Characters: Odd Thomas, James Sunderland.
Content: Weary but restless, Odd Thomas decides to spend some quality time beneath Cassiopeia upon the cathedral rooftop after writing.
Location: Rooftop of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.
Time of Day: Midnight.
Warnings: Spoilers and Silent Hill. Discussions of Heaven and Hell, and possible use of synonyms for
(
Read more... )
No need for lights, trundling along the passageways, his sleepy visage passing silently by those rooms. Everyone else, asleep in bed, he was sure. His people. It wasn't so much that he viewed them as friends (though he was beginning to refer to them as such), but rather, property. All of those dwelling in his church where his. His children. His herd. His little lambs, in a way, just like him. And some shepherd he was; unfit, slow, sinful. Not at all like those who stood, no doubt on the altar, preaching the word of God or- what he had learned so long ago;
The word of man.
But now, now when he stood there some nights, bare feet tasting the worn wood, he could say anything. Or nothing at all, but imagine those faces, filling the pews. All staring, waiting for him to explain.
Explain the blood on his hands. As if he had hung that man on the cross himself. The statue, always there, slumped in death, a crown of thorns resting on his head. Promising forgiveness. But James never found any forgiveness there. Perhaps, it was simply that he never followed religion. Oh sure he had gone to church, neatly combed and dressed in ironed shirts, sitting quietly with his father, waiting for it to be over. Never understanding.
Or perhaps it was the simple fact that he believed nothing could redeem him now.
Tonight, he merely passed by it, looking for something more, his near silent footfalls whispering past those who slept. Those who would sleep. The darkness and size of the place yawning before him, though it was all so familiar that he could have walked with his eyes closed and still made a perfectly safe voyage through the empty halls and lifeless rooms. Some days, he thought, he was just as blind as that child. As any of them. Still, darkness filled his washed out eyes as he climbed the stairs, up and up, passing through the narrow ways of the place. One hand found it's way to the wall, sliding along, feeling the dust bunch under his fingertips and imperfections in the wood nip his calloused palms.
He hadn't taken the time or really thought to dress himself, only a blanket draped about his shoulders offered warmth, which was really all he needed. He looked like a spirit that way, the tendrils of cloth clinging to his back and billowing just as quiet as ever.
He hesitated, reaching the small opening. He could see someone else. He knew, already, even without the familiarity of a face or form, who it was. The only other person who dared come up here. Lifting himself through the little exit, his feet met the cold, somewhat damp surface of the roof. Not that he was bothered at this point. His pale form moved across, stealing up behind Mr. Thomas and eventually, beside him.
Standing, not quite all there, blanket swaying in the October wind, pallid hair following suit. He looked sallow there, ghostly form wilting to the cold, saying nothing.
Nothing, and his lifeless face turned upward.
No words. For a moment he almost seemed like Death himself.
Sometimes, he believes;
He isn't too far off.
Reply
There was blood on his hands, too. So much of it, it seemed. The things he’d seen, things that no one should have to live with, forever burned into his mind. Some nights he wondered how he could even sleep at all.
But as his hard-drinking, poker-playing grandmother had always told him, Never let them see you’re upset. Not that he could magically get rid of the dark rings under his eyes, or the tired look on his face. Even after the gallons of coffee and energy drinks he’d drank, Odd carried a weary air about him that seemed consistent nowadays.
The rain helped. It was cool and dribbled down his face, prickling his skin and telling him Look up. Look up at me. Yet he wasn’t sure where such words came from, or if they were just some sort of delusion.
“Can’t sleep, either?” Odd spoke to Sunderland beside him, though never turning away from the cloudy field where Cassiopeia would have otherwise been.
Mary wasn’t around, or if she was she didn’t show herself. Which was bizarre.
Reply
James stood for a few moments more, waiting it out.
"Yeah." At last he answered at last, finally allowing himself to settle onto the damp rooftop, his weary form deflating and sinking as he sat, almost lifeless, his head hung to one side.
Now looking down.
Then a slight harmonic hum, some mixture of amusement and dissonance.
"If you reveal your secrets to the wind you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees."
It was sort of an unsettling tone from him, voice low with grief and seriousness. Far from the usual bewilderment or childish anger. Not to mention it was entirely out of place.
Out of nowhere. And he lacks an explanation.
Here, hanging on what seemed to be, his own end. At least in the moonlight washing his features even more pale and sickly than usual.
Much like her.
Reply
Secrets.
Odd blinked from his hazy stupor. Finally, he tore his gaze from the cloudy void and blinked at Sunderland, more surly than Odd was used to seeing the man.
Wait. Little Ozzie said stuff like that all the time.
“Is it Shakespeare?”
No, Odd for once took the time to actually read Shakespeare a couple years ago (he had a lot of time to just sit and read lately as well. He’d found himself taken with Macbeth in particular). That sounded more like a Chinese proverb or something. Oh well, Odd was too tired to correct himself.
Reply
"No. I don't know who. Just something I remember reading in college."
It was obvious that something was eating him up. Even though James was usually surly and fairly unpleasant, he was especially so tonight. He looked empty. Lonely.
Downright sad, which, for James, was something far too raw to usually show. Yes, he often looked distant, rueful or depressed. But if it weren't for the fact that he hardly ever cried one might say he was looking to be on the verge of it. He rested his head in one hand and stared into the dark streets below.
All this time, he had been trying to keep them here. Keep them around, because he'd hated it at first but now...
Now that had changed and it was more of a worry now, to keep himself there.
Reply
Of course... it’s never Shakespeare. Little Ozzie would be ashamed.
“Well, I didn’t go to college.” Odd rubbed the back of his neck, not really very secretive about revealing this little tidbit of information. College didn’t mean a whole lot at the time, anyway. Not when he would otherwise find himself in situations such as being tied back-to-back to a chair with a store clerk after hours while some lunatic mugger waved a gun in both of their faces.
Life had taught him other things college could not. Such as how to deal with both the dead and the living. Most people were lucky. They only had to deal with one, but not the other. The other often got him into those type of situations. Awkward.
Odd knew, however, that aura of grief that aired around Sunderland then. He was not a reader. He could never successfully read people all that well like some damn psychic. On the other hand, he didn’t have to be in order to know that something was up with Sunderland, if only because Odd himself had been there.
Obviously.
“You want to talk about something, sir?” Odd offered, finding that simply asking Are you okay? to be just as dumb a thing to ask as anything else.
Reply
"No." He was so quick, hardly any time to ponder the question. He's not the type to go sharing the nitty gritty feelings with other men. Or anyone for that matter.
He turned his head away. He just needed... something. Some assurance. And that's what was driving him to wakefulness, biting away at his psyche. Not that he wanted to burden Odd or anyone with his problems. Nobody needed that. They all had their own set of worries.
He collected a small pebble and let it sail out over the space, falling down into the alley below with a small, muted noise.
"Do you believe in hell?"
That was... sudden.
Reply
What they didn’t know, though, was how connected he felt to this city, this cathedral. A few years ago, Odd parted with his mentor and left the comfort of familiarity, because something had been calling him, pulling him. He had gone through so much in those years, been to so many places, done many things, seen a lot of people...
Looking back on it now, those years seemed like a blur around a path, all leading up to this very point-this cathedral.
Odd was part of this place.
Now, Hell... that was a pickle. On many occasion Odd saw the dead off to the next life-the Great Adventure, as Stormy would have it... to Service. She never really called it Heaven or Hell.
His dark eyes followed the pebble Sunderland hurled into the alleyway. “I believe in life after death.” Not believe in. Knew. He had always known that. “I believe we have a choice where we end up after we’re done with bootcamp.”
Reply
These days though, his own demons seemed to be larger by far.
"Do they get to choose? Isn't that a bit unfair to the 'good' people?" Why the hell he thought Odd would know in the first place was beyond him. It was more of a question he should have been asking himself. He knew though, his answers were far less forgiving.
A part of him craved that gentle lie.
'Everything will be alright'
Reply
Would he end up in the same place as Stormy, after all the things he had done? He could delude himself with the reasoning that he had no other choice, but no, no, there was always a choice.
Life or death?
Odd shrugged, finding the question to be a fairly reasonable one, considering who was asking it. “Your actions choose where you end up, too. I mean, you don’t ruin a person’s life and then expect Paradise right afterwards unless you’re either very delusional or very misguided.”
Reply
"You think a person can be forgiven?" It was obvious he didn't believe the answer was 'yes'. Nothing would convince him otherwise. Still, he was compelled, almost uncontrollably to ask.
Hen slid a hand against the damp surface of the roof, his blanket shifting slightly from his shoulders and falling- just a bit, only to be pulled tighter when he shifts, curling back into it's sparse warmth.
Hell if he knew, why he was driven to ask Odd of all people.
Harry would have probably just... made fun of him or something. Or so he'd convinced himself.
Reply
That last part Odd intentionally left out, though it ached to be said. After hearing what Harry had to say about where they came from, that town, it sounded very much like the equivalent.
And which spirit do you think Mary is?
Odd hadn’t answered truthfully because he didn’t know. That would require judgment on both Mary and Sunderland’s part. The two both had stories that were thus far incomplete.
He would complete it. Already Odd had begun the story, and this time he could not rely on the usual tricks such as foreshadow and unreliable narrating. This time, he was the blind narrator. Living life as it goes. That’s how Odd always did it.
That’s how this story would be written.
Reply
He could deny needing forgiveness. But...
Who didn't need to be forgiven for something? It was common to have regrets. Common to look back and hate yourself, wasn't it? It was such an embedded part of his life that it seemed so normal. The self loathing. Masked my overconfidence and almost comical antics.
Naivety.
Obliviousness.
"Like you wouldn't believe."
Reply
“Then maybe you’ll see her again, but you’re going to have to do more than just ask for forgiveness.” Again, his words possessed by something that just... didn’t feel right. Like he was on auto-pilot. His brows were furrowed, lost in his own train of thoughts that meshed with something else. “That’s why you went to Hell.”
To that place... The town.
Someone else’s words coming right out of his mouth. The dead don’t talk, but in their own little way, they sort of did speak to Odd. He didn’t know why.
Reply
He looked terrified. Confused. Almost hurt.
What seemed like eternity (only a few seconds) passed as James stared, stark, his expression pallid and made of panic. What now? So many thoughts. So many...
Silence. He could feel it knotting in the back of his throat, and he all but collapses onto Odd, or at least his head flops and he sets his forehead to Odd's chest. Shoulders shaking but no tears. Too far gone for tears. It was all so exhausting. This facade. For a good minute he couldn't even face the fact- he just shook.
"I'm sorry..." He truly did sound it, and he lifted himself away, wrenching his hands from his friend's shirt and righting himself. Offering a hand to Odd.
"I'm sorry I..." No words for it. What could he say after that?
Reply
But that didn’t happen.
In a blink, Odd saw not the face of a killer but a child, just seconds before it came crashing down on top of him, on his chest.
Winded, unable to breathe, Odd suddenly gasped for air when his lungs weren’t working the way they should. Instinctively in his panic, Odd was ready to throw Sunderland off him until he realized Sunderland was already doing that for him.
And even offering his hand. And trembling. And apologizing. And he saw.
Drowning. Drifting. Not on the rooftop but WATER and SUFFOCATING and slow-painfully DYING-
Rain tapped his forehead and Odd just laid there, composing himself, trying to make sense of what was happening but no sense came out of any of that. Finally, he sucked in the most satisfying lungful of fresh air, beautiful air, sweet, wonderful oxygen.
I’m sorry.
“I...” Odd tried to move, but couldn’t. He felt like an anvil had just been dropped on him.
Christ. What was happening?
Reply
Leave a comment