Author's Note: Consider this the long overdue sequel to Mein Teil. At least, it's a fanfic companion.

Disclaimer: Silent Hill, its characters, and Tourniquet, the song, are neither mine, nor do I claim ownership. They belong to Konami and Marilyn Manson, respectively.

Tourniquet

“This is my most vulnerable moment.” -- Brian Warner.

There are some people, mom said, that are too fragile for this world. Too weak, too delicate, and the world just chews them up and spits them out.

A pretty grim lesson to give an eight-year-old, but she wasn't exactly pleased when she said it – she sounded sad, beyond sad, really: sincerely sympathetic with the idea of these people out there, chewed up, half digested and just thrown away. I remember specifically this one particular instance, because she had given her spare change (a few bills and a handful of quarters; maybe enough for some coffee and a bagel) to a homeless man in the subway of South Ashfield Station. Wanting to give something to him as well, but having no money of my own, I handed over my doll – it was my favorite. I loved every uneven stitch and careworn thread on that doll, but I wanted him to have it. I wanted him to be happy.

So, I gave it to him. His expression was dumbfounded – it was hard to tell what he was feeling, beneath the layers of dirt and the greasy, unkempt hair that hung about his face, and I couldn't tell if his teeth were bared in a grimace or he was trying to smile at me. Either way, he took the doll and he looked at me, a stare so intense it almost made me frightened, and my mother took hold of my hand and wished him well. He wouldn't stop looking at me – so I waved at him, said goodbye, and kept pace with my mother, completely unaware that I had probably given him something totally useless, maybe something he could sell off for some more cash and buy booze or drugs with; somehow I kind of doubt he'd do that, though. I'd like to think he was honestly touched by the gesture, and decided to keep it. Maybe use it as a pillow. I dunno, maybe I'm being hopelessly optimistic – I heard that a lot growing up, too, though that was mostly from my father and directed towards my mother. I think he saw her as one of those too fragile people, not meant to last in a world like this.

And she didn't. She got sick – well, she'd been a chain-smoker for years, though she begged me never to pick up the habit, never to follow in her footsteps, and though it wasn't surprising to hear how bad the cancer had exploded inside her, it wasn't welcome news, either. She was buried and gone before I graduated high school -

I don't want to think about that now.

Sometimes I still go back to the spot where she and I found the man, thinking on some off chance that he'd still be there, maybe he'd still have the doll, waiting for me, and now that I was older I could give him something more useful, some money, maybe treat him to a sandwich and find a cheap motel for him to spend the night. I don't know why I thought about him so much – maybe it's because I gave my doll to him, and I barely let any of my friends touch it, much less want to give it away to someone else, someone who certainly wouldn't have any use for a doll. But I never saw him again. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised; I mean, he probably got kicked out or passed away ages ago, unknown and not missed, and the thought made me so depressed I'd try to work off the guilt by giving half of my wallet's contents to the next beggar I saw.

Maybe I was being stupid about it, but I'd like to think that what I did was important to the man – special, even. More so than people flipping coins in the cup he held or offering him a bite to eat. I don't know why I thought that; it was more than an idea, actually, a feeling would be a better way to describe it, but as I had nothing to go on save for this vague feeling that wouldn't go away, I always told myself I was being too hopeful, too foolish, and tried not to entertain it too much. Maybe it'd go away in time.

I mean, I had that party to prepare for. I smiled, thinking about it; it'd been so long since I'd gone out and seen some friends, just allowed to act like a girl my age and have fun. I even bought a new dress for the occasion, a splurge my bank account would regret when rent was due, and when I ran out of things to slap together for a lackluster meal in the kitchen, but I figured it was worth it. I was celebrating – not sure what, but I was allowed to pamper myself now and then, buy something totally useless for any other occasion besides the one I was planning to attend.

And If I may be frank, I looked damn good in it. I had the best shoes to match, and this cute little handbag that I knew would complete the whole outfit. I set aside the rest of my night getting ready for it – taking a long, hot shower, setting aside the dress and shoes carefully on the bed; I pulled out the perfume I hadn't used since I was with Anthony, which, god, must have been almost a year ago now. . . and dabbed it on the side of my throat, on either wrist, and on the top part of my breasts, just enough to get a nice waft going.

I took a look at myself in the mirror of my vanity set – what a fitting name for it, since I took the time to examine myself at various angles, wondering if the dress was too tight, whether I'd be able to work off the paunch going on birth control had given me, and if I would be giving people the totally wrong first impression, showing up in a dress like this – you don't get second chances for those.

“Yeah, I know, lame joke,” I told my reflection, nearly rolling my eyes.

My reflection copied me – as it should.

It was then that I heard a knock at the door – a slow, steady, three-beat rapping noise that made me turn my head and gape awkwardly in the direction of it. There was something about it – rhythmic I guess you could say, composed, relaxed – it was creepy. I walked – gingerly, as these heels were a killer on my swift pace – towards the front of my apartment and peered through the peephole.

No one was there.

Frowning, and slightly annoyed at the idea of a Ding Dong Ditch (or a Disappearing Knocker), I undid the latch of the lock and grasped the doorknob tight, ready to fling it open and myself out the door, perhaps to catch the jerk and yell sternly at him.

But the door didn't move. Which was impossible, I'd just unlocked it – I pulled again, harder this time, but no go. I used both hands and it still didn't move.

“What the hell?” I asked no one and stepped closer to the door, shutting one eye and pressing the other to the hole – and gasped, loudly, almost like a scream. Someone was peering back in at me.

“Hey!” I yelled, and hit my open hand against the door hard enough to hear it rattle in its hinges. “Open up! My door – I think it's jammed, I can't get it open!”

But the person, if he heard me, didn't respond. They stepped back, and I was able to get a better look.

“Henry?” I sputtered, struck completely dumb at the sight of my neighbor standing, just as dumbfounded, at my door. What was more distressing, though, was that he had begun to move away, tentatively and almost unwillingly, as if he'd rather waste his precious time and listen to me screaming.

“No, don't walk away! Dammit, I'm stuck!” But he didn't listen – or he didn't hear me. He was gone, and in his absence I was able to notice just how peculiar, how particularly messed up, the apartment outside my door looked: there was something like raw, bloody meat stretched over the walls. No, they were the walls; bye-bye to plaster and wood, now it was some flesh peeled off something quite large, the blood dripping down to gather on the grated, metal fence of a floor. I felt my stomach churning and took a few steps back from the door, covering my mouth with my hand. Was I dreaming? Had I gone crazy?

Well, screw that. There was no way I could have gone mad in the span of taking a shower, looking at myself in the mirror, and trying to answer a door that wouldn't open. I didn't know much about psychosis but I at least had an idea that you didn't just fall into it without a good reason – and I had no reason to think I was anything but sane. Which, now that I thought about it. . . didn't really make this any easier to deal with. That meant it really was happening, that the apartment building had somehow turned into something quite appalling, out of this world and into something hellish, and I didn't want to deal with that any more than I did the thought of me being crazy.

I hobbled awkwardly back to my room, thinking I'd be better off if I just kicked the damn shoes from my feet and ran around bare foot, and nearly pounced on the cordless phone when I found it, tucked almost snuggly in the tangled sheets of my bed. Calling out for help sure didn't work, but maybe I could call someone, anyone, really, just to make sure I still had both feet firmly planted in this reality.

I pressed the TALK button – and nothing happened. No lights blared on, no click, no beep, not even the dead noise of an equally dead phone. It was completely silent, as if the power had died.

“But that's impossible,” I told myself, frightened at the sound of my own shaky voice. “The lights are still on.”

I held my breath, praying that they didn't turn against me, start flickering, and then die out altogether. That'd just make my night, wouldn't it? Locked in a room with no lights, and with blood and skin as the new decorating scheme.

I didn't let go of the phone – I don't know why, it was totally useless to me, but somehow I couldn't bear to be without holding onto something at his moment. I twisted my hands around it, held it to my chest, pacing back and forth between the rooms, coming to pause at the front door every now and again and give it a tug – still wouldn't open. After what I'd seen, I wasn't sure I even wanted it to open. . .

I don't know how long I waited – the clock on the wall stopped moving, and my watch's battery had died. Just like that, the flow of time completely stopped reaching my room altogether, and it only made me panic increase. I hated not knowing the time – maybe it was an odd quirk of mine, but I just had to have a watch on or nearby me; I would feel itchy and restless without it. So of course this didn't help – I bit my nails, ruining my manicure to all hell, and pulled a bit at my hair in frustration, likewise ruining a carefully controlled hairstyle.

“What's going ON?!” I shouted at the unmoving clock, almost wanting to pitch the phone at its face in frustration. My hand was raised, poised to hurl the chunk of useless plastic, when I heard another sound – one from behind me.

The door, it was opening!

I spun around, nearly crying from relief – and could have cried from something completely different when I processed what made the door open.

The man. . . from the subway all those years ago. He was standing in my house, slowly shutting the door behind him, staring at me with those same eyes, those same hungry, sickening, intense eyes. I had no trouble discerning his expression this time: he definitely was smiling.

“What are you doing in my house?” I stammered, hoping to inject more bravery into my voice than I was currently feeling. I wouldn't pretend for a minute that the sight of this guy didn't creep me out. He was the last person I expected to see. . . and he didn't look a day older than when I'd given him my doll. Which was impossible, that was over ten years ago. . .

“Completing the twentieth Sacrament,” he said, his voice as even and relaxed as I thought it would be. He spoke like he was in careful, complete and total control of what was happening around him, completely unfazed by the circumstances.

I blinked, feeling my hands tremble as they held the phone; I almost dropped it, my palms were so sweaty. There was something wrong with this guy. “Okay. . .” I said quietly, calmly, the way you humor a completely ridiculous statement without wanting to offend the person, or trigger them into a murderous rampage. This guy seemed capable of the latter – he was sporting some suspicious red stains on his jacket.

“Separate from the flesh,” he carried on, walking closer to me. I backed up on instinct, but felt my heel smack into the wall and the pot of a plant; its leaves tickled my elbow and made me jump, nearly scream. I had run out of room – there was nowhere else to go. “She who is the Mother Reborn. . .”

I didn't even think, didn't even attempt to stop myself: I threw the phone right at the guy's face, hoping he wouldn't dodge it or move out of the way in time – though I didn't know what I'd exactly do with the time afforded me, if it struck true: he was blocking my only way out.

My luck wasn't with me tonight: it missed him completely, and he only grinned wider at my feeble attempt of defense. And he kept walking towards me, his paces even, his eyes wide and his teeth like pearls, ready to devour me. I nearly crumpled – my knees shook so hard I wondered how I was even able to stay on my feet, and before I could utter a scream his hands launched and wrapped themselves tightly around my throat, fingers pressing down hard, his thumbs jabbing painfully into my neck. His grip was so strong it lifted me a few inches off the ground, making me even height with him; I gasped and sputtered, my voice a choked, horrible rasp that made tears of absolute terror spring to my eyes, my own hands fluttering uselessly on his, trying to break his hold, trying like mad to save myself.

He slammed me hard against the wall, my head bouncing off the plaster and black spots bursting like ink-stains in front of my eyes; I could barely see, could only make out those horrible teeth and that leer of his, that sickening leer. I tried hard not to think of what he was going to do to me: it'd always been a somewhat paranoid fear of mine that I'd find myself completely vulnerable and brutalized in such a way that would make me want to end it all quick with some whisky and Tylenol PMs – but that's just it, it was just a stupid fear. Now I didn't think it so far off, so impossible: this guy seemed capable of just about anything, and I wouldn't put it past him to do nearly half of them to me.

I sobbed in earnest then, terrified beyond all comfort, completely out of my wits, wishing there was something I could do, some way I could stop it – wishing I could just shut myself off for a while, until he was finished, until he left me alone – whenever the hell that would be.

He removed one of his hands but the pain didn't lessen, nor did his grip tire. He slapped me hard in the face, spinning my head to the side and making spit and blood launch out my mouth, dribble down the side of my face. The back of his hand swung back and knocked me to the other side. I coughed and dry-heaved, feeling my face throb and pulse with pain. The fingers of his mobile hand curled and I closed my eyes just in time as I felt his nails rake down, from my forehead to my chin, peeling back small chunks of skin and making blood weep from the wounds. I howled as best I could with a rapidly sealing windpipe, and tried my best to scratch him in return, dragging my fingers up and down his wrist, his hand, those terrible fingers that held me. I must've done some good, because I heard him cry out – I chanced to open one eye and saw that I had upset a nearly-healed wound of his, some large scab of some kind growing on the back of his hand. He let me drop to the floor and I collapsed in a heap, stunned and sputtering for air, filling my lungs with quick spurts of oxygen, all the while staring up at him in terror; he sucked on the back of his hand and glared at me, like a child, a child stuck in a man's body.

“That hurt,” he whined.

Snarling, I kicked my foot out as hard as I could, connecting with his shin and delighting when he cried out in pain again, stumbling a bit from the abrupt force of my stiletto heel – thank god I'd gone for this one! A wedge or a platform would have failed to have the same effect – and I tried to get to my feet, tried to run passed him -

His arm lashed out so quickly I could barely register it was there before I cracked my windpipe into it, sprawling backwards on the floor groaning and roaring with pain. I was sure I'd broken it, broken something vital – I clutched at my throat and tried like mad to breath evenly, to get in some type of air, but he was already on the attack again, bringing his heel to stomp on my arm, kick away my hands and slam the tip of his boot into my chin, making my teeth crash against each other and my whole face tremble. He reached down and grabbed a handful of my hair in his fist, yanking back hard as he began to walk away from me, dragging me behind him, kicking, trying to scream, trying to call out for help I knew wouldn't come.

He launched me into the counter-top in my kitchen; I sprawled over the top of it and slid off the other side, collapsing in a drooling, broken and bloody heap on the cold tiles. I pressed my throbbing face against it and moaned, weeping – the salty tears stung in my wounds and my lungs burned, ached, with the force of crying. I could hear him walk around behind me – the very thought of having him at my back made me rush to action, made my body surge with adrenaline and courage I didn't know I possessed: I screamed like a woman possessed and tried to crawl away from him, like a dog, sputtering and stumbling blindly on all fours. I could hear him advancing, laughing softly, genuinely amused at my stupid attempt to get free – I spun my head around and yelled at him, knowing it wouldn't do me any good.

“You son of a bitch!” I spat the words at him, sending blood and spit flying out of my mouth – he paused for a second, his face convulsing horribly, as if something alive were squirming beneath it, but he was moving again before I'd even noticed that it stopped. He was coming right for me -

“No!” I howled and dug my nails into the carpet on the other side of the kitchen, holding on desperately as I felt his hands wrap around my ankles and tug me closer to him. I screamed and clutched, using all the strength in my arms to pull myself away, get myself as far away as I could, even if it was only an inch, but he pulled me back, again and again, never tiring from the chore, seeming to enjoy it if I heard him correctly – he was laughing again.

I couldn't decide which would be worse – have him at my back or lay facing him. He could still do damage either way, could still hurt me, could still. . .

As if responding to my thoughts – a terrible notion that only made me sob harder, nearly plead with him to stop – he leaned over and grasped either side of my waist, spinning me around so that I was on my back, the now shamefully revealing front of my dress exposed to him in all its now bloody and stained glory. I felt disgusting, I felt appalled – I wanted to cover myself with my hands, didn't want him to look at me, didn't want to feel his eyes on me, but he batted away my hands before I could attempt to shield myself with them.

“Please. . .” I moaned, barely getting the words out. “Don't!”

I could feel him watching me, and somehow that was even worse than feeling any other part of him, on me, in me, anywhere near me – his eyes, those horrible, vicious eyes, they wouldn't stop running over every part of me that was exposed, and I blinded myself with tears, squinting my eyes shut as tight as I could hoping to will away this horror, this nightmare, wishing I would wake up safe and alone in my bed.

I felt the heel of his boot press into my left arm, between my wrist and elbow – he pushed it down to the floor beside me. Moving with a grace that was disgusting as it was sincere, he slammed hard on my arm, shattering the bone – I felt a ripple of pain move up and through my arm, as if struck with a lance, like a wire rung so tight inside me. I screamed and felt myself panic, madly, when I didn't feel it moving. My fingers, they wouldn't respond – they lay there, limp and useless on the floor.

I opened my one good eye – the other being too full of blood and tears to work at this point – and watched as he turned to grasp at something behind him: a long, thin knife, with a blade that was thick and came to a gleaming point. He turned back to me and smiled, seeing me watch him, seeing me stammer again and plead, uselessly, to him, begging him to leave me alone, to put it down, to do anything but that – he took a step towards me, and I tried like mad to crawl away again, digging my feet into the floor, groping behind me with my one good hand.

I'd managed to flip myself over and make a half-assed attempt at escape when he stopped me again, kneeling down with one leg on the floor, the other pressed into my back – I felt the tip of the knife graze my exposed flesh and shivered, breaking out in a fresh sweat, goosebumps and tears. “Don't!” I howled again, not even knowing what I was pleading against, just wishing like hell it wouldn't happen, that I could somehow convince him otherwise. His hand slapped hard across my mouth, covering it, muffling my screams completely – now, I've had this happen before, but that was during something much more pleasant than having a madman at your back with a knife digging into your spine. The feeling of his cool flesh, cold, completely cold, not even somewhat tense or heated up during the struggle, made me gag. I felt myself retching and was sure I'd be sick all over him, would choke on the bile and vomit and die before anything worse happened.

But something worse did happen, and just my luck, I was conscious for it.

I was sure I'd pass out – there was no way I could deal with this pain, no way I could stand it. My vision blurred and I spasmed, my muscles twitching as I felt the knife dig into my back, not hard enough to kill, but hard enough to gouge, to mark me. I had no idea what he was carving but he was doing it lovingly, tenderly, as if painting a pretty sunset instead of splitting the flesh of some girl's back. I pounded my one good fist against the floor and snapped my head from side to side, trying to shake off the gag that was his hand, trying to draw his attention away from his work, my attention away from the pain, but it came to nothing – he kept at it, and I was sure I'd pass out from the horror, the terrible, stinging, slow to spread but quick to worsen ache that lit my back on fire.

I could feel the blood run down my sides, over the curve of my breasts – I could feel it trickle down my spine and pool where the dress ended, just a few inches above my tail-bone. I breathed in deep, sputtering madly when I inhaled the scent of his flesh (something waxy, something cold, and something certainly dead) and almost cried out in relief when I heard him step away from me. That meant he was finished – that meant this was over. He was leaving, I knew it, he was going to let me die here, alone and in a heap on my floor, with no one to save me, no one to hear me crying.

Instead, I heard him ask, almost incredulously, “What are you doing here?”

I lifted my head with enormous difficulty, trying hard to see, trying even harder to hear – my ears were ringing like a choir of bells was stuck in my head. When my vision came into focus I couldn't make any sense of what I saw – what was a little boy doing here? And how did he get in – and why did he make the man stop, when all my crying and screaming hadn't?

Whatever his reason for being here was, I could tell that the man didn't expect it – he looked horrified to see him, honestly, as if there was something unnatural about the boy's presence, something even he didn't quite understand.

Before the boy could respond, could do anything more than glare at the man as if he'd stolen something precious from him, I heard the sound of footsteps outside my door – what's more, they stopped at my door. Thinking back to Henry, and hoping like hell he was there again, I let out one loud, high-pitched scream, broken by my pain and inability to get a good gulp of air.

I don't know what happened to the man – one minute he was there, the next. . . gone, vanished like a ghost, into thin air, as if he never was, never existed at all, though I had the wounds to prove it. And the pain was real enough, I could tell you that.

I'd manage to fling my dead, left arm up so that it rested beside my face; I rearranged it carefully with my right hand, feeling horrified at the depth of the injury, wondering if it was possible to cure it, and if I'd last long enough to use it again. That's when I noticed the shoes of the boy in front of me – I didn't even hear the door opening behind me, didn't even fully register the fact that someone else was now in the room with us, at my back, staring hard at the wounds the man had carved into me.

Gingerly I stroked a finger against the boy's shoe, almost lovingly, tenderly – I didn't think myself capable of such an emotion at a time like this. I tried my best to smile at him, though I was sure I looked quite the mess and horrible, covered in blood and tears. Still, I was grateful – he'd saved me. He'd frightened the man off.

“Hey, kid. . .” I managed to breathe, trying to warn him, trying to save him – hoping that I wasn't scaring the hell out of the poor thing. “Thanks.” And I meant it, I truly meant it – this little guy had saved my life. He was the reason I was still breathing right now.

What I asked next, even I was hard-pressed to explain later on – I had no idea how I knew it, no idea how the thought came to me, or even why it should have, as I didn't know who this boy was, but something about him seemed familiar. I'd heard him being described from Richard and the Super once before, about weird things that happened in the building: a young boy hanging around 302 being one of them. I was sure of it, this was the same boy – but how? Wouldn't he have been older now? “Did you find your mommy?” I asked.

The boy, he just stared at me, his wide eyes taking in the sight of my blood and my wounds, my attempt at a comforting smile, which I'm sure was more of a grimace, the state of my face being what it was. I thought of what I'd seen outside, thought of that man, that horrible man. . .

“This place. . . it's dangerous. . .” I winced and pressed my forehead into the carpet, struggling to breathe, struggling against the blackness that crept in closer around my eyes. “You need. . . hurry, get out of here.”

And then everything went black.

---

The good news is that I wasn't dead. The bad news: Not yet. And after everything that happened after that moment, I almost wish I had – at least I wouldn't have these memories. Truthfully, they were something I could do without, a pain, a wound, a deep scar that I would have rather avoided receiving altogether, even if it meant I'd have died in a heap on my kitchen floor, bloodied, bruised, and broken at the hands of a madman.

I bet that makes me sound selfish, or ungrateful. But I'm not. It just makes me honest: sometimes, I wish I had died. Other times. . . I'm glad I did not. Although this is a fleeting, temporary comfort each time I see the scar on my back, in a mirror, in the hollow, distant stare Henry gets whenever he sees my wounds; though healed they still ring out as if they were fresh. He knows the location of them all by heart, as do I. I memorized every inch of the pain, charting it in my mind.

20121. The twentieth Sacrament. The Mother Reborn.

I guess I ended up being important to him after all.

I told Henry this, shortly after the nightmare was over, one of the times he came to visit me in the hospital – arms laden with flowers, hands clutching tight to books.

And Henry, being more sensitive and a more apt wordsmith than I ever thought a man capable, looked right at me with a stare that almost froze my heart, and said, “Not as important as you are to me.”

After that, I was grateful to have been saved – once, by the little boy. . . and again, by Henry. Grateful beyond words.