Disclaimer: I do not own Silent Hill


It was a thousand brands on his skin, it was a hundred knives deeply rooted into the muscle, it was a fire burning in the bone marrow and the tendons and the ligaments and he was dying, he could feel it, dying, he could smell it--

--and he needed this. Needed, needed, never needed more in his life, never wanted more in his life, never craved, never desired, never coveted anything so much as this, and the fire was still burning and now his head was swimming and then his hands began to ache for that touch, for that gratification for grabbing onto something solid and soft and wet and warm and perfect and satisfying but it would never satisfy him, this he knew, and yet he persisted.

Screaming, crying, fighting, struggling, failing, the girl was caught, was in his clutches, and oh, yes, she was solid, and oh, yes, her skin was soft, and oh, yes, he knew she was wet and warm and perfect and maybe, just maybe this time, she could be satisfying.

He twisted an arm, broke it, twisted a leg, snapped it, arranged her against a hospital gurney so that she was open and waiting, even if she wasn't really waiting so much as dreading and screaming more, and that dark, tight place inside her, the place where he wanted to get lost and hide and never come out, it as right before him, and he pressed himself against that place, drove inside, deeper, deeper, deeper and--

--she was still screaming, her throat was dry, still wrestling, but her limbs were dying, still--

He moaned over a breath, an exhale, one telltale sign of gratification, of heaven, of paradise, Xanadu, the promised land. And Maria screamed on, and her good leg dug into his ribs and his side, and her good arm tried to wrest him away, and she screamed so much that her voice trembled, shook, quivered, faltered, and then stopped altogether, and Pyramid Head groaned piteously, because--

--scream, it was all a part of the pleasure; scream, it was all a part of the pain. Pleasure, pain, pain, pleasure, it was all one thing, one train of thought, one course of action, one state of being, so why wouldn't she scream--

Thick hands, gripping her waist, crushing, bruising, destroying, tainting her, toes inside boots, curling at the pleasure, stretching at the pleasure, moving at the pleasure, teeth biting a bottom lip, drawing blood, blood didn't matter, blood was an every day occurrence, blood was a part of the pleasure--

She was limp and he was not and he was moving and she was not and he was coming and she was not and she was dead and he was not. Strings of semen, filling, defiling, never creating, never useful, there just to be there, sterile, inutile.

And she was still limp, unmoving, dead, and Pyramid Head lost all senses of pleasure, lost all senses of lust, lost all senses but the one telling him that this thing no longer existed, that look what he'd done, what he'd touched, look what he could never touch again. Look what a monster he was. Look how useless he was. Strings of semen, never creating, never useful, there to be there, sterile, inutile, painting her thighs, glossing the place that was warm and wet and perfect.

The dead thing was thrown against the ground, thrown against the wall, kicked, punched, stabbed, brutalized, beaten, murdered beyond death, defiled again. And then the dead thing was set carefully atop the gurney and a sheet was placed gently atop the gurney and the dead thing and the sheet and the gurney were wheeled carefully into a corner, where they lay in wait to be inspected by the next passerby. And Pyramid Head left, and Pyramid Head came, but Pyramid Head never really stayed, and he never really had a purpose, and he never really was anything more than a monster, and no matter how many times the process was repeated, Pyramid Head never changed.

A man walks through a hospital hallway, light in his breast pocket, a beaten woman at his side, a cast on her arm and a cast on her leg and a bandage over her eye and she clings to him like a second skin, like a sheen of sweat, like a fresh layer of blood.

And the man walks to inspect the bloodstained gurney, and the woman beside him winces at the pain and the fear, and he feels fearful, too, always fearful, they're always fearful, and he says to himself, "I'm not going to look under there." And he says to himself, "I don't want to know what's under there." And he and his second skin, sheen of sweat, layer of blood, continue through the hospital and down the spiraling walkway and through the fog and the gurney is forgotten, and until the next one comes, the gurney is forgotten, Pyramid Head is forgotten.

And the process was repeated and Pyramid Head never really changed; Pyramid Head never really could change, never get gratification, never reach the land of milk and honey, because he was a monster, inutile, existing just to exist, there just to be there.

Strings of semen, painting thighs, tainting, marking, defiling.