Chapter Three

Leonard

The sounds of the air-raid sirens rang out. With a sigh, I thought of the human woman I had left in Brahms. There was genuine fear in her eyes at the thought of being left alone in the home she once found comfort in; though this was a setback, she would find comfort in that haven again. Despite the lack of verbal communication, the tiny apartment emitted an air of sadness and mourning. The individual shared a strong connection with the youthful lady, who was ultimately revealed to be her father. Although I was unaware of how he met his end, his presence remained in the apartment. One could almost hear the older man's voice from the afterlife if one was quiet and attentive. I had to do everything I could to ensure they could stay together in each other's company, even if I had to fight more vigorously to keep those fanatics away from the apartment's walls.

I sat at the wooden kitchen table; compared to the lively, beautiful sun that shone through Annette's apartment, it made me desire to see that same sun shining her light in this mundane town where those who are alive don't leave that way, Silent Hill took more than it gave, it took one's sanity, then their livelihood, as if someone drowning in a deep pool of madness wasn't enough, those who fell victim to this town, gave this town an inch. The city ended any hopes of their future lives and felt no regret at the age of its victim. The cults want to say that I summon these souls to this place; however, that is not the case. The town's mystery because of the cults draws curious humans to this devilish playground, as it is also the fanatics that end those who want to pique their interest and solve this town's craziness or chase clout that will never come. The goddess in this false religion creates the other world. Despite her artificial origins, the spirit that lives within this golden image is anything but fake. They had brought me up with the belief that this 'goddess' was the spectral manifestation of a deceased woman in the park. Necromancy is more in terms of this complete fiasco. A demon has corrupted the minds of those who dabble with supernatural things, something best to stay clear of; they had invited it and allowed it to rule and corrupt this once beautiful town with good people who didn't bother anyone, who would help anyone in need. The Order took that away, and those who opposed them paid the ultimate price. They sacrificed their souls to appease something that was not good for anyone. I sighed, laying my head on the dusty table. I hated having nothing to do; I couldn't stand sitting in a place where the only company was my thoughts. Compared to the peaceful aura of the home in Brahms, this was a madhouse. The welcoming aroma of what smelled of cookies was now the smell of dirt and moths, whatever was going on in this home. I stood up and walked to the only window in the house's living space; looking outside, the fog realm was now the domain realm. The Order would indeed roam like cockroaches. They were scurrying around to find their next meal, or canned meal since electricity was scarce in most of the town; certain places had power; this place was that such site. They spared the outer part of the town from the big fire; however, that was a tiny percent of the town; the fire swallowed up a majority of the city, killing everyone in it. The good people in this community were gone when the town died. I am not alive. I, too, perished in the great fire. In this town, the only souls you'll find are the lost ones consumed by vengeance—those who found peace rest eternally, while the rest of us never know respite or sleep. We patiently await our eternal resting place wherever that may be for each of us. I have learned to embrace this destiny despite not being someone who hesitates to believe in forgiveness and everything it encompasses. However, a part of me thinks I am beyond redemption, and that forgiveness cannot extend to someone like me. Sitting on the sofa, I closed the curtains and reached for an old book that had seen better days. Its pages bent, and the cover seemed more like a decoration than a protective layer. The book could no longer stay closed because of the countless notes and ideas I had scribbled in moments of boredom. Curiosity piqued, I gazed at the book, wondering what secrets and stories it held within its well-worn pages. This book was unique; the last thing from my mother, who had gone on with those who were resting; this house was our house, my haven once the fires subsided; everything was still intact, and my bed was still made from the moment of my childhood. Family photos adorn the surfaces of the home, a once innocent child, now a twenty-seven-year-old who over the years had grown wiser. However, I would give it all up to have it all again. No Cults, no demon dictator, just the small town of my childhood, Joe the banker who always gave me suckers when I would visit him after school, the thoughts of school before the chaos was my home away from home, the church that rivaled the cult beliefs, never got to get off the ground, its doors closed, the whole false religion started with the birth and creation of that little white church. Sad.

I looked at the book, placing it back on the coffee table, thinking of Annette. My strength built back up, and I stood up, deciding to go back to Brahms to escape this place, for even the temporary relief of peace in her home and have the company of another person.