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Nuain (isleinuain) wrote,
@ 2003-09-06 06:16:00
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    Current mood: tired
    Current music:Joseph LoDuca - Poison Milk

    Prologue of DOOOOM
    I'm a wuss about sharing my fan writings with people who've been writing in that fandom for a long time, but I do wanna try to write this... so here is as good a place as any, since I have nothing to post here that hasn't gone into my other journals.


    The beginning isn't much to speak of; I awoke, as I would've expected myself to, on the filthy ground of a car garage basement. At first I thought it was just another hangover morning after a binge-induced blackout... but as my eyes began to adjust to the dimness of the room, broken only by the flickering of a lightbulb making its last stand against the dark, I began to think otherwise. This was no place I could've willingly gone, no matter what or how much I may have had to drink. This was a place I knew to avoid down to my core, to my subconscious, down to any part of me that still held control even through the drugs and alcohol. No, as I scanned the familiar cement walls with mold creeping slowly into their corners, I recognized it... the place I worked at through my teenage years, the only place quiet enough to make me hear the madness of this place shrieking in my mind.

    Of course, we all heard stories growing up, even at Midwich elementary. As children, we were too young to know the gory details, but still we whispered among ourselves about the gathering darkness, the wisps of fog that licked at the edges of our thoughts and teased us, dared us to remember, to search for its beginnings. The bolder among us would go so far as to draw *their* signs on the sidewalk, or in the courtyard at recess and simply laugh - or even cry - when caught by one of the teachers. But none of our little games, none of our pranks of fear on each other, could ever have prepared me for the things I saw on my last night in town; the night before I left and swore to never see its true, demented face again; the night before the drugs, and the alcohol, and anything I could afford on my meager salary to drive away the nightmares.

    In my dreams, I was coming home and always coming to madness... and maybe, in time, I came to it in the waking world as well. Or maybe it'd followed me faithfully no matter how far away I ran, because madness back home was something you got used to early on; there were things in the night, dark rites in the church and terrors on the lake that you never spoke of, not even to your own parents. There were no monsters in the closet, under the bed, and certainly not lurking just outside the corners of reality. It was as if we'd all signed a silent contract to pretend we truly were just a harmless, quaint little resort town, and with rage I'd torn mine up and run before the consequences could catch up with me.

    Even a washed-up junkie with a dead-end job in a brokendown apartment was a kinder fate, in my mind, and every day I swore to leave that accursed town behind. I swore I'd never go home, not even in my thoughts. But I *was* home. I was again in Silent Hill, with no memory of arriving and finding my belongings gone. This is how the stories always started... I thought to myself, remembering the lunchtime huddles when the oldest of us would tell those stories with glee. And with that realization, my hopes slowly dissolved into nothing. I almost, for a moment, could've sworn my heart stopped then.

    I was home, and about to drown in madness.

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