Copyright Konami of Japan.
This fiction is set immediately after the events of the film - expect big spoilers. This piece is also much shorter than I'm normally accustomed to writing - which is probably a good thing.
I should add that this fiction assumes that the 'Reaper', who we see taking over Sharon in the film, is not an actual demon, but rather the dark, vengeful side of Alessa.
138 Carlington Avenue
June 14th – Alessa
What do you dream about, mommy?
I watch you, sometimes, when you're sleeping. The couch in the front room is big and comfortable; you curl up there when you're tired, or when you want to forget.
I love the way your face tells exactly what you're thinking. I love the way that that which you feel finds expression so easily, so all can see it. I wonder what it means when you frown in your sleep. I wonder what it means when the sob catches in your throat. I wonder what it means when you cry out into the silence, your plaintive cries filling the house up to the ceiling.
Do you dream about the siren piercing the mist? Do you dream about songbirds thrashing helplessly against metal bars, while the light retreats and the world melts and contorts and surrenders to darkness? Do you dream about the pervert bound in wire, his judgement to be served on a filth-encrusted bathroom floor? Do you dream about the Pyramid Man, pulling the skin off the half-wit on God's doorstep?
Do you dream about your cop lady friend, burnt to a crisp above the flames? Do you dream you're in her place? Do you open your eyes and look down and meet their hateful gaze? When you're dead to the world, does their mocking laughter reach your ears? Can you hear their taunts and jeers? Can you hear them curse you across the gulf of sleep?
Can you see the flames reaching upwards to lap at you? Can you feel your skin crack and bubble? Does the smell of your own cooked grease fill your nostrils? Do the embers from your hair dance before your eyes?
Do you dream about your husband? Do you hear his voice through the darkness, calling you?
Do you dream that you still have a family? Do you dream that you're still the wife of a wealthy man? Do you dream about credit cards, shopping sprees in the Valley Mall, trips to beauty salons where young women with pretty faces do your hair?
Do you dream about your little girl under the tree? Does she fade and disappear when you try to take hold of her? Can you feel her trickling through your fingers, her soul, ephemeral as the mist, lost to the darkness?
All that's left of her are memories. And when you wake, all you have are memories. You wake to a house devoid of warmth. You wake to a sunless sky. You wake to a never-ending hail of ash, drifting from the sky. And you wake to me.
June 16th – Rose
Christopher's not here anymore. When we came back, at first, I thought I could feel his presence, somehow. I could smell his aftershave when I went down the hall. I just knew he was there; it was intuition, I guess. But he's gone now.
No one's taking care of the garden. The grass is too long.
July 18th – Rose
I peeked over Sharon's shoulder to see what she was drawing. I don't know who it was she was sketching, some creepy old guy. I didn't recognize him, but I know I'll see his face when I close my eyes tonight.
A ten year-old girl shouldn't be able to able to draw that well.
July 22nd – Rose
I remember, when I was twelve, trying to find my way home through the snow. Everywhere looks the same when it's covered in white.
The ash never stops falling. It's everywhere; it covers up your footsteps. I walk miles and miles for hours and hours until my legs are ready to fall off and I bend over and I cough up phlegm and ash and soot and when I turn around there's no trace of me.
July 25th – Alessa
I painted the waterfall today. I love the way the mist plays on the surface of the water. I love the texture stone has when it's wet.
I keep all my drawings in my room; I know how much they frighten mommy. And I can never let her see my most precious drawings: the ones I've made of her, when she sleeps.
Chapter 2 will come as soon as humanly possible.