him. Turning, he felt his heart freeze.

"Malcolm."

The blond grinned at him, excited. "Hey! It's been so long! You... you look great." The man looked him over. Malcolm, on the other hand, looked a bit worse for the wear. Henry supposed he either left high school or graduated, and then got a job, a cheap apartment, and lived his life focused on work and weed.

At least, he smelled that way. His clothes were tattered and dirty too, and he looked like he needed a bath. Though, the stringy, long blond hair reminded him of someone...

Henry turned and left the encounter feeling extremely unbalanced.

...

Malcolm wouldn't leave him alone. He tried getting into the apartment complex to see him, but thankfully the super knew to keep him away. Even the loud tenant across from him seemed to help. Malcolm had once run from the place, being chased by the angrily yelling Braintree. But, as much as Richard had helped him, Henry couldn't help but feel nervous around him. Angry, tall men had that affect on him.

But Malcolm was determined, and eventually, made contact again. Henry had gone downstairs, expecting to find a package waiting for him. What he found was Malcolm standing by said package.

The blond turned and smiled gently at him. "Hey."

Henry froze. He thought of running away again, but he knew... the man wouldn't stop until Henry stopped him.

"Hello."

The man approached, knelt and got his package, and stood to go. "Henry..."

The sad tone made him pause. A sigh. "I'm sorry. For everything. I just..."

Turning, the brunet felt like glaring, but instead stared on tiredly. Malcolm threw his hands up.

"What was I supposed to do?"

Henry felt like cold steel had stabbed his heart. "Anything."

Sputtering, Malcolm grabbed at his long hair. "What? The guy looked like he was about to kill me, I was scared! I was a kid!"

"... so was I."

And with that, Henry left.

...

That night, Henry made the fatal mistake of leaving his apartment. It was an innocent thing; he had opened his windows for some night air and, foolishly lost in thought, his hands had loosened and the book he was reading had tumbled out into the night. He saw it fall into a bush at the bottom, and rushed out to get it.

Out the front door he went, and he quickly dove into his bushes, looking for his book. Behind him, he heard a group of young men walking by, probably heading home after a party or heading to a club or something. Henry ignored them until he heard his name.

"Oh heeey... Hennry!"

The man stumbled, standing back up to face the speaker. Malcolm was walking towards him, leaving a large group of friends.

"You guys go on, I'll - I'll be there!" The man was hardly walking, his face colored red. Henry didn't even need to see the beer bottle in his hands to know Malcolm had been drinking.

He didn't hesitate a moment to run past the man, into the building, and up the stairs. The noise he made was thunderous - and he knew Richard would complain tomorrow - but at that moment he didn't care. He had to get away, had to leave.

But he heard the pounding of feet behind him and knew it wasn't over. Fear squeezed his heart as he fumbled with the door to his hallway. Finally he got through, rushing down to his apartment and struggling with the key.

Why am I so afraid that I lock my apartment every time I leave! The man cursed inwardly, his breathing intensifying.

Just as he got the key in the lock and turned, someone ran into his back heavily, shoving him against the door. Their combined weight pushed them both through, falling to the floor. Hands were all over him, legs keeping him down even as he struggled and kicked -

"Malcolm, MALCOLM!"

"Thass right, screaaam my name... Oh, Henry..." Malcolm wrapped his arms around him tighter, getting bolder, even as Henry tried elbowing him in the throat.

But Malcolm was a good bit taller than him, and stronger, and no matter how he struggled his situation only grew more dire. The man felt tears sting his eyes as his shirt was pushed up, as unwanted touches touched him everywhere, and he began screaming.

A door in the hall slammed open so hard it probably woke everyone in the block. "GET OFF HIM YOU FUCKER!"

The weight on his back disappeared and Henry let out a desperate gasp for air. Richard pulled Malcolm to his feet, then sent him reeling to the ground with a heavy punch. Henry ignored all that as his tears hit the carpet. Slowly, the man pulled his knees up and began to sit up.

He could hear the beating outside...

"Stupid fucker! I told you to stay away from here! To stay away from him!" He heard the blows landing, the blood curdling groans, and the man spun around.

"D - Don't!" Henry screamed, putting his hands on Richard's arms. The livid man turned his angry gaze on Henry. The burning, fierce eyes... the enraged male face...

"What the hell! What, you telling me that was consensual rape!"

"Richard, calm down!"

The voice of a woman entered the room, and Henry felt his heart stop. Eileen Galvin stepped out in a robe, looking at the scene, and turned to Richard. The soft, kind face...

"You're not a cop, put the guy down!" She, meanwhile, ran back into her room for a cell phone.

"The bastard had this guy crying on the floor!"

The screaming voices were different... the angry man, the innocent woman... the images were different, but it brought it all back; all the things Henry tried to leave behind each time he moved, but he never could. The distant, muffled dreams and thoughts of a home that hardly felt like one... the home that had tumbled like a house of cards as the first blow had fallen on his face.

Malcolm looked up through blood covered eyes and smiled. "I - I knew you loved me."

The brunet, who was holding his head as if in pain, looked down on Malcolm and scowled. "... I did. Not anymore."

He went into his apartment.

"Hey, what, you just going to leave the police to us!" Richard shouted. "Ungrateful bastard -!"

"Richard, the guy's probably traumatized, leave him alone!"

But Richard was still approaching the apartment, about to enter, and Henry felt his chest seize.

"Get out here, kid -"

The door to the apartment slammed shut in his face.

Henry stared at the door for a minute. He felt what was left of his heart shred into tiny, useless pieces as he slid to the ground. Sobs wracked his dry throat as his face contorted in pain. The man felt like a boy again, a helpless boy, unable to protect his mother from the bastard who was supposed to love her. He was still that failure of a boy who couldn't save anyone, much less himself.

Grasping at his hair and pulling hard, Henry curled up into a ball. He didn't open the door when the police knocked. When Frank used his keys to open it and they came in anyway, Henry screamed. He screamed and wouldn't stop. They tried to pick him up, take him to the hospital, but he fought, and ran to the end of the hall. Henry threw himself into his room, and shut the door, holding it shut with his body.

Eventually, they left, with promises of returning to check on him. Malcolm went with them.

"Henry?"

The man's stomach twisted. Eileen.

"Henry, are you all right? Do you need someone to talk to?"

"... I'm fine."

"... Okay. I'm right next door if you need me. Just give me a call. I left my cell number on your counter, okay?"

Her answer was silence. She left, talking to Braintree across the hall for a minute, until finally the voices ended.

Henry Townshend did not move apartments again. Instead, he went into Room 302 and never came out. The wonders of the internet allowed him to order whatever he needed, even food. The super had the delivery men bring it up the stairs to his door, or if they didn't, he or Eileen would. Henry would open the door just enough, bring it in, and lock it again.

Sometimes he heard Eileen or Richard or Frank talking about him in the hall. He didn't listen.

The man didn't write much anymore. Every time he tried, the muse dried up. Drawing had also ended, leaving him with reading and TV. He stopped leaving for pictures; but his old photos of Silent Hill were selling well enough on the internet, now that people were so taken in by the lore of the town. He had enough to get by.

The next few months he spent on time wasting things: internet surfing, reading and rereading books, staring at the wall and trying not to remember. After that, he had to find things to do, new projects, new ideas. He had to fill his mind with something, or else those thoughts of his would rise up.

... He's got all these thoughts in his head and doesn't know how to let them out...

The voice from the past burned him and he winced, clutching his chest like his heart truly hurt. He had to read. Had to get it out. He had to think - think about anything other than that. Henry spent a year and a half wasting away in the darkness, trying to occupy himself with something without ever leaving the safety of home.

Then the locks came.

...

"... Henry."

The brunet stirred slightly, flexing weak, trembling fingers.

"Henry."

The voice was familiar, and close enough to brush across his face, but still felt miles away. Henry felt himself drifting, falling back into the myriad of painful memories that kept him trapped. Someone shook his shoulders gently.

"No. You're not going back there; it's time to wake up."

He didn't want to wake up... facing the memories was bad enough, but facing reality? That was a blow he could not take, the final nail in the coffin. A hand brushed against his face, rubbing sweat away, and Henry felt himself being picked up.

For a moment, he drifted back into one last, lingering memory...

...

Henry no longer knew how long the locks had been on his door, nor did he have any real idea how much blood he'd lost. It felt like he should be empty by now, rivulets of the red liquid pouring from the bullet wound in his leg. It was the worst blow he'd been dealt yet, a gift from Walter Sullivan. But that wasn't what had Henry trembling like a frightened child.

Henry had just been faced with Richard Braintree's ghost.

He had been a good enough man; unable to control his anger, but... not bad. At least that was what Henry tried telling himself, but he couldn't help the bubbling, cold fear inside him. Braintree frightened him, perhaps more than Walter ever did.

Walter was calm; he was never angry. Yes, he was tall and menacing, cruel and calculating... but he wasn't a red faced, grimacing monster. He wasn't loud and snarling, face contorted in rage as he cruelly grabbed at helpless victims.

And while Braintree's ghost was not that way either, Henry remembered what the man had been like in life... and facing him in any form scared him shitless.

The Receiver glanced down at the leg wound and tried to stay calm. A first aid kit was in the chest; he needed to get that bullet out. Without his legs he would really be helpless, and Henry was very tired of that.

He was tired of being hurt, of being tormented by those with strength. Henry was sick of being wounded, and of watching Eileen being wounded. He had to save her... he couldn't fail Eileen.

I failed mom... Henry thought weakly, crawling to the chest. I can't... can't let them hurt Eileen.

Seeing the kind heart woman on the floor, in a pool of her own blood, knowing that Walter Sullivan had beaten her... rage and sadness had fought over his quivering heart.

But Henry didn't hate Walter. There was a healthy bit of fear, and anger, but not hate.

Because, unlike Richard Braintree, whose ghost attacked out of mindless lack of control, Walter was a victim too. He had been beaten and broken like Henry, and in his own way, was finally fighting back. And Henry was going to do just the same thing.

We're alike... we're so much alike it's sick... Henry thought of the man with long, blond hair, and remembering loving someone like that once. A man whose name he'd never known, someone he'd known for just a day, before he faded into memory. I must have a thing for blonds...

The rambling thoughts faded as Henry began digging into the chest for a health kit. He moved other things aside: a broken golf club, a child's doll, some keys, and an old, dusty box, kept closed by tape, that looked like it hadn't been opened in a long time...

...

... ... ...

... Henry awoke to see the ceiling fan running.

For a minute he was back in the nightmare, trapped in an endless circle of traveling through hell. But then he blinked, and realized everything looked... different. Even the air felt different, less thick and ominous. Warm and comforting, like it had before the hauntings.

Slowly the man sat up, his body burning from multiple wounds. His tired, red eyes looked down as everything came back to him: the Sacraments were complete. He had made his attempt to save everyone, Walter Sullivan included, and had died.

And now... here he was. Back in his apartment.

His wounds were bandaged up rather well; the numbers on his chest were covered in little band aids, like a child had fixed his wounds. The movements were slow going, but he managed to pull himself up out of bed, and with a hand on the wall, make it to the door.

The apartment looked nicer than it ever had. All the holes and nastiness were gone and replaced by niceties that hadn't even been there before the dark events. New paint, new furniture, new... everything.

Did... Did it work? Did I do it? Henry almost smiled, but then winced as one of his wounds burned.

He kept walking, and felt his heart rise more and more with each step. There, sleeping on the couch, was Eileen, with little Walter Sullivan sleeping on the other end, behind her legs. Both seemed more peaceful than they'd ever been. A little bubbling laugh escaped Henry's throat as he looked around.

Everything looked wonderful, and the apartment felt inviting. Vaguely Henry wondered where the adult Walter was. Why wasn't he with 'mother'?

Henry's eyes fell on the chest next to his feet, and he knelt down. The lid opened without a creak or groan, and the items inside were neatly arranged. Henry removed a few blood crusted weapons, some now useless keys and things, until coming across a box at the bottom.

It was still dusty, despite how clean the rest of the house was. Almost reverently, Henry moved the box to the counter, and brushed it off with his hand. His shoulder burned with the action, but he ignored it. The injured brunet sat at the counter gingerly, and went to open the lid.

"Oh yeah" The man frowned, his stupidity making him blush. He would need scissors or something to cut the tape off... Suddenly something sharp and gleaming made its way into his vision. Henry froze; a hand held a pair of scissors pointing right at him, a hand connected to an arm in a blue sleeve. Henry stared. The scissors were flipped around, handle facing Henry, and the man found himself gently reaching out to take them.

"T - Thanks." Henry murmured. Walter nodded, and stayed still, watching him; watching the box. Henry turned his attention to it and began cutting.

Once it was all removed, Henry set the scissors down and stared at the lid. For a minute he did nothing. Walter watched. Finally, trembling hands reached up and took the cover off.

There, on the very top where he'd left it was the precious picture; the one he took when he was 14, before darkness had truly begun to sweep him away. Back when he was still slightly happy. Henry picked the picture up, recognizing the apartment complex... recognizing the man against the tree.

Somehow it didn't surprise him; somehow it felt like, now, everything made sense. It was all connected.

"The camera." Henry muttered.

For a minute Walter was silent, crossing his arms. "... I don't like seeing things wasted... especially not talent."

A shiver went through Henry's whole body, as wide eyes looked up at Walter's peaceful face. "... my dad." The blond man's eyes darkened considerably. "You killed him."

"Yes."

Confused, Henry looked down at the picture again, at the sunlight reflecting off the long, dirty hair, the gleaming eyes. "... it didn't mess with the sacraments?"

"That had nothing to do with the sacraments." Walter's voice was deep and dark, almost angry, but still calm. Henry was trying to understand, brow furrowed.

"... why?"

He bravely looked Walter in the eyes, green meeting green, and felt his heart skip a beat.

"He was a cretin who deserved death."

"But..." Henry knew Walter would think that, having been through beatings during his own childhood, but still... "Why protect me?" He stared at Walter again. "You only needed to kill me..."

"I told you, Henry... I didn't want to kill you." Walter put his hands on the counter, lowering his eye level closer to Henry's. "I wanted to set you free. And I did." But something in his eyes seemed troubled. Henry waited quietly. Walter's glance lowered.

"You lived a dark life. Yet you told me you had accepted your life; you still believed in the world." The killer looked back at Henry, genuine confusion in his face. "I don't understand. You were beaten and betrayed, but you still had hope."

"Hope?" Henry chuckled. "... I had faith." The man wasn't sure what he was saying, but it felt right. "I didn't care for myself. The way I saw it... I ruined things. I got people hurt. So, if I stayed away, the world would be a better place." He pushed the box over and set the photo on the counter. "I had faith that people would be good if I stayed away." Frowning, Henry looked up.

"You believed that you were what made people cruel?" Walter cocked an eyebrow, and chuckled deeply. Henry felt a crick form in his jaw and he shivered. "My dear receiver... if that is true for everyone else, it is at least a lie for me."

Blinking, Henry flushed. "F - For you?"

Walter nodded. "This... this is the most content I've felt... you did something to Mother. You changed the sacraments, changed... everything." He was examining his right hand as if he'd never seen it before.

Did I change him? Henry tried searching for any clue that he might be a little more sane. Well, the fact he's speaking to me like a normal person is a big hint.

Smiling, Henry tried to find his voice. "W - Well, I'm glad you're... content."

Walter nodded, almost as if he had more to say, but he fell silent. The two stood in quiet peace, until Walter's eyes glanced at the box. He came around the counter, and sat next to Henry, while the brunet stared in awe the whole time.

Sitting down, Walter was still taller than Henry, and the chairs were so close, their legs were right against one another. Walter looked into the box, then at Henry for permission. The man nodded weakly.

The killer began pulling the pictures from the box one by one, always looking to Henry after. The man caught on that he wanted some sort of explanation, so he tried hard to remember all the way back to things he'd taken in middle school. He scooted a little closer, to lean over Walter's arm, face flushed.

Together, the two went through the whole box, reexamining all the pictures he'd taken, Henry's whole life on display. He relived it all, with the man he'd known for years but never realized; and somehow, opening the box of memories he'd always kept shut tight wasn't as painful as he thought it would be.

Why do you weep?

What are these tears upon your face?

Soon you will see

All of your fears will pass away

Safe in my arms

You're only sleeping...

- Annie Lennox, "Into the West"

This is the second part of my Silent Hill 4 one shot series, the sequel to "Embracing Death". More is soon to come, as this is a long tale I have to tell... 83

SULHADAHNE