Categories > Games > Silent Hill > Story's End
Have a Little Humor
0 reviewsCompleate:: A final moment of storytime from one Patient of Brookhaven to another...Art of Moroi can be found at anarchicq.deviantart.com
0Unrated
DISCLAIMER: Ok, so I've been waiting a while to get this chapter done. Happy me! Silent Hill belongs to Konami, but Moroi and all her little friends are mine, all mine! WAHAHAHAH!!!
Have a Little Humour
A SH fic by Q
Moroi climbed the steps two at a time, the gun re-stuck into her pant waist after she had loaded it. Its sleek barrel was chilly against her thin, soft abdomen, but she paid it no mind. The door emitted a groan of agony as the young in-patient pushed it open and stepped onto the third floor.
Finally! Moroi had made it 'home', to her floor. She looked across the hall to the door to S6, her room, where this all began.
Snailgirl sucked in a hiss of reeking air as she finally realized the appearance of her surroundings. The dilapidated state of Brookhaven had gone AWOL, and seemed replaced by utter Hell.
The walls were dead, rotted material, which was stitched together in patches. Wallpapering the walls were scribbles, many identifiable as Moroi's own penmanship, rushed, written over and running up, not down, into nonexistent sewer grates at the ceiling. The air smelled of old paper, sour ink, stale lead, and rotted wood, never mind the inherent undercurrent of something only akin to death. Tiny beads of moisture traveled through the air, suspended by their own will to be suspended. Some, Moroi would easily define as 'pretty', but those ones smelled of sweat and tasted of salt, some tasted dimmer on her tongue, yet held more sodium. Tears? The darker, oily blue and black swirly ones were evidentially an ink of some kind, and Moroi willed herself not to ponder the red ones.
Blood.
Sweat.
And Tears.
The tools of all passionate writers.
As Moroi walked quietly, the hovering beads soaked into her already marred clothing, and symbiotically latched onto her flesh and hair. She could feel pinpricks of irritation wherever the blood landed, sense the stench of the perspiration, and as the tears touched her, a shadow of sorrow absorbed into Moroi's heart. And with each ink drop, a new creation, existence, failed idea never to be scrawled and to inevitably die. Her nose twitched, stomach churning slightly, as she knew these humours didn't belong to just her. They were alien, unwelcome, and bitter.
A frail hand reached out to the wall, pressing fingers against its goosepimply surface. Moroi let out a sound of ill sensations as her mind identified it as flesh, and pulpy, runny paper.
The girl stepped fully into the hall; now noting her room's door handle seemed to be completely absent, the door papered over with a healthy share of staples and paper/flesh. Moroi groaned.
Gzzzzt!
Moroi's head turned swiftly to the right; her first observation was the fact the hall seemed much shorter. In fact, it ended with S8, S9 through S14 non-existent. The path that should have lead to S9 and beyond was barred by a stretch of that stitched together mass, pulled, distended and taught. This was achieved by the strong webbing of what appeared to be partially solidified rubber cement. The strands of sticky mucus still dripped a bit, unable to dry fully in the damp air. Upon the 'screen' blurred and ran various scratched, distorted images, busily attempting to order themselves into something decipherable.
Finally the images calmed, bringing forth a scratched image, yellow and spotty with age. A chipper track of not-so-special Japanese percussion and strings, skipped lazily over the image as it focused. The characters were of Eastern descent, and were tailed by English subtitles.
"Moroi Kagyuu. This is Your Life!"
An overly optimistic voice over read out the script, his voice patronizingly cheerful.
The writing blipped off screen, to be replaced by an image of an a-typical Asian family: mother, father, and a pink blanket in mother's arms, supposedly the daughter.
"Here you are at birth. Aww, what a cute baby!"
Moroi's brow's lowered, finding the faces unrecognizable. But then again, her parents didn't keep her long, now did they?
"Happy as they were, they sure didn't keep you long, now did they?"
See?
But the announcer continued on in his chipper voice, not patient enough for an answer, not that the disembodied voice really expected to be answered in the first place.
The image changed quickly, to a scene that Moroi did recognize. It was her room in that Japanese hospital, one she spent a majority of her young life in.
"And here you are at home, playing with the nurses."
A frenzy of yellowed white, and black blurred onto the screen, Moroi saw a vision of herself through the eyes of a non-existent third party. She could see Screen-Moroi dragged by the arms by two nurses, her body spasming with discontent. She was seen kicking and scratching at the staff, her whole body covered in scratches and small polka dots of blood.
Moroi remembered that day; she had the brilliant idea to give herself lead poisoning, and thus stabbed herself over and over with a number 2 pencil. Art was so much more appreciated after the creator was dead.
"You sure do seem to be having fun!...Aww..and here your are all tuckered out from a long day of playing."
Screen-Moroi was stretched out on her back, lying upon her designated gurney. Her slender wrists and ankles strapped tightly to the bed with thick leather restraints. A wide trail of saliva dribbled down her cheek and knotted her splayed hair. Her slender eyes appeared sunken, and were rolled back, the whites stark in the yellowed 'film'
Moroi shuttered.
"But despite all the fun with your nurse friends, you were lonely. And that's why you made friends in your head. Weren't they fun?" The host uttered a courtesy laugh. "Of course they were. Who needs real friends when you got your mind?"
Moroi felt her face curve into an indignant scowl.
"And then you met Korosu..."
The image blipped, fading like burning film, only to be replaced by the image of a young Asian man in his late teens. The image was shoulders up, but the collar of a bland hospital shirt could be identified. The young man's expression seemed dark by nature; a thick, transparent wall seemed to keep everyone at a distance. Korosu's hair was thick, and rather messy, hanging about his face like onyx coloured shards.
"He was a troubled young man, yet you seemed to understand him. You two dated."
Moroi's vision was soon filled with a kaleidoscope of images, each portraying herself and Korosu engaged in various activities around the Hospital grounds. All were fairly innocent and naive, nothing above a PG rating.
"Aww..." Gushed the announcer. "But most of all, you two dreamed together."
The girl let her head fall, knowing what was about to be revealed to her, yet she kept her gold eyes on the images. Moroi liked remembering the good times, and burring the bad.
"You of being published, and free. Korosu dreamed of killing his abusive father. The two of you exchanged stories about the Angel of Death, a Japanese urban legend. The two of you dreamed of the Angel taking you away and righting your wrongs. Eventually, the two of you believed that the Angel gave you pair powers. Korosu was discharged on good behaviour, and granted a trip home. Do you know what happened next, Moroi?"
Moroi answered reluctantly, her lower eyelids twitching with dozens of overwhelming emotions. How dare this false game show host dig up Korosu's mental grave and drag his name through the mud! But for all of Moroi's justified feelings, she was compelled to answer."..Within an hour, Korosu had killed his father."
"Very good, you're a smart girl. As a re-cap, Korosu killed his father within an hour, and was returned to the hospital. Then..One day, Korosu was nowhere to be found. You prattled on and on about the Angel of Death taking Korosu, and that you'd see him in your fantasy world. Have you?"
"...No."
"That's right." Answered the voice-over flippantly. "You never saw your childhood sweetheart again....UNTIL NOW!"
She tried to speak, tried to question the voice or her ears, but her throat seized up and Moroi just stood, stunned.
"LITTLE SNAIL!" Enthused the voice. "Say hello to KOROSU!!"
Everything fell silent to Moroi as the image once again switched to a full boy image of her dear friend, this time he was swathed in an oversized duster, the black shirt underneath sporting an image of the Lakeview Amusement Park's official mascot Robbie the Rabbit's disembodied head. Robbie was pink, a shocking red stain of blood seeping into his seemingly furry cheeks. It clashed, but was oh-so- Korosu.
Moroi let a tentative smile venture onto her lips. And then, the image distorted, and the girl reached out a hand, trying to keep the image with her. Little did she know that the pulling of the screen was a good thing. Fantasy ripped through reality as the man pulled from the screen like one would peel a rub on tattoo from flesh.
Koroso was whole, his baggy 'bondage pants' rattling against the chain link floor. He smiled at her.
All of the small dots of agony floating around the atmosphere seemed to leave the boy untouched, and their effects on Moroi numbed with Korosu's presence. At that smile, Moroi ripped at her inhibitions and simply lunged at him, wrapping her arms around his leather enwrapped arms and burying her soft, messy cheek deep against his ribcage.
"It's ok, Snailgirl." Korosu's voice was like a cooling vapour against her pained skull. And the lovingly dubbed moniker of 'Snailgirl' sent waves of ghostly charm down Moroi's back. "I'm here."
Moroi wanted to confess that she was horrified in this place. She wanted to tell him all the horrible things she had seen and had happen to her. She wanted to cry into Korosu's arms... But who has time for tears?
Thus, Moroi Kagyuu just let out a pleased sound as Korosu shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rocking her back and forth. Her shoulders curved as he let hands slip round Moroi's mid-back, gently pinning her upper arms to her sides. Korosu then placed a gentle kiss on her dishevelled, mucky hairline; He didn't seem to mind the gore. His lips made contact with Moroi's softly curving forehead, and again lower, onto her button nose.
Finally, Moroi felt her friend's lips on her own, a distantly prosaic feeling. She kissed back timidly, ever Korosu's humble follower. Korosu nibbled playfully at Moroi's chapped lips, causing her to laugh slightly. Korosu breathed out an amused sound before letting his tongue dance across her teeth.
Tongue played against tongue and a seal of lips and heated breath was created as Moroi felt herself being held tighter in a strong, constrictive embrace.
A gag bubbled up the girl's oesophagus when a warm, lumpy rush filled her mouth. It tasted bitter and brash, and coated every inch of her oral walls. She immediately identified the taste to be of drugs, and her tongue felt the contours of various pills and tablets. Moroi strained against her friend's body, yet Korosu's hold was forceful, and he moved with her, never breaking his seal. Moroi tried to cough, and only succeeded in opening her throat wider, that noxious concoction seeping it's quick way down to her stomach. Another cough was forced out of the girl, and some of the sick mass slipped between Moroi's and the man's mouth, leaking down her chin and against her clavicle. Moroi tried to cry out, and more of the cocktail just flowed down pooling amongst her stomach acids. Bubbles birthed from her nostrils, only to pop in tiny splatters and ooze out the vomitous mix.
Moroi's wide, effervescent eyes blurred the image before them with tears, thinking maybe this whole thing would be easier to accept if it were anyone but Korosu. Tears ran their way down Moroi's curved cheek, cutting through the gore and meds to show clean flesh underneath. She stretched and strained, her hand gripping a cold, dead salvation.
Her brows knit together in agony as Moroi felt the nose of the gun dig it's way into softness.
With each roaring discharge of the handgun, a flash illuminated her eyes, despite the fact her lids were squeezed tightly together. And with each squeeze of the trigger, Moroi felt Korosu's hold weaken a little. After un- counted shots, a rush of icy air hit Moroi's frail frame as the form of Korosu slipped from her person, and thudded dully onto the chain link ground.
Moroi dare not open her eyes as she dropped the firearm numbly, thin legs quaking beneath her, before giving out completely. Snailgirl's knees slammed against the rusted, wet chain link, before the rest of her form gave up, and fell onto Korosu's form. She snuggled, drawing the long coat around both forms, and huddling beneath it in a dead foetal position.
8:36pm,July 21st 2004
-Korosu means 'Murder' by the by.
-Wow. Two SH3 references. Can you catch em?
-I've really wanted to write this chapter. YAY!
Have a Little Humour
A SH fic by Q
Moroi climbed the steps two at a time, the gun re-stuck into her pant waist after she had loaded it. Its sleek barrel was chilly against her thin, soft abdomen, but she paid it no mind. The door emitted a groan of agony as the young in-patient pushed it open and stepped onto the third floor.
Finally! Moroi had made it 'home', to her floor. She looked across the hall to the door to S6, her room, where this all began.
Snailgirl sucked in a hiss of reeking air as she finally realized the appearance of her surroundings. The dilapidated state of Brookhaven had gone AWOL, and seemed replaced by utter Hell.
The walls were dead, rotted material, which was stitched together in patches. Wallpapering the walls were scribbles, many identifiable as Moroi's own penmanship, rushed, written over and running up, not down, into nonexistent sewer grates at the ceiling. The air smelled of old paper, sour ink, stale lead, and rotted wood, never mind the inherent undercurrent of something only akin to death. Tiny beads of moisture traveled through the air, suspended by their own will to be suspended. Some, Moroi would easily define as 'pretty', but those ones smelled of sweat and tasted of salt, some tasted dimmer on her tongue, yet held more sodium. Tears? The darker, oily blue and black swirly ones were evidentially an ink of some kind, and Moroi willed herself not to ponder the red ones.
Blood.
Sweat.
And Tears.
The tools of all passionate writers.
As Moroi walked quietly, the hovering beads soaked into her already marred clothing, and symbiotically latched onto her flesh and hair. She could feel pinpricks of irritation wherever the blood landed, sense the stench of the perspiration, and as the tears touched her, a shadow of sorrow absorbed into Moroi's heart. And with each ink drop, a new creation, existence, failed idea never to be scrawled and to inevitably die. Her nose twitched, stomach churning slightly, as she knew these humours didn't belong to just her. They were alien, unwelcome, and bitter.
A frail hand reached out to the wall, pressing fingers against its goosepimply surface. Moroi let out a sound of ill sensations as her mind identified it as flesh, and pulpy, runny paper.
The girl stepped fully into the hall; now noting her room's door handle seemed to be completely absent, the door papered over with a healthy share of staples and paper/flesh. Moroi groaned.
Gzzzzt!
Moroi's head turned swiftly to the right; her first observation was the fact the hall seemed much shorter. In fact, it ended with S8, S9 through S14 non-existent. The path that should have lead to S9 and beyond was barred by a stretch of that stitched together mass, pulled, distended and taught. This was achieved by the strong webbing of what appeared to be partially solidified rubber cement. The strands of sticky mucus still dripped a bit, unable to dry fully in the damp air. Upon the 'screen' blurred and ran various scratched, distorted images, busily attempting to order themselves into something decipherable.
Finally the images calmed, bringing forth a scratched image, yellow and spotty with age. A chipper track of not-so-special Japanese percussion and strings, skipped lazily over the image as it focused. The characters were of Eastern descent, and were tailed by English subtitles.
"Moroi Kagyuu. This is Your Life!"
An overly optimistic voice over read out the script, his voice patronizingly cheerful.
The writing blipped off screen, to be replaced by an image of an a-typical Asian family: mother, father, and a pink blanket in mother's arms, supposedly the daughter.
"Here you are at birth. Aww, what a cute baby!"
Moroi's brow's lowered, finding the faces unrecognizable. But then again, her parents didn't keep her long, now did they?
"Happy as they were, they sure didn't keep you long, now did they?"
See?
But the announcer continued on in his chipper voice, not patient enough for an answer, not that the disembodied voice really expected to be answered in the first place.
The image changed quickly, to a scene that Moroi did recognize. It was her room in that Japanese hospital, one she spent a majority of her young life in.
"And here you are at home, playing with the nurses."
A frenzy of yellowed white, and black blurred onto the screen, Moroi saw a vision of herself through the eyes of a non-existent third party. She could see Screen-Moroi dragged by the arms by two nurses, her body spasming with discontent. She was seen kicking and scratching at the staff, her whole body covered in scratches and small polka dots of blood.
Moroi remembered that day; she had the brilliant idea to give herself lead poisoning, and thus stabbed herself over and over with a number 2 pencil. Art was so much more appreciated after the creator was dead.
"You sure do seem to be having fun!...Aww..and here your are all tuckered out from a long day of playing."
Screen-Moroi was stretched out on her back, lying upon her designated gurney. Her slender wrists and ankles strapped tightly to the bed with thick leather restraints. A wide trail of saliva dribbled down her cheek and knotted her splayed hair. Her slender eyes appeared sunken, and were rolled back, the whites stark in the yellowed 'film'
Moroi shuttered.
"But despite all the fun with your nurse friends, you were lonely. And that's why you made friends in your head. Weren't they fun?" The host uttered a courtesy laugh. "Of course they were. Who needs real friends when you got your mind?"
Moroi felt her face curve into an indignant scowl.
"And then you met Korosu..."
The image blipped, fading like burning film, only to be replaced by the image of a young Asian man in his late teens. The image was shoulders up, but the collar of a bland hospital shirt could be identified. The young man's expression seemed dark by nature; a thick, transparent wall seemed to keep everyone at a distance. Korosu's hair was thick, and rather messy, hanging about his face like onyx coloured shards.
"He was a troubled young man, yet you seemed to understand him. You two dated."
Moroi's vision was soon filled with a kaleidoscope of images, each portraying herself and Korosu engaged in various activities around the Hospital grounds. All were fairly innocent and naive, nothing above a PG rating.
"Aww..." Gushed the announcer. "But most of all, you two dreamed together."
The girl let her head fall, knowing what was about to be revealed to her, yet she kept her gold eyes on the images. Moroi liked remembering the good times, and burring the bad.
"You of being published, and free. Korosu dreamed of killing his abusive father. The two of you exchanged stories about the Angel of Death, a Japanese urban legend. The two of you dreamed of the Angel taking you away and righting your wrongs. Eventually, the two of you believed that the Angel gave you pair powers. Korosu was discharged on good behaviour, and granted a trip home. Do you know what happened next, Moroi?"
Moroi answered reluctantly, her lower eyelids twitching with dozens of overwhelming emotions. How dare this false game show host dig up Korosu's mental grave and drag his name through the mud! But for all of Moroi's justified feelings, she was compelled to answer."..Within an hour, Korosu had killed his father."
"Very good, you're a smart girl. As a re-cap, Korosu killed his father within an hour, and was returned to the hospital. Then..One day, Korosu was nowhere to be found. You prattled on and on about the Angel of Death taking Korosu, and that you'd see him in your fantasy world. Have you?"
"...No."
"That's right." Answered the voice-over flippantly. "You never saw your childhood sweetheart again....UNTIL NOW!"
She tried to speak, tried to question the voice or her ears, but her throat seized up and Moroi just stood, stunned.
"LITTLE SNAIL!" Enthused the voice. "Say hello to KOROSU!!"
Everything fell silent to Moroi as the image once again switched to a full boy image of her dear friend, this time he was swathed in an oversized duster, the black shirt underneath sporting an image of the Lakeview Amusement Park's official mascot Robbie the Rabbit's disembodied head. Robbie was pink, a shocking red stain of blood seeping into his seemingly furry cheeks. It clashed, but was oh-so- Korosu.
Moroi let a tentative smile venture onto her lips. And then, the image distorted, and the girl reached out a hand, trying to keep the image with her. Little did she know that the pulling of the screen was a good thing. Fantasy ripped through reality as the man pulled from the screen like one would peel a rub on tattoo from flesh.
Koroso was whole, his baggy 'bondage pants' rattling against the chain link floor. He smiled at her.
All of the small dots of agony floating around the atmosphere seemed to leave the boy untouched, and their effects on Moroi numbed with Korosu's presence. At that smile, Moroi ripped at her inhibitions and simply lunged at him, wrapping her arms around his leather enwrapped arms and burying her soft, messy cheek deep against his ribcage.
"It's ok, Snailgirl." Korosu's voice was like a cooling vapour against her pained skull. And the lovingly dubbed moniker of 'Snailgirl' sent waves of ghostly charm down Moroi's back. "I'm here."
Moroi wanted to confess that she was horrified in this place. She wanted to tell him all the horrible things she had seen and had happen to her. She wanted to cry into Korosu's arms... But who has time for tears?
Thus, Moroi Kagyuu just let out a pleased sound as Korosu shifted his weight from one foot to the other, rocking her back and forth. Her shoulders curved as he let hands slip round Moroi's mid-back, gently pinning her upper arms to her sides. Korosu then placed a gentle kiss on her dishevelled, mucky hairline; He didn't seem to mind the gore. His lips made contact with Moroi's softly curving forehead, and again lower, onto her button nose.
Finally, Moroi felt her friend's lips on her own, a distantly prosaic feeling. She kissed back timidly, ever Korosu's humble follower. Korosu nibbled playfully at Moroi's chapped lips, causing her to laugh slightly. Korosu breathed out an amused sound before letting his tongue dance across her teeth.
Tongue played against tongue and a seal of lips and heated breath was created as Moroi felt herself being held tighter in a strong, constrictive embrace.
A gag bubbled up the girl's oesophagus when a warm, lumpy rush filled her mouth. It tasted bitter and brash, and coated every inch of her oral walls. She immediately identified the taste to be of drugs, and her tongue felt the contours of various pills and tablets. Moroi strained against her friend's body, yet Korosu's hold was forceful, and he moved with her, never breaking his seal. Moroi tried to cough, and only succeeded in opening her throat wider, that noxious concoction seeping it's quick way down to her stomach. Another cough was forced out of the girl, and some of the sick mass slipped between Moroi's and the man's mouth, leaking down her chin and against her clavicle. Moroi tried to cry out, and more of the cocktail just flowed down pooling amongst her stomach acids. Bubbles birthed from her nostrils, only to pop in tiny splatters and ooze out the vomitous mix.
Moroi's wide, effervescent eyes blurred the image before them with tears, thinking maybe this whole thing would be easier to accept if it were anyone but Korosu. Tears ran their way down Moroi's curved cheek, cutting through the gore and meds to show clean flesh underneath. She stretched and strained, her hand gripping a cold, dead salvation.
Her brows knit together in agony as Moroi felt the nose of the gun dig it's way into softness.
With each roaring discharge of the handgun, a flash illuminated her eyes, despite the fact her lids were squeezed tightly together. And with each squeeze of the trigger, Moroi felt Korosu's hold weaken a little. After un- counted shots, a rush of icy air hit Moroi's frail frame as the form of Korosu slipped from her person, and thudded dully onto the chain link ground.
Moroi dare not open her eyes as she dropped the firearm numbly, thin legs quaking beneath her, before giving out completely. Snailgirl's knees slammed against the rusted, wet chain link, before the rest of her form gave up, and fell onto Korosu's form. She snuggled, drawing the long coat around both forms, and huddling beneath it in a dead foetal position.
8:36pm,July 21st 2004
-Korosu means 'Murder' by the by.
-Wow. Two SH3 references. Can you catch em?
-I've really wanted to write this chapter. YAY!
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