LOST DAYS
[prequel: a sound in time]
[part one: serpent] [part two: reed] [part three: sun]
Title: Lost Days [part four: joy]
Pairing: James/Harry
Rating: R
Summary: Separated, but on the same path; what does each piece mean, anyway? The laws of life and death can't matter here.
"Hey. From what I get, Alessa had powers, right?"
Heather (Cheryl Alessa) isn't entirely sure she wants to go down this road, but. Well, she humors Douglas. "Yeah, from what I gather. She could make all kinds of things happen with her mind. Supposedly, if she wished hard enough, people would die."
Douglas shakes his head. "Whole thing is nuts."
"Yeah."
Heather tries not to stop and wonder what she'd wish for. How hard she'd wish. No matter how much it hurts in her chest, she tries not to think of it.
-=-=-
Harry is gone. That's the fact that settles down at first. It doesn't have much to do with the idea that they were just attacked by a giant slimy worm with odd pale mane; this is Silent Hill, and he can deal with that sort of bizarre thing that happens all the damned time. No, what settles is the first thing that seems to stick out to him, and it lingers with him.
That Harry is gone, down this hole, down further than his flashlight can dare to illuminate.
There are thoughts and considerations to this issue, more than he cares to think on. On one hand, the better idea is to step away and find a safer route of getting downstairs, assuming he wants to venture into this place and find Harry (yes he does). On the other hand, jumping down holes has proven to be particularly useful in the past, whether or not Harry seemed rather against this idea (either Harry or James or both of them are crazy anyway).
There's also the fact that he notices right away how unusual it is, suddenly, that James is alone again. It's barely been a day, and he's already been adopted to the other man's presence?
Not at all. That's just ridiculous.
But then, so is jumping down a giant gaping hole in the floor, and that's just what he's doing.
-=-=-
The first thing worth noting is, of course, how cold he feels. There really isn't much pain in him, even though he feels the stickiness of blood on his fingers and on the side of his face -- perhaps his own blood, perhaps not -- and he's sure he must have broken some bones on the way down to wherever he is now, he's completely whole and that's plain wrong.
Pushing himself up a bit, Harry peers around, squinting in the darkness, a little disturbed at how quickly his eyes adjust to the lack of lighting. This must be the basement, he supposes, although as he looks up, he only sees a gap in the ceiling, a hole going up and up in what seems like forever, and he's somehow hit the bottom with no sign of the bizarre worm creature.
The author gets to his feet and stares down at himself. Tears in his jacket and shirt and jeans, all where teeth were raking into him when he was being dragged down, but any signs of wounds are now gone.
The only problem now is that he's cold, and James isn't around.
Somehow that seems significant to think about. Whenever he gets cold, James... well, he takes care of it. Probably not in the best of ways, either, and that's something Harry constantly admits to himself. That they really shouldn't be interacting the way that they usually do, and he always seems to have a hard time saying no to him.
Regardless, it's cold, and getting colder. Best thing, even if he wasn't getting chilled, would be to find James anyway. Somehow.
He starts forward, blinded mostly by the darkness. His eyes are, surprisingly, readjusting quite quickly, and the surrounding around is essentially predictable in the fact that everything is spacious, covered in rusty grates, and fans slowly turning on the ceiling (somehow, he finds, that this detail is important to note to himself; fans are turning, but so what?). There's that awful smell that sadly he's getting used to, even if it makes his eyes water a bit.
If anything, all Harry finds he can do is step forward, even if he really has no clue where he's going.
Every step he takes, the temperature seems to drop for him; he wraps his arms around himself, shivering, hoping that no monsters are going to lurk their way towards him.
Somehow, it's easier to deal with this place with someone else's company. His stomach drops as he thinks of his first time here, the comfort he took in when he had Cybil around (until their very last meeting) and how so damned reluctant he was to leave Lisa (in spite of that last time) and how annoyed he was that Kaufmann was perfectly fine wandering on his own (maybe it's a bit of karma that Harry left him behind to Silent Hill). Though, really, he has himself to blame, anyway. He knows he's a hypocrite.
He'd like for someone's company, but damn if... he never keeps it. He always felt guilty for letting James walk out that door six years ago, and though he tried to find him again, he never found the right answers. Right now isn't much better.
What is he expecting, anyway? There isn't a level of personal understanding between them. There never was. Harry can give up everything and try to help him, but he can't say if there's much in return--
(No. Damn it, he's not about to blame James for anything. Not for all that he's been through. God, what's wrong with him?) Harry isn't spiteful. Not an inch of this has ever been anyone's fault but his own. That's the only real truth here.
He trembles in the cold, even though he's sure it should only be full of blistering heat here.
screeeeeeeeech
Harry jerks at the noise. What in the hell was...?
screeeeeeeeech
He glances around the area, finding that the hall does split off into two paths. One with the noise, one without.
Logically speaking, someone shouldn't head towards the noise, but... Hell, what if it's James? Sure, the noise is giving Harry helluva headache, but it's not like he has much else to lose at this point.
Hesitantly, Harry heads down the path with the screeching noise, like metal scraping against metal, grinding, being forced to move. Not quite like dragging, but...
He continues down, and wrapping his arms as tight around himself as he can manage. Getting so much colder so quickly now. And his eyes -- he can see in the dark too damned well. Just what the hell is wrong with him?
He stops, hesitating. The hall ends with a room; there's a steel door to the left, and a wall made entirely of grating. He can see the other side, and he's certain that's where the screeching noise is.
It's foolish, but Harry leans in to look through the grating.
It's some kind of creature. At first, honestly, it almost looks like a man from behind, but with careful look, Harry can see the difference. The thing is wearing some kind of smock, boots, and gloves, its shoulders tattooed with a symbol that makes him shudder. Its face is basically not there, and it seems entirely focused on turning a wheel that's implanted into the wall.
(Valtiel.) That's the word that comes to mind, and Harry has no idea what the hell it even means.
"Hey!"
The author jerks away from what he's looking at, whirling around to see who just snapped at him.
It's a girl, can't be any older than thirteen or fourteen. Blonde hair, tied back. Her clothes have probably seen better days, but then, in a place like this, that sort of thing happens, doesn't it?
Still, Harry is surprised. What's a girl like her doing here?
"Um." Stammering is probably not a good start to a conversation. "What are you--"
"I know you're with him!" she cuts him off. "He won't make you happy, and if you help him, I'll never forgive you!"
"Him?" It doesn't take Harry very long to understand what she means. Honestly, he's amazed, but mostly worried. "You mean James? You know him?"
"Just leave him behind!" The girl turns away and starts for the door.
"No-- wait a second! You don't understand--" Harry starts after her. "Do you know where he is?!"
Without another word, the girl slams the steel door behind herself, blocking Harry. Although the writer tries the door, he finds that it's locked. Although he gives it a few good pulls, it doesn't budge one bit.
He lets out a sigh, and turns around--
And finds himself face-to-face with that thing (Valtiel).
"...U-uh," Harry says weakly, frozen in his place.
It just stares at him, even without any noticeable traces of eyes, ears, nose, or even a mouth. The way it stands, it seems to be slouching, yet it's taller than Harry is, peering down at him. Breathing loudly.
Harry finds he can't budge. He doesn't tremble. But damn, he wants to run the hell away.
Valtiel is suddenly grabbing him by the shoulders. The grip is tight, and he can't help but gasp; the smartest thing to do would be to try to respond in some kind of attack, or get away, but he stays still for now. It picks him up, gently setting him aside. It turns towards the door, and although Harry no longer feels it holding onto him, he doesn't feel quite relieved just yet.
Suddenly, it grabs onto the door, the metal bending under his grip like it's made of paper; Valtiel rips the door off its hinges, chucking it across the room.
...Oh damn. Harry tries to remember to breathe, but. God damn.
The thing never speaks, and Harry is sure it can't anyway. Conversations with the damned monsters are about impossible, after all, but this is the most sentient behavior he's seen from them. (He's not ever going to count Lisa amongst them.) Still, it suddenly reaches out, taking Harry by the hand, dragging him down the hallway.
He stumbles and hisses softly; shit its hand is hot. He doesn't think it has to do with the fact that he's so terribly cold. It's hot and it burns a little, but from what he understands, that's something he can handle.
He tries not to fret, but it's uncomfortable.
"Um." He hates how timid his voice sounds. "Where... where are you taking me?"
It doesn't say anything, of course.
He sighs softly.
The way it walks isn't particularly fast. Valtiel seems to be taking its time with slow, firm walks, boots loudly settling onto the floor. Slow going can't be so bad, though.
And, despite the heat coming from the creature's hand, Harry still can't help but feel cold.
-=-=-
One thing will always be clear.
Her father, for all he blamed himself, always made her feel consistent. No matter what, Heather will love him, always love him.
She flips through pages of his journals, hesitant.
Because every word makes it feel like he's alive again.
And when she gets to the end, Heather knows, she'll have to let that go.
For now, it's almost like before. As always, Harry Mason made her feel joy.
-=-=-
When he wakes, the smell of ash, dust, and soot blinds him as first; he inhales, he coughs, and almost regrets breathing by how his lungs and throat burn. Not that the air here is all that fresh to begin with. It never was, it never will be. James can pretty much already taste the familiarity of Silent Hill. It's like swallowing and living in nightmare, all over again.
It should be frightening, earth shattering, or breaking him apart again.
Instead, he feels stiff and cold and unmoving, like it's harder to have the desire to do much but sit and accept that fact that he's here again. It's no matter of depression, but it's like any desire to feel animated has been drained from James.
Not that he's been particularly emotional ever, but at least he felt some semblance of life alongside of Harry.
(Damn if that doesn't sound gay as hell.)
"Well, if I have to judge your intelligence on a scale of one to ten, you'd be an amazing negative four right now."
That's not a voice James knows. He jerks away from the floor, stumbling to his feet to turn to whoever is speaking, frowning faintly.
Definitely not someone he knows. Some guy with glasses, pretty average looking; vest, white shirt -- nothing else really stands out about him, yet James has to question the chill going up his spine when he stares at this guy.
"Oh, sorry. Did I offend you?" the stranger asks curiously. "I have to say, that's the least of your worries, considering where you are right now."
"I know." James frowns. "Listen, all right? Have you seen a man around here, in his late forties? He has his hair combed back, and he wears a leather jacket." Why did that just feel like a familiar scenario?
Somehow, the description causes the man to perk up. "Oh. Well, that would depend, wouldn't it? Maybe if I had a name or something to go with the face?"
Damn if this guy isn't a bit odd. Still, James doesn't see anything wrong in saying it. "His name's Harry."
"Terribly average name, you know, but it's one I've heard plenty of times around these parts, stranger." The way this man grins is just bizarre, like he's snickering behind James' back with a secret. Suffice to say, James is liking him less and less. "Well, I'll tell you this much: you'll get around to seeing him eventually if you stick around."
"We just got separated," James elaborates a bit more. "Look, if you aren't going to be helpful--" He starts to turn away, but the odd man hurries to step into his path.
"Oh, no. Now, see here, I was just giving you a hard time. To be honest, I wouldn't expect someone like that sneaky guy to be around here."
(Sneaky guy? Harry? If anyone is sneaky, it's probably this weirdo.)
The odd man shrugs. "You understand how this works, don't you? To be honest, you only come across two kinds of people here, what with you being able to see me and all. There's obviously the alive people, like you, who get caught up in whatever kind of grand design is going on. Then there's people like me, who are dead as a doornail. Now, you say you've been hanging around this Harry fellow, right?"
"We came across each other at Ashfield not too long ago," James responds hesitantly. What's this guy getting to? Dead? Funny, with how energetic he seems, he's rather lively.
"Ashfield? Now that really is interesting." The stranger smirks faintly. "Here I thought you'd come across a very dead man, after all."
"...Granted, he's acting strangely." That's hell of an understatement. "But Harry seems pretty alive to me."
"Seems? Well, let me put it this way. Either he's alive, or he's not, and I can promise you, he was pretty dead before I was. If you really think about it, he's probably just like me, wandering around stuck in this hellhole." The man shrugs. "Unless, of course, there are details I'm missing -- which I think I am."
James scowls. "This isn't really getting me anywhere."
"Oh, just think about it, won't you?" The man waves his hand, as if to dismiss James, then turns around, leaving down the hall.
The first bit James thinks of is just "what a strange man", but as he watches the guy, he stares at his back where obviously the man has been stabbed and is now bleeding from.
James tenses, and thinks this over.
Harry did say that he remembered being stabbed, that he should be dead, and no matter what they did to check, everything indicated that the author was indeed dead. But that still doesn't make sense; how did Harry end up in Ashfield, then? Completely noticeable in a regular, untainted environment? Far enough away from Silent Hill, anyway.
Doesn't make much sense. Does that make Harry dead or alive? Or something just like that weird man he just met?
Either way, it's not like James can stay still. He knows the longer he stands to think about this, the less he feels like... budging. It's odd to consider, but in a way, at least Harry inspired him to do something.
Even if it was to come back to this damned place, at least it was something.
James turns and decides he should go in the opposite direction of that weird guy, just for safety. He definitely isn't interested in meeting up with him again. Definitely too damned strange, anyway.
The hall isn't too different than his expectations. Peeling paint, the smell that never stops being revolting, the rust decorating the damned place -- it's all expected, mostly, yet it still manages to rattle his survival instincts. In spite of determining that this place will always be horrific, in its design it never stops being unique with that terror.
James really wishes it would go stale, but that's impossible.
He hesitates a moment, if only because he eventually begins to hear the distant noise of sobbing. Something akin to a little kid, he thinks -- a girl. Yet, he can't help but wince, because his thoughts go to Laura. Damned brat, but he did inevitably and obviously leave her behind in favor of the idea of suicide, something that he was rescued from anyway. He'd never gone back for her. Honestly, he has to wonder if she's a teenager now, or if she's dead.
Still, he advances, unfortunately his curiosity winning.
Around the corner, he immediately sees it; a giant hole in the wall again, just like in the floor where the monster had snagged Harry. The hole continues through a series of walls, and as James steps through the holes, he finds that the sobbing is closer than ever.
"Hello?" he tries, for the hell of it, calling out for the source of the sound.
The only response he's given is that the cries become louder. James lets out a sigh, trying not to feel annoyed as he follows the series of gaping holes that have torn through classrooms of this unusual school. He eventually finds himself at the end of the hallway, standing before a set of doors marked as Locker Room. Whether or not this belongs to men or women, though seems to have been scribbled out.
Still, that's where the source of the crying must be, he thinks.
James pushes the doors open, stepping inside. Almost immediately, the crying stops.
"Hey," he calls out, trying to keep his voice sounding gentle, though he rather thinks his tone sounds a bit more strangled. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Whoever it is, anyway.
James turns and looks around, then notices her; it looks like she's curled up in a ball near a bathroom that's ajar. Black hair, a little blue dress that's been stained, and little black shoes. She isn't moving, though.
Something about this doesn't seem quite... right.
Yet, James steps forward anyway.
Before he can get too close to her, suddenly she's jerked into the air, and he notices why almost immediately. Moving so awkwardly out from the bathroom is a damned monster again; the "girl" is nothing but a puppet on this thing's arm, swaying lifelessly. It's a rather simple looking creature, the way it has a filthy yet perfectly shiny mannequin head set onto a torso. The arm holding the puppet is its right, and the left arm appears to be missing entirely, yet this thing is walking on a pair of plastic arms and hands as if they were feet and legs.
Yet, James' eyes are drawn to its chest. Flat and yet androgynous, shards of metal and rust are sticking out of it, causing the thing to bleed, yet it's moving towards him anyway.
The more staring he's done, the easier it was for the thing to use the girl puppet to grab onto his throat abruptly; James gags a moment, finding himself being dragged towards the creature, towards those rather pointy and sharp shards on its chest--
James manages to pull himself free of its grip, struggling away and then kicking it over at its side.
"This way! Mister!"
What in the--?
That voice is clearly very young and female. James jerks his head to look over, and all he sees is some little girl running out from the locker room at the other side.
Well. Hell if he's going to stay here.
Following a running girl seems like a familiar enough scenario, but James goes for it; he runs, and gets the hell out of there.
-=-=-
Of course, it's quiet as they walk. As they go further and further, Harry can still tell that it's getting hotter, hot enough to start to be hazy, and yet he still feels chills running through his body. No matter the heat he's getting from Valtiel's hand, it's still not enough.
He sighs softly.
Oddly, as if sensing his dismay, the creature gently squeezes his hand in some form of reassurance. Damned weird, but oddly... kind of touching, he thinks.
"Um." Harry ducks his head, feeling foolish for saying it. "Thanks."
As they continue on, there's the sensation that they're not alone, or at least that same feeling Harry starts to get when he can't control his actions. A part of him feels like he ought to panic, but so far, he's quite certain that he's still controlling his own two feet, that he's advancing on his own. Nothing is forcing him.
He's okay.
Harry just breathes, even if that's a bit difficult to do, too.
They arrive at a wide, yet thin room. That is to say, the ceiling is quite high, revealing a monstrous sight. It looks like some kind of nurse monster is stuck in a cage that seems to have been scrapped together made from chain-link fences and other various urban parts. She wriggles, as if in pain, and Harry can't help but observe above her where rather feminine legs dangle limply, twitching now and again.
Still, it's the nurse that has his attention, and he has the funny feeling he should know who it is; regardless, it causes him a sense of sorrow and pity, which strikes him as odd. This is a monster, isn't it? Why should he feel bad for it?
Yet he stands, watching, almost overwhelmed with a sense of guilt.
(This is punishment.)
...A strange phrase to think, and Harry almost wonders if the thought was his own.
He turns to Valtiel, and knows that the creature is staring at him with that eyeless gaze. Harry almost jerks instinctively, then he tries to ask, "What is this...?"
Valtiel tilts his head, then points silently at the cage.
(Yes, surely, this is punishment.)
"This isn't..." Harry pulls away, glancing at the cage with the nurse creature inside, writhing about in torment. "This isn't right!" he finally snaps. "Whatever it is -- are you doing this? This isn't right at all! You have to stop this!"
The way Valtiel moves is almost in confusion, its head twitching, the way it leans back and stares at the cage.
"Yes! Stop this-- can't you?" Harry is starting to feel a bit desperate. Is he making any sense to this creature?
(But why would I want it to stop? She deserves it. She feels guilty guilty guilty--)
Damn it, these can't be his own thoughts. Why would he ever ... even if it is a monster, it doesn't deserve to be tortured. Harry holds his head, hissing at himself, "Stop that! This isn't right. What am I thinking...?"
There's a sharp headache forming, powerful and surprising enough to make him gasp; Harry collapses to his knees, clutching at his forehead. There's the pounding sensation in his skull, and the noise of church bells far off again, ringing in his ears and brain, so loud, so damned loud.
He can't pay attention to anything, not even the way Valtiel calmly steps around him.
(It's nothing but a stupid creature to me, why should I care?)
It's just not right, he thinks a but dumbly to himself. Harry isn't exactly the role model for morals, but hell, he just... seeing that, it couldn't be right to let it happen. What in the hell was that Valtiel creature trying to prove, anyway?
It was... it was almost like it was looking for approval or something.
The noise doesn't calm, but he does feel those hot hands on his shoulders, gently lifting him back to his feet. Squinting through the migraine paining him, Harry stares up.
The nurse isn't in the cage anymore.
"W-where...?" Harry doesn't get out much more than that word alone. It's too much to bear, this stupid headache.
Silently, Valtiel is wrapping his arms around Harry, pulling him close. He can feel the power this creature has, but it isn't crushing him, just holding him close, and it's weird. Harry winces at the burning the contact causes, but he isn't strong enough to pull away. Not with how his headache is hitting him. He weakens as the sounds of the church bells increases, and he's finding himself limp again the creature, breathing against its filthy robe and gagging at the smell.
Eventually, it's enough that he's almost certain he loses consciousness.
He thinks 'almost certain', because it only feels like a brief pause of darkness and thoughtlessness. It doesn't seem to last long at all, and he isn't sure how, but he finds himself abruptly waking up, gasping, clutching at...
What in the hell, a bench? He's outside again?
Harry slowly gets to his feet, frowning as he looks around. "James?" he tries calling out, although he already feels it's futile with how quietly the fog rolls on by him and snow keeps drifting down. Sighing, he also attempts with, "Valtiel?"
Nothing. Just silence.
Wonderful.
Brushing himself off, the writer glances around, baffled. This isn't outside the school, but... he seems to be outside of...
"Oh. No." Harry practically jerks back at the sight of the sign.
Alchemilla Hospital.
Was this Valtiel's doing? Bringing him here?
But where's James? Should he try to go back for him?
Yes. Of course, he thinks, but it doesn't take long to realize something. Both ways down the street, as he walks just a bit of a distance, is blocked off by a brick wall on one end and a chain-link fence on the other.
Effectively, Harry is stuck where he is.
"Damn it," he mutters, running his fingers through his hair in frustration. The only thing apparent here is some... blue car, a Lincoln or something. The odd thing about it, he realizes, is that it's soaking wet for some reason.
Somehow, he immediately thinks of the key in his pocket, the one he managed to grab from the school earlier. True, it is shaped a bit like the way it should be if it belonged to a car or something. Hesitantly, Harry approaches the vehicle; the doors don't unlock, but as he discovers, the trunk does.
At first, he flinches, then lets out a soft sigh. Just... oddly enough, a floral skirt and a plain sweater inside with a pair of white heels tucked into a corner of the trunk. Harry raises a brow, trying to understand the significance of this.
Still, he checks around, just in case. In the sweater pocket, he discovers, is a key (wonderful, another key) and... well, under the skirt is a piece of paper.
All it says is Mary.
"...Wait..." Harry glances away, frowning in thought. Mary. That was the name of James' wife. That's a name he can't mistake, what with how often James calls him it.
He lets out a bitter sigh.
...But just what does this mean?
To be honest, he's thought about that woman a lot more than he figures he should ever have. Mostly, years ago when James first walked out the door and Harry let him go, yet tried to find him again anyway fruitlessly. Harry had always wondered what sort of woman she was. Was she kind, was she loving? What kind of person was she that James missed so much, held onto desperately? He imagined that she must have smiled often, inspired James with some kind of semblance of emotion, far more than the kind of man he appears to be now. Hell, maybe even joy.
Someone that James was willing to kill himself over, apparently.
In a way, Harry wished he could talk to her, just to understand James that much better.
Fat chance of that, of course. Although Harry is certain he's dead, he's equally certain that he'd never meet Mary in this damned place.
Shaking his head, Harry takes the note anyway; never know when in the hell it should be useful. Turning, he reluctantly approaches the doors to Alchemilla Hospital.
He opens them, takes in a deep breath, and steps inside.
-=-=-
Chasing a little girl all over a school was not something James hoped to do upon his return to Silent Hill. It's something he's quickly regretting, too, with how he's losing breath.
Yet, at the end of a hallway at times, the girl calls out for him,
"Don't give up! We gotta keep going!"
He snorts a bit, and he follows. His legs feel like they're on fire, and he'd almost rather give up, but he doesn't get around to doing that. Maybe because giving up is too much work, in a way of things. So James keeps going.
Eventually, he sees her at the very end of what he hopes is the last hallway.
Short black hair. Couldn't be older than seven or eight.
She doesn't wait; the little girl is opening the door, and hurrying outside.
"H-hang on a second! God damn it." James shakes his head, and follows her out the door and--
Finds himself outside.
Just what the hell was that?
Looking around, James finds himself baffled, then remembers. Harry. Where's Harry? Turning around, he finds the door behind him closed, and although James tries it, again and again, it's fucking locked.
Fuck.
He turns again, shaking his head, and he sees -- just ahead. A piece of paper on the ground. Slowly, he approaches it, looking down.
It's a crayon drawing of ... is that a hospital?
"Oh, no. Fuck that," James mutters angrily. Still, he picks up the paper anyway, looking it over.
On the back, written like a... well, a seven-year-old would. Alchemilla Hospital is written, and under it scrawled is by Cheryl.
...Cheryl. Wait. Why is that name nagging at him...?
James stops, trying to think, trying to remember why it's suddenly important. When did he first hear that name and tuck it away because it seemed important? He rubs his forehead, and...
He remembers. The night, before the morning he left Harry's place six years ago. Right after they'd... that they had both finished, Harry mentioned the name, and never quite explaining its importance.
...This Cheryl. Whoever she is, she's connected with Harry. That much, he's sure it's true.
Sighing, he folds up the picture and tucks it into his back pocket. He might as well suffer through that damned place. It's not Brookhaven, but hospitals in general just bother him now. He hasn't seen a doctor in years, and he hopes never to, even after this.
For now, he has to go to Alchemilla. Try to find Harry, somehow.
It's not like he has much else left. Besides, at least... well, at least with Harry, he almost feels like a human being again.
Even if he's doing this completely for selfish reasons, James moves on down the road.
-=-=-
Of all things, Heather's father made her feel like a human being.
No one else could make her feel happier.
For now, nothing else could matter. Dead or not, nothing else could possibly ever matter right at this moment.