Fic: That Which Held Me Is Now Gone; PG-13
This is another one from the Jack Kerouac School of Writing. Forgive me for anything that seems ridiculously bizarre or surreal.
Inspired by the song 'The Glass Prison'.
Title: That Which Held Me Is Now Gone
Fandom: SH4
Characters: Henry Townshend, Frank Sunderland
Word Count: 1894
Spoilers: Full game
Rating: PG-13
AN: Again, Jack Kerouac School of Writing. I fixed spelling mistakes and where I had left out words, or completely misused words, but other than that, I left it as is. As usual, this is going with the 'Escape' ending.
Summary: It was truly over and done with, the darkness retreated and Henry finally free. But there were still small things that needed to be done....
Way off in the distance I saw a door
I tried to open
I tried forcing with all of my will and still
But the door would not open
Unable to trust in my faith
I turned and walked away
I looked around, felt a chill in the air
Took my will and turned it over
The glass prison which once held me is now gone
A long lost fortress
Armed only with liberty
And the key of my willingness
Fell down on my knees and prayed
"Thy will be done"
I turned around, saw a light shining through
The door was wide open
It almost felt like a well repeated routine. Henry went to his windows and tugged at the lips. For five days he had fought with them, rattled them, cursed them to the heavens. Glass barriers that refused to let him pass, held tight by some sinister magic of which he could not combat.
This time, they opened. He pushed them up as far as they’d go, ignoring the stale hot air that rushed in from the New England summer night. He turned on the television. Some infomercial, a cheerful blond aging actress trying to convince him to buy a juicer splashed across the screen. An image. Bright and loud and so unfamiliar to his eyes.
He almost sank to his knees before it.
The radio played music. He could have danced a jig. The sound came pouring out of his speakers. Oldies. Old ones but good ones, his mind supplied in a moment of near hysteria.
His hope chest. He flung open the lid and found nothing within but shoeboxes of photos and old scraps of magazines and a neatly folded quilt that resided there until winter months. All normal, mundane things.
The laundry room was clean and tidy, washer and dryer sitting like alabaster idols, waiting for their stained and sullied sacrifices. No blood. No gaping portal opened like a mouth above them, no horrors lurking beneath the plaster of the walls. No old evil gods held sway here.
The bathroom. Henry held his breath as he opened the door, the hot stagnant air from the open windows carried in by wind now. His clothes stirred. But the bathroom, that tiled closet of evil, was empty. Tub and shower were pristine white, sink whole and uncracked, mirror reflecting his own ravaged visage back to him.
He looked like hell.
But the apartment was quiet. Still. It was no longer a vessel, no longer anything but a place where Henry’s things existed.
He stood in the living room, the TV and radio both still on. Beneath the exhaustion and fear and desperate relief, there was a sense of pride. This was his home, his castle. He had defended it and won, fought off armies of deformed invaders….
Tomorrow he would leave this place, revel in his freedom. He would go to Eileen in the waking world, seek her out and assure himself she was well and whole. But for now….
He had enough strength left to shuck off his shirt and jeans and crawl into bed in his boxers and T-shirt. Real sleep, free of dreams and journeys to nightmare realms, came quickly.
***
An hour later, strong knocking woke Henry from his slumber. He froze in a moment of panic, too soon learned and never forgotten. But then he remembered. It was over. It was over and whoever knocked was a real person….
He climbed out of bed, muzzy, running a hand over his face. He grabbed his bathrobe from the washroom, wincing at his reflection. Red eyes. Hollows. A week’s worth of coarse stubble. He pulled on his bathrobe and shuffled to the door, mind desperate for a few more hours of true sleep.
Habits died hard. He glanced through the peephole, a part of his mind noting the door. A plain white wooden door, marred by nothing more than smudged fingerprints and smoke.
Outside the door, an equally elating sight. A blank wall, and the muttering form of Frank Sunderland turning from the door, expression pained.
Henry opened the door quickly, fingers feeling strangely numb and unwieldy. He opened it, some strange sick thrill running through him as he did.
“Mr. Sunderland?” he managed, his voice sounding tired and rough even to his own ears.
The superintendent paused. Henry found himself staring at the man’s back, wrapped in some old house coat. There were slippers on the man’s feet.
“Henry? Henry Townshend?”
He wanted to reply ‘how many other Henry’s live in the building?’ but he knew it was just a randomly thrown out thought, a bubble risen from the depths of his fogged and over-tired mind.
“Yeah. It’s…uh…four in the morning. What’s….?” He almost asked ‘what’s going on?’, but he knew what was going on. Though why was Mr. Sunderland here now?
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Henry.” The man was looking at him strangely. Knowingly. Henry felt suddenly like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. No. After that. He had already plundered the jar and now there were crumbs around his mouth and he couldn’t deny his crime.
“It’s okay.” He rubbed at his tired eyes. “Um….”
“I wouldn’t have bothered,” Frank was mumbling. “It’s only the police have been around. Asking after you, you see. There’s been….some trouble.”
“Yeah.” Henry nodded. “I, uh…heard it. On the radio.” And saw it with his own eyes, again and again and again. Bodies, blood, death and destruction flashed in his mind’s eye for a moment before he shut them out.
“I had a feeling you knew.” Frank was still watching him.
“Oh, uh, come in.” Henry moved out of the doorway and stood aside, to let his landlord in. Frank paused, staring into the dim apartment - with both radio and TV still on - as though he were afraid. But he stepped inside, cautious, eyes moving over every inch of the kitchen and living room.
“I, um, can I fix you something?” he asked. “Coffee, tea…uh, I think I have some soda around somewhere….”
He turned to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets.
“I think tea would be nice, thank you.”
Henry put on a kettle of water for tea and sat down, his body telling him he should be asleep as soon as he was off his feet.
“So what’s this about the police?” he asked, curious. He’d heard them next door….
“Well.” Frank glanced away, almost embarrassed. “See, since…two tenants were attacked, you see, and…when Miss Galvin woke up, she said your name, and you’ve been… unaccounted for these last few days….”
“Oh.” Henry didn’t know what to say. What could he say? But Frank was giving him that knowing look again, searching his face for some sign.
“They just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. He wasn’t worried. He’d just say he was…off sightseeing somewhere, or something. There wasn’t anything they could pin on him. He’d never left his apartment, and…well…he hadn’t seen any blood on his clothes, or anything like that. They were stained from sweat and smoke, but that was all. “Eileen woke up?”
“She did. From what I hear, she seemed like she’d had quite the fright.”
“Yeah.” Henry was relieved at the sound of the kettle whistling. He was dreading when Frank would ask him questions, want to know what had gone on. He poured the older man tea, not taking any himself.
“Strange things,” Frank muttered, shaking his head. “Makes a man wonder.”
“Has…anything else happened?” Henry hated himself for asking. But he had to know. Were there things he hadn’t seen?
“Just…the attacks. And… well, I’m missing something from my apartment, but I think that’s alright. Didn’t need it anyhow.”
It was Henry’s turn to look away ashamed. He’d been in Mr. Sunderland’s apartment. He’d read the man’s private thoughts, handled his things. He felt sick to think of it, how he had invaded the homes of others the way his own home had been invaded.
But it had been the only way.
“You alright, Mr. Townshend?”
Henry nodded. There was concern in the old man’s voice, and it was oddly touching. It was strange to think they were connected now in some way. So many people…fleeting shared experiences that had linked them to Henry for the rest of his life. The other tenants of South Ashfield Heights. Mr. Sunderland. Those people from places he didn’t know, hadn’t known until their paths crossed briefly in Walter’s nightmare….
He carried them with him, in a way, linked to them in ways he couldn’t place in words. It was almost something sacred.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, Mr. Sunderland. Just…tired.”
“Well, it’s four in the morning. Any sane man’d be tired, up at this hour. I’m tired.”
“You should get some sleep,” Henry urged. He should get some sleep.
“I suppose I should. But… well, I saw a window open. Thought maybe I ought to…check by.”
“That was…really kind of you, Mr. Sunderland.” Henry stood as the older man did.
“Just my job. Police’ll probably be around tomorrow. Thank you for the tea.”
“It’s no problem.” He showed Frank to the door, after finally shutting off the television. He was half afraid if he turned it off, it would never blaze to life again.
“And, uh….some folks are planning a vigil for Mr. Braintree. He wasn’t well liked, don’t get me wrong, but…. He was one of us. And…I think this bad business is over.”
“I think you’re right, Mr. Sunderland.” Henry nodded, holding the door open. He knew he was right, but he couldn’t quite say that. But his agreement was his confession. His admittance that yes, he knew everything. Yes, he’d been involved. Yes he had faced the demon and killed it and freed the place from the evil spell that had settled over it.
“That’s good to hear, Henry.” Frank nodded. “I…thought you might say that. I guess you’ll be moving out before too much longer, then?”
Henry looked around his apartment. Smoke stained walls. Old books. Furniture and knickknacks from garage and yard sales. Photographs, both his and those that others had taken of him. Those places where things had burst forth from his walls, turned his home into a living hell. There was no trace of them now, but he knew they had been there.
And he knew he had bested them.
“No,” he said, shaking his head as a small, secretive half-smile touched his lips. He met the older man‘s eyes, as Frank stood just outside the door, just beyond the threshold.
“You know what, Mr. Sunderland?” he went on, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over him. “I don’t think I’ll be moving out anytime soon. This…is my home.”
Inspired by the song 'The Glass Prison'.
Title: That Which Held Me Is Now Gone
Fandom: SH4
Characters: Henry Townshend, Frank Sunderland
Word Count: 1894
Spoilers: Full game
Rating: PG-13
AN: Again, Jack Kerouac School of Writing. I fixed spelling mistakes and where I had left out words, or completely misused words, but other than that, I left it as is. As usual, this is going with the 'Escape' ending.
Summary: It was truly over and done with, the darkness retreated and Henry finally free. But there were still small things that needed to be done....
Way off in the distance I saw a door
I tried to open
I tried forcing with all of my will and still
But the door would not open
Unable to trust in my faith
I turned and walked away
I looked around, felt a chill in the air
Took my will and turned it over
The glass prison which once held me is now gone
A long lost fortress
Armed only with liberty
And the key of my willingness
Fell down on my knees and prayed
"Thy will be done"
I turned around, saw a light shining through
The door was wide open
It almost felt like a well repeated routine. Henry went to his windows and tugged at the lips. For five days he had fought with them, rattled them, cursed them to the heavens. Glass barriers that refused to let him pass, held tight by some sinister magic of which he could not combat.
This time, they opened. He pushed them up as far as they’d go, ignoring the stale hot air that rushed in from the New England summer night. He turned on the television. Some infomercial, a cheerful blond aging actress trying to convince him to buy a juicer splashed across the screen. An image. Bright and loud and so unfamiliar to his eyes.
He almost sank to his knees before it.
The radio played music. He could have danced a jig. The sound came pouring out of his speakers. Oldies. Old ones but good ones, his mind supplied in a moment of near hysteria.
His hope chest. He flung open the lid and found nothing within but shoeboxes of photos and old scraps of magazines and a neatly folded quilt that resided there until winter months. All normal, mundane things.
The laundry room was clean and tidy, washer and dryer sitting like alabaster idols, waiting for their stained and sullied sacrifices. No blood. No gaping portal opened like a mouth above them, no horrors lurking beneath the plaster of the walls. No old evil gods held sway here.
The bathroom. Henry held his breath as he opened the door, the hot stagnant air from the open windows carried in by wind now. His clothes stirred. But the bathroom, that tiled closet of evil, was empty. Tub and shower were pristine white, sink whole and uncracked, mirror reflecting his own ravaged visage back to him.
He looked like hell.
But the apartment was quiet. Still. It was no longer a vessel, no longer anything but a place where Henry’s things existed.
He stood in the living room, the TV and radio both still on. Beneath the exhaustion and fear and desperate relief, there was a sense of pride. This was his home, his castle. He had defended it and won, fought off armies of deformed invaders….
Tomorrow he would leave this place, revel in his freedom. He would go to Eileen in the waking world, seek her out and assure himself she was well and whole. But for now….
He had enough strength left to shuck off his shirt and jeans and crawl into bed in his boxers and T-shirt. Real sleep, free of dreams and journeys to nightmare realms, came quickly.
***
An hour later, strong knocking woke Henry from his slumber. He froze in a moment of panic, too soon learned and never forgotten. But then he remembered. It was over. It was over and whoever knocked was a real person….
He climbed out of bed, muzzy, running a hand over his face. He grabbed his bathrobe from the washroom, wincing at his reflection. Red eyes. Hollows. A week’s worth of coarse stubble. He pulled on his bathrobe and shuffled to the door, mind desperate for a few more hours of true sleep.
Habits died hard. He glanced through the peephole, a part of his mind noting the door. A plain white wooden door, marred by nothing more than smudged fingerprints and smoke.
Outside the door, an equally elating sight. A blank wall, and the muttering form of Frank Sunderland turning from the door, expression pained.
Henry opened the door quickly, fingers feeling strangely numb and unwieldy. He opened it, some strange sick thrill running through him as he did.
“Mr. Sunderland?” he managed, his voice sounding tired and rough even to his own ears.
The superintendent paused. Henry found himself staring at the man’s back, wrapped in some old house coat. There were slippers on the man’s feet.
“Henry? Henry Townshend?”
He wanted to reply ‘how many other Henry’s live in the building?’ but he knew it was just a randomly thrown out thought, a bubble risen from the depths of his fogged and over-tired mind.
“Yeah. It’s…uh…four in the morning. What’s….?” He almost asked ‘what’s going on?’, but he knew what was going on. Though why was Mr. Sunderland here now?
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Henry.” The man was looking at him strangely. Knowingly. Henry felt suddenly like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. No. After that. He had already plundered the jar and now there were crumbs around his mouth and he couldn’t deny his crime.
“It’s okay.” He rubbed at his tired eyes. “Um….”
“I wouldn’t have bothered,” Frank was mumbling. “It’s only the police have been around. Asking after you, you see. There’s been….some trouble.”
“Yeah.” Henry nodded. “I, uh…heard it. On the radio.” And saw it with his own eyes, again and again and again. Bodies, blood, death and destruction flashed in his mind’s eye for a moment before he shut them out.
“I had a feeling you knew.” Frank was still watching him.
“Oh, uh, come in.” Henry moved out of the doorway and stood aside, to let his landlord in. Frank paused, staring into the dim apartment - with both radio and TV still on - as though he were afraid. But he stepped inside, cautious, eyes moving over every inch of the kitchen and living room.
“I, um, can I fix you something?” he asked. “Coffee, tea…uh, I think I have some soda around somewhere….”
He turned to the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets.
“I think tea would be nice, thank you.”
Henry put on a kettle of water for tea and sat down, his body telling him he should be asleep as soon as he was off his feet.
“So what’s this about the police?” he asked, curious. He’d heard them next door….
“Well.” Frank glanced away, almost embarrassed. “See, since…two tenants were attacked, you see, and…when Miss Galvin woke up, she said your name, and you’ve been… unaccounted for these last few days….”
“Oh.” Henry didn’t know what to say. What could he say? But Frank was giving him that knowing look again, searching his face for some sign.
“They just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. He wasn’t worried. He’d just say he was…off sightseeing somewhere, or something. There wasn’t anything they could pin on him. He’d never left his apartment, and…well…he hadn’t seen any blood on his clothes, or anything like that. They were stained from sweat and smoke, but that was all. “Eileen woke up?”
“She did. From what I hear, she seemed like she’d had quite the fright.”
“Yeah.” Henry was relieved at the sound of the kettle whistling. He was dreading when Frank would ask him questions, want to know what had gone on. He poured the older man tea, not taking any himself.
“Strange things,” Frank muttered, shaking his head. “Makes a man wonder.”
“Has…anything else happened?” Henry hated himself for asking. But he had to know. Were there things he hadn’t seen?
“Just…the attacks. And… well, I’m missing something from my apartment, but I think that’s alright. Didn’t need it anyhow.”
It was Henry’s turn to look away ashamed. He’d been in Mr. Sunderland’s apartment. He’d read the man’s private thoughts, handled his things. He felt sick to think of it, how he had invaded the homes of others the way his own home had been invaded.
But it had been the only way.
“You alright, Mr. Townshend?”
Henry nodded. There was concern in the old man’s voice, and it was oddly touching. It was strange to think they were connected now in some way. So many people…fleeting shared experiences that had linked them to Henry for the rest of his life. The other tenants of South Ashfield Heights. Mr. Sunderland. Those people from places he didn’t know, hadn’t known until their paths crossed briefly in Walter’s nightmare….
He carried them with him, in a way, linked to them in ways he couldn’t place in words. It was almost something sacred.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, Mr. Sunderland. Just…tired.”
“Well, it’s four in the morning. Any sane man’d be tired, up at this hour. I’m tired.”
“You should get some sleep,” Henry urged. He should get some sleep.
“I suppose I should. But… well, I saw a window open. Thought maybe I ought to…check by.”
“That was…really kind of you, Mr. Sunderland.” Henry stood as the older man did.
“Just my job. Police’ll probably be around tomorrow. Thank you for the tea.”
“It’s no problem.” He showed Frank to the door, after finally shutting off the television. He was half afraid if he turned it off, it would never blaze to life again.
“And, uh….some folks are planning a vigil for Mr. Braintree. He wasn’t well liked, don’t get me wrong, but…. He was one of us. And…I think this bad business is over.”
“I think you’re right, Mr. Sunderland.” Henry nodded, holding the door open. He knew he was right, but he couldn’t quite say that. But his agreement was his confession. His admittance that yes, he knew everything. Yes, he’d been involved. Yes he had faced the demon and killed it and freed the place from the evil spell that had settled over it.
“That’s good to hear, Henry.” Frank nodded. “I…thought you might say that. I guess you’ll be moving out before too much longer, then?”
Henry looked around his apartment. Smoke stained walls. Old books. Furniture and knickknacks from garage and yard sales. Photographs, both his and those that others had taken of him. Those places where things had burst forth from his walls, turned his home into a living hell. There was no trace of them now, but he knew they had been there.
And he knew he had bested them.
“No,” he said, shaking his head as a small, secretive half-smile touched his lips. He met the older man‘s eyes, as Frank stood just outside the door, just beyond the threshold.
“You know what, Mr. Sunderland?” he went on, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over him. “I don’t think I’ll be moving out anytime soon. This…is my home.”