The reality of the situation, before he crosses over into that memory of his dreams. Details James' deed to his wife.
But by the time that I felt that deep, deep stab that was somewhere where I thought my heart should have been, I /knew/.
The only thing I could hear was the rain. It pattered softly against the panes, a sigh, a caress. I stared at her, and could feel that pressure building beneath my eyelids.
"Mary?" My voice was small, and it cracked when I tried to force it out of its hiding place. Her head was lolling gracefully next to her shoulder, her neck arched in that beautiful form I had admired her for so much. Her lips were white tinged, and her delicate mouth had large, red imprints that spread to her cheeks.
My finger marks.
I knelt, hitting the floor with enough force to bruise my knees, saying, "Mary?" I saw that my hands were shaking as I reached over to right her head, check her pulse. For an absurd second, I wondered if I was touching a mannequin because she was so still, but then her mouth shifted slightly, and a breath that was caught deep in her throat wisped against my wrist. I gave a guttural, disbelieving grunt, and felt a low keen issue from my open mouth as I watched a tendril of blood trickle from her nose to pool gently against the hollow of my wrist.
"Oh, no, Mary, /no/.... Please... Mary? C'mon, Mary, I'm sorry. Please.... Wake up...."
I just wanted her alive again, more than anything. What was I doing/? My God, /what was I doing??
No, this is not how she wanted it.
She's- she's at peace now
(and you killed her)
and she should be happy.
I had been crying, I realized, as I looked down and felt my face stinging from tears. I traced my fingertips lightly across her nose bridge, lips, and the arches of her brows.
I bent forward, still on my knees, and worked my arms beneath her back. It was too easy. She was so wasted from the disease that I could feel her ribs and shoulder blades poking through the fabric of her sweatshirt. As I lifted her, she slumped against my chest, her chin hooking over my shoulder. For perhaps the last time, I held her tight to me. It had been such a long time since she could hold me back, and a while further that she had wanted to, so it didn't feel too... wrong.
She was light as I scooped her up, and she folded so easily. My lips had gone numb, and the furthest wall had blurred a little.
I knew where we were going. My boots sounded heavily on the floor, scuffing across the carpet. I had left the door open, and as I turned minutely to let us maneuver through to the hall way that same, painful jab slid through my chest.
It was the second time I had carried her across a threshold.
I burst into tears as I stepped into the hall, the moisture sliding down my face to slip onto hers. I knew where I was going. I was walking toward that everlasting afternoon where sunlight spilled across our memory and drenched our hearts with a sweet sort of pain.
That memory of Silent Hill.