"Time Turns Forever, Forever Turns Time" for RAINY_LABYRINTH
Title: Time Turns Forever, Forever Turns Time
Form: Fanfiction
For: rainy_labyrinth
Prompt: SH4: Henry, gen. Photographs of the past.
time turns forever. forever turns time.
part one - the boy without place.
i - a young heart swells.
Henry is kneeling on the floor with his face pressed hard against the broken plaster, one eye unblinking and stuck to the hole in the foundation, watching his neighbour's apartment intently. His palms are pressed flat against the surface, fingertips digging into the jagged edges and bleeding from the tender skin at the tips. He has been sitting there a while, cheekbone numbing against the cold of the broken wall and his nose aching, sending a tremour of that-certain-sting through his skull - the kind of dull pain that feels like something ice-cold and too-large is travelling through your veins - the kind of pain you have to try and blink away. Henry stiffens, his neck gluing itself into the shape of a perfect right angle, bending as if folding in on itself. He falls back from the wall and lies with his back flat against the floor for a moment, his knees tingling slightly, the skin oddly weightless as a result of kneeling for too long. Sighing, Henry tilts his head to the right to the cabinet.
This is the moment in which Henry notices the pictures. Their frames are coated with a thin layer of dust but the images they hold are nonetheless recognisable. His child-self smiles down at him, expression softly chiding and oddly empty. The him that is graduating does not look at him. The Henry in that picture stares onwards, a faint shadow of triumph and hope and relief etched on his face.
See, these frighteningly bizarre hauntings that take place in his apartment are not the only unwanted ghosts that plague Henry's home. Phantoms of the past are everywhere - infringed in the very photographs that hang on his walls or sit on his tables and desks. Nibbling nervously at his lip, Henry stands. A red-violet rosebud is blooming on the side of his mouth. The sea of static that buzzes painfully inside his head churns slowly, tantalisingly. He tentatively reaches out a hand and pushes the photographs downwards, their in-the-past smiles fading in the shadows as the drop, their plastic frames hitting the surface of the cabinet with a firm 'clack.'
Henry stumbles towards the bathroom, he can hear his heartbeat at his temple, he can feel the tight burning squeeze of bile rising through his chest and throat. He's reaching out for the doorknob, running away from those overturned memoirs, but they catch up with him first.
It's time to remember.
Henry thinks of that slow, steady time between day and night that smells of grass and mist and childhood - that hazy end to the day. A smaller version of himself is walking along a muddy path to the centre of a field. It's raining, ever so slightly and he seems to be blowing bubbles. Only half of his attempts are successful and even then, the rain bursts them before they can soar as high as even a low cloud. Even so, the smaller version of himself seems to be entertained. Exploding bubbles look, to him, like fireworks born of some unknown or invisible spectrum. The grass is a faint jade-green, a layer of soft silver-gray mist hanging over it like a sheet on a makeshift fort. Henry is wearing a dirty yellow raincoat and it's crumpled. He is still blowing bubbles. He's still catching them. The wind has messed up his neatly brushed hair.
Henry himself leans and falls against the bathroom wall. He covers his mouth with a hand and chokes, afraid he'll throw up and it will seep through his fingers. The world feels dry and endless. Memories of sunburn and sweat and tossing his skinny outstretched arms up to the sky parade through his mind like the slides in some remarkably odd and extraordinarily bright slideshow.
For Henry, childhood was a time of vague happiness but also, of loneliness. He takes a few steps and rests the palms of his hands on the edge of the perfect-circle hole in his bathroom wall. In it's depths, he hears whispered calls and hushed giggles. He calms down.
Life now, that is, his life before crawling-into-holes or lighting ivory-white candles or running from nightmarish monsters or Walter Sullivan, had it's similarities to his childhood. Henry had a steady job and a flexible amount of free time which gave him happiness to some extent. Yet, he was still so alone. He was still blowing bubbles that would break before reaching the skyline. He was still faux-smiling for photographs that nobody except him would display. Henry clenches his teeth slightly, and breathes in as steadily as he can possibly manage, and dry air from the tunnel rushes into his mouth - dryness that doen't so much inspire warmth and comfort and nostalgia but that makes him choke.
There is something in the depths of his heart - like a light that never goes out or a sunbeam shining while it still rains. There has always been something in the depths of his heart.
ii - fracturing a dream.
As usual, Henry finds himself in bed after he's finished delving through the world at the other side of the hole. Exhausted, he falls at once into a dream-filled sleep. The dreams are fleeting and ripe with detail and they are filled with things that used made him happy. Duck-ponds and swing-sets. Coloured sheets of paper and the shiny copper-gold of his first camera. He can still feel it, sometimes, that first camera. The click and the flash and shudder of the shutterbox. Then, the dream becomes tangled, images colliding as if they are dripping and tripping through a broken kaleidoscope or a shattered camera lens. The nightmare begins. The child Henry flickers between states of being and then falls. Crawling along the floor, his neck begins to jerk and rotate. His eyes become glassy and then roll back, dark and stained. Duck-ponds turn to blood and dirt, ducks and swans blindfolded and shuffling slowly out of the water, their bird-screams echoing around the dream-scape in a most unbearable fashion. Swing-sets turn to rust and then sway up to the bone-white sky, screeching a metallic harmony. The Henry from years-long-past crumples like coloured sheets of paper and vanishes.
Henry wakes up laced in cold sweat. In his closet, stands the shadow of a young boy. For a while, the shadow stirs and twitches in-and-out of being, much like the young Henry did in the dream, before disappearing completely. Henry sighs, understanding. In the real world, these childhood memories would be acceptable - tiny poignant doses of nostalgia. However, Henry wasn't in the real world for he no longer existed there anymore - not really - much like how those innocent glimmers of shadows from years long past had no place in Walter's world.
part two - the boy without knowledge.
iii - graduation day.
Disheartened, Henry wandered back into the main room of his apartment and sat on the couch, pulling the table towards him with his foot and reaching over to grab his notebook. Unconsciously, Henry again turned to where he had overturned his photographs, cursing himself as he did so. Leaning back in his seat, Henry now thinks back to graduation robes and twisting tassels and looking forward to the future.
Like many of his classmates, Henry had used the future to escape the present. Organised as he was, Henry had always made lists - to-do lists, pro-con lists, hopes-for-the-future lists and the like. In high school, Henry realised that he didn't really fit in. He'd rather take photos of the school grounds or of some particularly 'edgy' graffiti he'd happened to see in a bathroom stall or something like that.
The thing was, Henry Townshend regarded himself as an introvert. He had always heard what people had said about him. When he had wandered ahead or trailed behind everybody else on school trips, or when he'd sat upgrading his camera at family gatherings. They'd call him... quiet. Henry knew what quiet meant. They thought he was dull. They thought he was boring and plain and not in the slightest way interesting. Henry had been okay with that, of course. It was okay as long as he knew. He didn't have to be interesting. He felt better when he was on his own. He felt calmer and peaceful. Introverted. Although he found it difficult to describe who he was, exactly, that was one of the characteristics he was usually quite sure of.
Another trait Henry knew he possessed was that of being organised and neat. In all truthfulness, one of the main things Henry detested about his apartment being haunted were the terrible stains that appeared on his usually pristine-clean walls. However, for the moment, the hauntings couldn't be helped. Only the guttering yellow-gold flames of the candles or the curious power of the medallions could keep them at bay. Stopping himself from being a serial killer's victim, however, that could be something he could possibly prevent.
Henry sighed and buried his face in his hands. In front of him, Henry had two torn scraps of paper and each of those scraps had an underlined title - 'What I know about Walter Sullivan' and 'What I know about Silent Hill'.
And aside from that, each of those two scraps of paper were blank.
part three - the lure of the home.
iv - the once and future slave of gravity.
On the far side of the apartment is a photograph of the outside of the building. Henry can still remember the day he took it. It was April and Ashfield was especially busy that day, softly drenched in the early-spring sunlight. Henry had been looking for an apartment for a while and Ashfield seemed like the perfect town to find one in. Ashfield was beautiful - picturesque trees coupled with an energetic urban landscape. To a photographer - it was paradise. The hustle-and-bustle of the people wasn't unattractive either. Henry liked busy people because he moved at a much slower pace and this therefore allowed him to drift, which, incidentally, is what he did that day as he was apartment-hunting. Although the town itself was welcoming, Henry had not yet found anywhere that looked particularily like home to him.
South Ashfield heights beckoned Henry as a lighthouse beam would a lost boat. He was a tiny ship with a photograph-thin sail floating aimlessly upon a static sea, and South Ashfield heights shone its beacon bright that day. As he passed the building, its U-shaped walls curving round him in a welcoming fashion, Henry stopped short. Abruptly, he took his camera from where it was looped around his neck and took a picture. He knew at once that this was where he was going to live. Everything about it was perfect.
Looking back, it almost seems like the apartment chose him - like it had attracted him that day through Walter's own volition. Destiny, he thinks, is the word. Fate.
Henry did not particularly believe in fate, but that would have to mean his current circumstances were the most unfortunate of all coincidences and Henry could not, and would not, condemn himself to such natural bad luck just yet. There was still something of unsaid hope inside of him and that was, perhaps, the man's true subtle brilliance.
v - broken bird-songs.
Henry recalls the day he moved into Room 302. The walls were blue-grey and the clean floor tiles nicely patterned. Frank had insisted upon helping Henry carry his boxes to the apartment even though it was so early in the morning. Room 302 was airy and spacious. If Frank had not mentioned it, he would not have thought it had been home to two previous owners. The room smelt of rain, faintly, although it had not been raining. It was a rather refreshing smell. White-sunrise poured in through the window and the ceiling fan swirled noiselessly above his head.
"What do you think?" Frank had asked, one hand on his hip, the other wiping his brow.
Henry turned from where he stood at the window, teasing his bag-strap and letting the sunlight spill over his shoulders. He smiled. Outside, a blue-coated bird was singing.
"I think I'll be happy here." He remembers himself saying.
Frank had nodded.
"Just call if you need anything." he had said with a wave.
Now, Stumbling through Walter's version of these halls, Henry cannot help notice the stark contrast. Henry would crawl out from the circular portal and feel the coppery scent of drying blood and stale flesh hit him. The texture and the colour of the lobby walls resemble raw meat, and the pained sounds of harsh crying and churning groans make Henry feel instantly queasy. His hand wraps defensively around the cool but grimy steel of his weapon - the bent and weary pipe that he'd pulled out of the hole that had intruded his bathroom wall not so long ago. His hand is quivering slightly, wavering on the verge of slipping, but Henry holds on to it. To say that Henry Townshend was afraid would be an understatement. Henry has been driven beyond terrified a long time ago; so much so that fear is almost becoming like a natural feeling to him. It is like an ordinary emotion that occurs always, and even though he feels it, and even though the fear pumps through him with each heartbeat, he has to deal with that fear and continue onwards. That's just the way it is.
Ever since Henry woke up to that locked door, the room had become more cold and vacant and full to the brim with an asphyxiating atmosphere with each passing day. Henry wakes up in the dark and at once, he is scared.
It isn't that Henry is afraid of the dark, necessarily. He is afraid of what could be - what he knows to be - hiding within it.
The dark makes him feel like he is being chased. Not the good kind of chasing of childhood and summer where his legs move him onwards, regardless of the circumstances, but the bad kind of chasing where terrible, unspeakable things happen when he gets caught.
part four - a silent world.
vi - colour fades in the water cascade.
Silent Hill.
There are pictures of that town scattered all around Henry's room and thus far, he has tried to evade them. The lake hangs above his head, it's waters cold and blue-green and unwelcoming. The lighthouse and the old and forgotten bike are up on the wall, their mechanical bodies rusting and spluttering. Then, there is the church, and if there's anything Henry doesn't want to look at - it's that god damn church.
You see, the mind is awfully kind. There are those memories - those cruel, painful memories that make you heart swell, fit to burst. Those memories that make your world spin fast on it's axis just thinking about them. Those kinds of memories that hover just above the top of your head like a sword on a thin string. If the mind wasn't kind, the string would splay and fracture. It doesn't - or, at least, Henry's doesn't. Henry's mind takes the most chilling and suffocating memories and pushes them backwards. Slowly. Easily. It traps them. It crumples them. It folds them like a rusty coil. It tucks them away out of sight. They're still there, of course, but unless Henry really thinks about it and pushes himself to unravel them, the details don't come. The mind is kind that way.
This time, Henry allows his mind to pull out the pieces of the past. He looks out of the window into the orange-grey of the morning sky and dusts them off - those tiny shards of broken, lost memoirs. He arranges them in a line and they glimmer in a way that burst-open, damaged things shouldn't.
The sky and the ground changes and Henry feels as if he is floating backwards into some kind of kaleidoscope atmosphere. Suddenly, he is on his bike. He pedals and the parts of the bike all begin to move together like the intricate clockwork of an old-fashioned watch. Above him is a blue, blue sky. The most beautiful sky he has ever seen. The road is bumpy and the bike bounds over the tiny ramps and mounds, rubber colliding with the rock violently and animatedly. His bike is wine-red and glowing, sunbeams reflected in the grimy metal.
'Oh,'Henry thinks, tightening his grip on the handles, palms soupy with sweat, 'The sky will change again any minute now.'
It does. As Henry cycles through time and space and meaning, the colour begins to drain from the world. He knows where he is going. He has taken this road before. Ungodly fists grab hold of the corners-of-the-sky and begin to twist it, rinsing the day of blue. The shades drip by him slowly. The world pales and suddenly, like dying flesh on ivory-white bone, the sky is completely devoid of colour. White light streams in through slants of mist.
Henry lifts up his head.
He clenches the brakes.
The metal whines.
He stops.
The entire world unfolds, undone.
The scene begins.
vii - for i have sinned.
By the wall, next to the bike racks, stands a single bicycle. Henry stares at it as he wraps his chain around his bike and then loops it around the smooth metal of the rack.
'Strange,' he contemplates, 'For someone to just leave their bicycle unattended right next to a rack.'
For a while, Henry wonders where to go next. The town has already offered him some wonderful shots today. He had taken a lovely picture of the lighthouse - standing tall and with it's light hazy in the thin, delicate fog. He is most proud, however, of his shots of Toluca Lake. The surrounding trees were very pretty - with their bark and leaves in autumn shades of amber and copper-brown. Then, suddenly incredibly glad for making the half-day journey to the town, Henry decided to secure his bike and perhaps take some inside-shots of the church.
As he passes the abandoned bike and makes his way over to the church, Henry can't help but take a photograph of the bicycle. As he does so, as his fingertip leaves the button and the inside clicks and whirls and hums mechanically, a tiny white rabbit near the end of the path flinches and scurries away. Henry quickly tries to capture a picture of the unexpected visitor but all too quickly, it hurries into a cluster of nearby bushes. Henry sighs but does not contemplate following it. What would be the point? The church is simply beautiful. Its name is 'Balkan' and it attracts Henry at once. The way the classic, breathtaking atmosphere lures and invites him makes him feel uneasy and, strangely, excited. It's almost like something incredible or life-changing is going to happen on the other side of the door.
Henry's heartbeat increases to countless beats per minute as he opens the door and steps inside. Oddly, the church is warm. Warmer than the outside, at least. It even smells warm - like dust and old, cracked leather. Odder, still, Henry senses that he is not alone. Even so, he drops his camera-bag by the intricately carved pews and crouches down to begin taking photographs of the simplistic altar. It is around this time that he hears a voice from the confessional booth. At once, he thinks he should leave. It is not right - not at all moral - to listen to somebody confessing - to listen to their regrets and sins and worries and hopes. Yet, Henry can't bring himself to leave. It's almost like there's some part of him telling him - compelling him - to stay.
"Forgive me, father," The voice is low and frightening but this is mingled with a graceful drawl - like a burst of peace in a disturbance, "For I have sinned."
Henry can't help but wonder if there is even anybody sitting on the other side of the confessional. Silent Hill is a tourist town and though it is beautiful, the church seems unused - abandoned, almost. Sure enough, there is no confirming voice and the man continues talking.
"It has been," a pause, "A while since my last confession and I have got to tell you that I am having some problems."
The man in the booth sniggers uncomfortably through his speech.
"Upon examining my conscience, I really have to wonder if I'm cut out for this, you know?" Another laugh, "These ten hearts-"
The man is silent for a while and it is so quiet that Henry can hear him breathe.
"I've done terrible things - unspeakable things. There were these children, you see. Twins, I think. And I-" The man's words lapse into another unsettling fit of laughter. Henry swallows. His throat feels red-hot.
"And I feel guilty although I am not guilty. A- and don't believe it, F- father, don't believe it if they tell you that they were innocent. I'll show everybody. I'll show them how corrupt children can truly be. I'll -" The man stops and makes a sound like he is sucking air through clenched teeth.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this, Father. Does it even concern you anymore? I have your heart, you know? It's mine - just like these are my sacraments, now." There is a certain power in the man's voice that makes Henry want to pick himself up off the floor and run all the way back home.
Henry doesn't even make it to standing position when the confessional booth slides open. The man places a palm either side of the wooden frame. Dirty-blond hair skims the midnight-blue of his shoulders. His green eyes are glassy, like dusty marbles. Slowly, he steps out and at once turns his attention to Henry who is pinned in place, kneeling by the altar. A minute that feels like a decade falls past them.
"Hello, friend," The man's smile is golden, "Are you waiting for the booth?"
part five - wisdom-bringer, wisdom-receiver.
viii - carrion man.
Walter could tell that Henry was having a nightmare. The unlit candles surrounded Henry as he slept, curled up in his bed, each one emitting a lifeless, silvery smoke. Henry shivered in his slumber, his upper lip trembling and his brow creased, as if deep in anxiety or fear. Walter glanced at the papers scattered on the floor, smirking at the titles of the empty lists.
"How thoughtful." Walter mused, as he rummaged deep into the navy-blue pockets, pulling out a crimson and gold lighter, flaked with blood and grime. Walter crouched down quietly and lit the candles that circled Henry's room and then watched as Henry calmed in his sleep; his muscles and body relaxing in the same way they would if Walter had given him some sort of tranquiliser.
Walter placed the lighter back into his pocket and began to pace the apartment, his smile strangely fond - like he'd just caught a glimpse of forever and forever had been beautiful.
ix - live until the brink of death.
Henry felt a lot of things about Walter. For one, even though they'd never properly met face to face (it was more like gun to face), Henry felt as though he knew Walter. As if he had always known Walter. Secondly, Henry was afraid of Walter; in fact, afraid was probably an understatement. Henry had never feared anything in his whole life in the way he feared Walter. Accompanying fear was anger; and along with anger came hate, pity, sympathy and hope.
Yet, with Walter sitting just across from him at the other side of the kitchen unit, Henry wasn't sure what to feel. Walter played with his food like a child, picking the fat off bacon as if he were plucking or scraping flesh from a bone.
Walter pointed at Henry, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You, Henry," he began, smirking, "Think you can stop me, don't you?"
"I don't know," Henry said slowly, deliberately, "But I think I'm going to try."
Walter laughed loudly and smacked his thigh with his hand, "You can't even get through a day without breaking, Henry! You can't seriously expect to stop me, myself, when you can barely make it through one of my own worlds."
"Like I said," Henry leant back in his seat, every inch of him squirming to get away, "I'm going to try."
Suddenly, Walter gritted his teeth and glared at Henry, his eyes aglow with sardonicism.
"You know nothing." he spat, "And the parts that you do know are meaningless. You sit there; writing lists upon lists and deciphering ridiculous journal entries and notes. Let me decipher the story. Okay, Henry? Listen up and listen well."
Walter reached down and grabbed his knife and fork, "Henry closely followed the white noises and then gracefully, he climbed right down the rabbit hole and tumbled into my wonderland."
Walter began parading the cutlery around the kitchen unit, "Henry played there a little while although he swung his croquet club a little too severely against the hedgehogs and he tried to sneak somebody out of wonderland who should have remained there. Henry came and went as he pleased in wonderland, which is all a little too generous, if you ask me. For when the time is right, it's off with his head." Walter slung his head back casually and laughed, "Get it? Off with his head?"
Walter looked at Henry, expression completely confused, "Wh-why aren't you laughing?"
"I-I guess I just don't find it funny," Henry answered, taken aback that Walter's bizarre question wasn't rhetorical. "I mean. You're lightly discussing my inevitable death. Something I'm set upon changing-"
"You can't change it." Walter stated simply, "Fate is a tricky business, Henry. It's something you can't grasp for yourself and weave as you please. It's something that's cast deeply below us. Below reality and even below time itself. There's no stopping it, or changing it when it's just one perfect, finite thing."
"I guess that I just don't really believe in fate." Henry shrugged, feeling completely empowered upon hearing the calmness in his voice, "So, regardless, I guess I'll try and end this my way and you can try and end this your way."
Walter's lips pursed tightly and he regarded Henry with an odd sort of malice that Henry hadn't seen before. Different from the chaotic laughter and different from the cruelty he'd displayed with a smile.
Henry stared back at Walter with the same determination, both their expressions deadly serious.
"I thought you'd give in to me much easier," Walter muttered bitterly, "But it seems I was wrong."
"You can't just take my life as if you own it-" Henry began but Walter interrupted, his face once more alive with delight.
"But I do own it! All along it's been you, Henry. Henry Townshend, the receiver of wisdom." Walter laughed as he rolled Henry's title from his tongue in an almost regal fashion, "And that means your life is mine to take. For the sake of rebirth. For the sake of love. For the sake of mother!"
Walter listed Henry's reasons for dying as if he were reading aloud from a textbook and Henry pitied the firm desperation in Walter's voice. He opened his mouth to ask the question he'd longed to ask Walter from the very beginning but something stopped him.
"After you," Walter continued, "I will be free. Everyone will be free. Can't you see that?"
"You-" Henry began, feeling the brief spark of courage inside him begin to fade, "You- I mean, You don't actually believe this will work, do you?"
Walter's expression jerked as if something inside him had just shut down and Henry saw the harsh glint in Walter's translucent green eyes begin to pale. Walter got down from the chair and wandered backwards.
"Of course it-" he began.
"It can't work. You have to know what it-"
"Henry."
"What it really means. You have to know that-"
"Stop it."
"This room-"
"Shut up!"
Henry shut up. With fists clenched at his sides, Walter breathed in and out through gritted teeth. Henry stood.
"This apartment is mine, Walter." he said calmly, meeting Walter's stare with his own.
For a while, Walter was silent. Then, once more, he smoothed back the grimy-gold of his hair and laughed, smugly.
"You can laugh all you want," Henry said quietly. "But at the end of the story, Alice still gets out of Wonderland."
x - photographs of the past
When the opportunity arose, Henry pulled out his camera and took a photograph of Walter. He felt the click of the shutterbox, the shudder of the flash, the mechanical splutterings of the tiny machine. If Walter had asked why he had taken it, Henry would have replied that after all this is over, he may, at some point, wish to reminisce about it. Not the charming, moving sort of reminiscing, but the type where you reassure yourself of something. In years to come, after the memory had faded slightly, like an old photograph, Henry could pull out the picture and remember and know. He can know that he beat Walter. He can know that he retook his home and retook the fragments of his life that go together to form his subtle existence.
So Henry takes a photograph. When he looks at the photograph, at first, at least, he won't be met with images of dead and putrefying flesh or the jerking necks of monsters. After all, the mind is nothing if it is not kind. He will, at first, at least, be met with the idea that in the past, there are shadows. Shadows that, though they may haunt him, are proof that he overcame them.
Henry flips the device over in his hands and takes a photograph of himself. He is steady and worn-out. There is a bloodied star dribbling at his lip.
Walter will not ask what that photograph represents but if he were to, Henry would contemplate it and then, in a voice that could break bones, he would answer:
"I'm not sure what is hiding in the depths of my heart - maybe this will show me something."
Author's Note: The fact that Henry's page in Another Crimson Tome was left blank always fascinated me. So though the requester asked for Henry gen, I hope they also don't mind a little bit of Walter.
Form: Fanfiction
For: rainy_labyrinth
Prompt: SH4: Henry, gen. Photographs of the past.
time turns forever. forever turns time.
part one - the boy without place.
i - a young heart swells.
Henry is kneeling on the floor with his face pressed hard against the broken plaster, one eye unblinking and stuck to the hole in the foundation, watching his neighbour's apartment intently. His palms are pressed flat against the surface, fingertips digging into the jagged edges and bleeding from the tender skin at the tips. He has been sitting there a while, cheekbone numbing against the cold of the broken wall and his nose aching, sending a tremour of that-certain-sting through his skull - the kind of dull pain that feels like something ice-cold and too-large is travelling through your veins - the kind of pain you have to try and blink away. Henry stiffens, his neck gluing itself into the shape of a perfect right angle, bending as if folding in on itself. He falls back from the wall and lies with his back flat against the floor for a moment, his knees tingling slightly, the skin oddly weightless as a result of kneeling for too long. Sighing, Henry tilts his head to the right to the cabinet.
This is the moment in which Henry notices the pictures. Their frames are coated with a thin layer of dust but the images they hold are nonetheless recognisable. His child-self smiles down at him, expression softly chiding and oddly empty. The him that is graduating does not look at him. The Henry in that picture stares onwards, a faint shadow of triumph and hope and relief etched on his face.
See, these frighteningly bizarre hauntings that take place in his apartment are not the only unwanted ghosts that plague Henry's home. Phantoms of the past are everywhere - infringed in the very photographs that hang on his walls or sit on his tables and desks. Nibbling nervously at his lip, Henry stands. A red-violet rosebud is blooming on the side of his mouth. The sea of static that buzzes painfully inside his head churns slowly, tantalisingly. He tentatively reaches out a hand and pushes the photographs downwards, their in-the-past smiles fading in the shadows as the drop, their plastic frames hitting the surface of the cabinet with a firm 'clack.'
Henry stumbles towards the bathroom, he can hear his heartbeat at his temple, he can feel the tight burning squeeze of bile rising through his chest and throat. He's reaching out for the doorknob, running away from those overturned memoirs, but they catch up with him first.
It's time to remember.
Henry thinks of that slow, steady time between day and night that smells of grass and mist and childhood - that hazy end to the day. A smaller version of himself is walking along a muddy path to the centre of a field. It's raining, ever so slightly and he seems to be blowing bubbles. Only half of his attempts are successful and even then, the rain bursts them before they can soar as high as even a low cloud. Even so, the smaller version of himself seems to be entertained. Exploding bubbles look, to him, like fireworks born of some unknown or invisible spectrum. The grass is a faint jade-green, a layer of soft silver-gray mist hanging over it like a sheet on a makeshift fort. Henry is wearing a dirty yellow raincoat and it's crumpled. He is still blowing bubbles. He's still catching them. The wind has messed up his neatly brushed hair.
Henry himself leans and falls against the bathroom wall. He covers his mouth with a hand and chokes, afraid he'll throw up and it will seep through his fingers. The world feels dry and endless. Memories of sunburn and sweat and tossing his skinny outstretched arms up to the sky parade through his mind like the slides in some remarkably odd and extraordinarily bright slideshow.
For Henry, childhood was a time of vague happiness but also, of loneliness. He takes a few steps and rests the palms of his hands on the edge of the perfect-circle hole in his bathroom wall. In it's depths, he hears whispered calls and hushed giggles. He calms down.
Life now, that is, his life before crawling-into-holes or lighting ivory-white candles or running from nightmarish monsters or Walter Sullivan, had it's similarities to his childhood. Henry had a steady job and a flexible amount of free time which gave him happiness to some extent. Yet, he was still so alone. He was still blowing bubbles that would break before reaching the skyline. He was still faux-smiling for photographs that nobody except him would display. Henry clenches his teeth slightly, and breathes in as steadily as he can possibly manage, and dry air from the tunnel rushes into his mouth - dryness that doen't so much inspire warmth and comfort and nostalgia but that makes him choke.
There is something in the depths of his heart - like a light that never goes out or a sunbeam shining while it still rains. There has always been something in the depths of his heart.
ii - fracturing a dream.
As usual, Henry finds himself in bed after he's finished delving through the world at the other side of the hole. Exhausted, he falls at once into a dream-filled sleep. The dreams are fleeting and ripe with detail and they are filled with things that used made him happy. Duck-ponds and swing-sets. Coloured sheets of paper and the shiny copper-gold of his first camera. He can still feel it, sometimes, that first camera. The click and the flash and shudder of the shutterbox. Then, the dream becomes tangled, images colliding as if they are dripping and tripping through a broken kaleidoscope or a shattered camera lens. The nightmare begins. The child Henry flickers between states of being and then falls. Crawling along the floor, his neck begins to jerk and rotate. His eyes become glassy and then roll back, dark and stained. Duck-ponds turn to blood and dirt, ducks and swans blindfolded and shuffling slowly out of the water, their bird-screams echoing around the dream-scape in a most unbearable fashion. Swing-sets turn to rust and then sway up to the bone-white sky, screeching a metallic harmony. The Henry from years-long-past crumples like coloured sheets of paper and vanishes.
Henry wakes up laced in cold sweat. In his closet, stands the shadow of a young boy. For a while, the shadow stirs and twitches in-and-out of being, much like the young Henry did in the dream, before disappearing completely. Henry sighs, understanding. In the real world, these childhood memories would be acceptable - tiny poignant doses of nostalgia. However, Henry wasn't in the real world for he no longer existed there anymore - not really - much like how those innocent glimmers of shadows from years long past had no place in Walter's world.
part two - the boy without knowledge.
iii - graduation day.
Disheartened, Henry wandered back into the main room of his apartment and sat on the couch, pulling the table towards him with his foot and reaching over to grab his notebook. Unconsciously, Henry again turned to where he had overturned his photographs, cursing himself as he did so. Leaning back in his seat, Henry now thinks back to graduation robes and twisting tassels and looking forward to the future.
Like many of his classmates, Henry had used the future to escape the present. Organised as he was, Henry had always made lists - to-do lists, pro-con lists, hopes-for-the-future lists and the like. In high school, Henry realised that he didn't really fit in. He'd rather take photos of the school grounds or of some particularly 'edgy' graffiti he'd happened to see in a bathroom stall or something like that.
The thing was, Henry Townshend regarded himself as an introvert. He had always heard what people had said about him. When he had wandered ahead or trailed behind everybody else on school trips, or when he'd sat upgrading his camera at family gatherings. They'd call him... quiet. Henry knew what quiet meant. They thought he was dull. They thought he was boring and plain and not in the slightest way interesting. Henry had been okay with that, of course. It was okay as long as he knew. He didn't have to be interesting. He felt better when he was on his own. He felt calmer and peaceful. Introverted. Although he found it difficult to describe who he was, exactly, that was one of the characteristics he was usually quite sure of.
Another trait Henry knew he possessed was that of being organised and neat. In all truthfulness, one of the main things Henry detested about his apartment being haunted were the terrible stains that appeared on his usually pristine-clean walls. However, for the moment, the hauntings couldn't be helped. Only the guttering yellow-gold flames of the candles or the curious power of the medallions could keep them at bay. Stopping himself from being a serial killer's victim, however, that could be something he could possibly prevent.
Henry sighed and buried his face in his hands. In front of him, Henry had two torn scraps of paper and each of those scraps had an underlined title - 'What I know about Walter Sullivan' and 'What I know about Silent Hill'.
And aside from that, each of those two scraps of paper were blank.
part three - the lure of the home.
iv - the once and future slave of gravity.
On the far side of the apartment is a photograph of the outside of the building. Henry can still remember the day he took it. It was April and Ashfield was especially busy that day, softly drenched in the early-spring sunlight. Henry had been looking for an apartment for a while and Ashfield seemed like the perfect town to find one in. Ashfield was beautiful - picturesque trees coupled with an energetic urban landscape. To a photographer - it was paradise. The hustle-and-bustle of the people wasn't unattractive either. Henry liked busy people because he moved at a much slower pace and this therefore allowed him to drift, which, incidentally, is what he did that day as he was apartment-hunting. Although the town itself was welcoming, Henry had not yet found anywhere that looked particularily like home to him.
South Ashfield heights beckoned Henry as a lighthouse beam would a lost boat. He was a tiny ship with a photograph-thin sail floating aimlessly upon a static sea, and South Ashfield heights shone its beacon bright that day. As he passed the building, its U-shaped walls curving round him in a welcoming fashion, Henry stopped short. Abruptly, he took his camera from where it was looped around his neck and took a picture. He knew at once that this was where he was going to live. Everything about it was perfect.
Looking back, it almost seems like the apartment chose him - like it had attracted him that day through Walter's own volition. Destiny, he thinks, is the word. Fate.
Henry did not particularly believe in fate, but that would have to mean his current circumstances were the most unfortunate of all coincidences and Henry could not, and would not, condemn himself to such natural bad luck just yet. There was still something of unsaid hope inside of him and that was, perhaps, the man's true subtle brilliance.
v - broken bird-songs.
Henry recalls the day he moved into Room 302. The walls were blue-grey and the clean floor tiles nicely patterned. Frank had insisted upon helping Henry carry his boxes to the apartment even though it was so early in the morning. Room 302 was airy and spacious. If Frank had not mentioned it, he would not have thought it had been home to two previous owners. The room smelt of rain, faintly, although it had not been raining. It was a rather refreshing smell. White-sunrise poured in through the window and the ceiling fan swirled noiselessly above his head.
"What do you think?" Frank had asked, one hand on his hip, the other wiping his brow.
Henry turned from where he stood at the window, teasing his bag-strap and letting the sunlight spill over his shoulders. He smiled. Outside, a blue-coated bird was singing.
"I think I'll be happy here." He remembers himself saying.
Frank had nodded.
"Just call if you need anything." he had said with a wave.
Now, Stumbling through Walter's version of these halls, Henry cannot help notice the stark contrast. Henry would crawl out from the circular portal and feel the coppery scent of drying blood and stale flesh hit him. The texture and the colour of the lobby walls resemble raw meat, and the pained sounds of harsh crying and churning groans make Henry feel instantly queasy. His hand wraps defensively around the cool but grimy steel of his weapon - the bent and weary pipe that he'd pulled out of the hole that had intruded his bathroom wall not so long ago. His hand is quivering slightly, wavering on the verge of slipping, but Henry holds on to it. To say that Henry Townshend was afraid would be an understatement. Henry has been driven beyond terrified a long time ago; so much so that fear is almost becoming like a natural feeling to him. It is like an ordinary emotion that occurs always, and even though he feels it, and even though the fear pumps through him with each heartbeat, he has to deal with that fear and continue onwards. That's just the way it is.
Ever since Henry woke up to that locked door, the room had become more cold and vacant and full to the brim with an asphyxiating atmosphere with each passing day. Henry wakes up in the dark and at once, he is scared.
It isn't that Henry is afraid of the dark, necessarily. He is afraid of what could be - what he knows to be - hiding within it.
The dark makes him feel like he is being chased. Not the good kind of chasing of childhood and summer where his legs move him onwards, regardless of the circumstances, but the bad kind of chasing where terrible, unspeakable things happen when he gets caught.
part four - a silent world.
vi - colour fades in the water cascade.
Silent Hill.
There are pictures of that town scattered all around Henry's room and thus far, he has tried to evade them. The lake hangs above his head, it's waters cold and blue-green and unwelcoming. The lighthouse and the old and forgotten bike are up on the wall, their mechanical bodies rusting and spluttering. Then, there is the church, and if there's anything Henry doesn't want to look at - it's that god damn church.
You see, the mind is awfully kind. There are those memories - those cruel, painful memories that make you heart swell, fit to burst. Those memories that make your world spin fast on it's axis just thinking about them. Those kinds of memories that hover just above the top of your head like a sword on a thin string. If the mind wasn't kind, the string would splay and fracture. It doesn't - or, at least, Henry's doesn't. Henry's mind takes the most chilling and suffocating memories and pushes them backwards. Slowly. Easily. It traps them. It crumples them. It folds them like a rusty coil. It tucks them away out of sight. They're still there, of course, but unless Henry really thinks about it and pushes himself to unravel them, the details don't come. The mind is kind that way.
This time, Henry allows his mind to pull out the pieces of the past. He looks out of the window into the orange-grey of the morning sky and dusts them off - those tiny shards of broken, lost memoirs. He arranges them in a line and they glimmer in a way that burst-open, damaged things shouldn't.
The sky and the ground changes and Henry feels as if he is floating backwards into some kind of kaleidoscope atmosphere. Suddenly, he is on his bike. He pedals and the parts of the bike all begin to move together like the intricate clockwork of an old-fashioned watch. Above him is a blue, blue sky. The most beautiful sky he has ever seen. The road is bumpy and the bike bounds over the tiny ramps and mounds, rubber colliding with the rock violently and animatedly. His bike is wine-red and glowing, sunbeams reflected in the grimy metal.
'Oh,'Henry thinks, tightening his grip on the handles, palms soupy with sweat, 'The sky will change again any minute now.'
It does. As Henry cycles through time and space and meaning, the colour begins to drain from the world. He knows where he is going. He has taken this road before. Ungodly fists grab hold of the corners-of-the-sky and begin to twist it, rinsing the day of blue. The shades drip by him slowly. The world pales and suddenly, like dying flesh on ivory-white bone, the sky is completely devoid of colour. White light streams in through slants of mist.
Henry lifts up his head.
He clenches the brakes.
The metal whines.
He stops.
The entire world unfolds, undone.
The scene begins.
vii - for i have sinned.
By the wall, next to the bike racks, stands a single bicycle. Henry stares at it as he wraps his chain around his bike and then loops it around the smooth metal of the rack.
'Strange,' he contemplates, 'For someone to just leave their bicycle unattended right next to a rack.'
For a while, Henry wonders where to go next. The town has already offered him some wonderful shots today. He had taken a lovely picture of the lighthouse - standing tall and with it's light hazy in the thin, delicate fog. He is most proud, however, of his shots of Toluca Lake. The surrounding trees were very pretty - with their bark and leaves in autumn shades of amber and copper-brown. Then, suddenly incredibly glad for making the half-day journey to the town, Henry decided to secure his bike and perhaps take some inside-shots of the church.
As he passes the abandoned bike and makes his way over to the church, Henry can't help but take a photograph of the bicycle. As he does so, as his fingertip leaves the button and the inside clicks and whirls and hums mechanically, a tiny white rabbit near the end of the path flinches and scurries away. Henry quickly tries to capture a picture of the unexpected visitor but all too quickly, it hurries into a cluster of nearby bushes. Henry sighs but does not contemplate following it. What would be the point? The church is simply beautiful. Its name is 'Balkan' and it attracts Henry at once. The way the classic, breathtaking atmosphere lures and invites him makes him feel uneasy and, strangely, excited. It's almost like something incredible or life-changing is going to happen on the other side of the door.
Henry's heartbeat increases to countless beats per minute as he opens the door and steps inside. Oddly, the church is warm. Warmer than the outside, at least. It even smells warm - like dust and old, cracked leather. Odder, still, Henry senses that he is not alone. Even so, he drops his camera-bag by the intricately carved pews and crouches down to begin taking photographs of the simplistic altar. It is around this time that he hears a voice from the confessional booth. At once, he thinks he should leave. It is not right - not at all moral - to listen to somebody confessing - to listen to their regrets and sins and worries and hopes. Yet, Henry can't bring himself to leave. It's almost like there's some part of him telling him - compelling him - to stay.
"Forgive me, father," The voice is low and frightening but this is mingled with a graceful drawl - like a burst of peace in a disturbance, "For I have sinned."
Henry can't help but wonder if there is even anybody sitting on the other side of the confessional. Silent Hill is a tourist town and though it is beautiful, the church seems unused - abandoned, almost. Sure enough, there is no confirming voice and the man continues talking.
"It has been," a pause, "A while since my last confession and I have got to tell you that I am having some problems."
The man in the booth sniggers uncomfortably through his speech.
"Upon examining my conscience, I really have to wonder if I'm cut out for this, you know?" Another laugh, "These ten hearts-"
The man is silent for a while and it is so quiet that Henry can hear him breathe.
"I've done terrible things - unspeakable things. There were these children, you see. Twins, I think. And I-" The man's words lapse into another unsettling fit of laughter. Henry swallows. His throat feels red-hot.
"And I feel guilty although I am not guilty. A- and don't believe it, F- father, don't believe it if they tell you that they were innocent. I'll show everybody. I'll show them how corrupt children can truly be. I'll -" The man stops and makes a sound like he is sucking air through clenched teeth.
"I don't know why I'm telling you this, Father. Does it even concern you anymore? I have your heart, you know? It's mine - just like these are my sacraments, now." There is a certain power in the man's voice that makes Henry want to pick himself up off the floor and run all the way back home.
Henry doesn't even make it to standing position when the confessional booth slides open. The man places a palm either side of the wooden frame. Dirty-blond hair skims the midnight-blue of his shoulders. His green eyes are glassy, like dusty marbles. Slowly, he steps out and at once turns his attention to Henry who is pinned in place, kneeling by the altar. A minute that feels like a decade falls past them.
"Hello, friend," The man's smile is golden, "Are you waiting for the booth?"
part five - wisdom-bringer, wisdom-receiver.
viii - carrion man.
Walter could tell that Henry was having a nightmare. The unlit candles surrounded Henry as he slept, curled up in his bed, each one emitting a lifeless, silvery smoke. Henry shivered in his slumber, his upper lip trembling and his brow creased, as if deep in anxiety or fear. Walter glanced at the papers scattered on the floor, smirking at the titles of the empty lists.
"How thoughtful." Walter mused, as he rummaged deep into the navy-blue pockets, pulling out a crimson and gold lighter, flaked with blood and grime. Walter crouched down quietly and lit the candles that circled Henry's room and then watched as Henry calmed in his sleep; his muscles and body relaxing in the same way they would if Walter had given him some sort of tranquiliser.
Walter placed the lighter back into his pocket and began to pace the apartment, his smile strangely fond - like he'd just caught a glimpse of forever and forever had been beautiful.
ix - live until the brink of death.
Henry felt a lot of things about Walter. For one, even though they'd never properly met face to face (it was more like gun to face), Henry felt as though he knew Walter. As if he had always known Walter. Secondly, Henry was afraid of Walter; in fact, afraid was probably an understatement. Henry had never feared anything in his whole life in the way he feared Walter. Accompanying fear was anger; and along with anger came hate, pity, sympathy and hope.
Yet, with Walter sitting just across from him at the other side of the kitchen unit, Henry wasn't sure what to feel. Walter played with his food like a child, picking the fat off bacon as if he were plucking or scraping flesh from a bone.
Walter pointed at Henry, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"You, Henry," he began, smirking, "Think you can stop me, don't you?"
"I don't know," Henry said slowly, deliberately, "But I think I'm going to try."
Walter laughed loudly and smacked his thigh with his hand, "You can't even get through a day without breaking, Henry! You can't seriously expect to stop me, myself, when you can barely make it through one of my own worlds."
"Like I said," Henry leant back in his seat, every inch of him squirming to get away, "I'm going to try."
Suddenly, Walter gritted his teeth and glared at Henry, his eyes aglow with sardonicism.
"You know nothing." he spat, "And the parts that you do know are meaningless. You sit there; writing lists upon lists and deciphering ridiculous journal entries and notes. Let me decipher the story. Okay, Henry? Listen up and listen well."
Walter reached down and grabbed his knife and fork, "Henry closely followed the white noises and then gracefully, he climbed right down the rabbit hole and tumbled into my wonderland."
Walter began parading the cutlery around the kitchen unit, "Henry played there a little while although he swung his croquet club a little too severely against the hedgehogs and he tried to sneak somebody out of wonderland who should have remained there. Henry came and went as he pleased in wonderland, which is all a little too generous, if you ask me. For when the time is right, it's off with his head." Walter slung his head back casually and laughed, "Get it? Off with his head?"
Walter looked at Henry, expression completely confused, "Wh-why aren't you laughing?"
"I-I guess I just don't find it funny," Henry answered, taken aback that Walter's bizarre question wasn't rhetorical. "I mean. You're lightly discussing my inevitable death. Something I'm set upon changing-"
"You can't change it." Walter stated simply, "Fate is a tricky business, Henry. It's something you can't grasp for yourself and weave as you please. It's something that's cast deeply below us. Below reality and even below time itself. There's no stopping it, or changing it when it's just one perfect, finite thing."
"I guess that I just don't really believe in fate." Henry shrugged, feeling completely empowered upon hearing the calmness in his voice, "So, regardless, I guess I'll try and end this my way and you can try and end this your way."
Walter's lips pursed tightly and he regarded Henry with an odd sort of malice that Henry hadn't seen before. Different from the chaotic laughter and different from the cruelty he'd displayed with a smile.
Henry stared back at Walter with the same determination, both their expressions deadly serious.
"I thought you'd give in to me much easier," Walter muttered bitterly, "But it seems I was wrong."
"You can't just take my life as if you own it-" Henry began but Walter interrupted, his face once more alive with delight.
"But I do own it! All along it's been you, Henry. Henry Townshend, the receiver of wisdom." Walter laughed as he rolled Henry's title from his tongue in an almost regal fashion, "And that means your life is mine to take. For the sake of rebirth. For the sake of love. For the sake of mother!"
Walter listed Henry's reasons for dying as if he were reading aloud from a textbook and Henry pitied the firm desperation in Walter's voice. He opened his mouth to ask the question he'd longed to ask Walter from the very beginning but something stopped him.
"After you," Walter continued, "I will be free. Everyone will be free. Can't you see that?"
"You-" Henry began, feeling the brief spark of courage inside him begin to fade, "You- I mean, You don't actually believe this will work, do you?"
Walter's expression jerked as if something inside him had just shut down and Henry saw the harsh glint in Walter's translucent green eyes begin to pale. Walter got down from the chair and wandered backwards.
"Of course it-" he began.
"It can't work. You have to know what it-"
"Henry."
"What it really means. You have to know that-"
"Stop it."
"This room-"
"Shut up!"
Henry shut up. With fists clenched at his sides, Walter breathed in and out through gritted teeth. Henry stood.
"This apartment is mine, Walter." he said calmly, meeting Walter's stare with his own.
For a while, Walter was silent. Then, once more, he smoothed back the grimy-gold of his hair and laughed, smugly.
"You can laugh all you want," Henry said quietly. "But at the end of the story, Alice still gets out of Wonderland."
x - photographs of the past
When the opportunity arose, Henry pulled out his camera and took a photograph of Walter. He felt the click of the shutterbox, the shudder of the flash, the mechanical splutterings of the tiny machine. If Walter had asked why he had taken it, Henry would have replied that after all this is over, he may, at some point, wish to reminisce about it. Not the charming, moving sort of reminiscing, but the type where you reassure yourself of something. In years to come, after the memory had faded slightly, like an old photograph, Henry could pull out the picture and remember and know. He can know that he beat Walter. He can know that he retook his home and retook the fragments of his life that go together to form his subtle existence.
So Henry takes a photograph. When he looks at the photograph, at first, at least, he won't be met with images of dead and putrefying flesh or the jerking necks of monsters. After all, the mind is nothing if it is not kind. He will, at first, at least, be met with the idea that in the past, there are shadows. Shadows that, though they may haunt him, are proof that he overcame them.
Henry flips the device over in his hands and takes a photograph of himself. He is steady and worn-out. There is a bloodied star dribbling at his lip.
Walter will not ask what that photograph represents but if he were to, Henry would contemplate it and then, in a voice that could break bones, he would answer:
"I'm not sure what is hiding in the depths of my heart - maybe this will show me something."
Author's Note: The fact that Henry's page in Another Crimson Tome was left blank always fascinated me. So though the requester asked for Henry gen, I hope they also don't mind a little bit of Walter.