I'm on break...and with all this free time, I feel like writing a fanfic...hopefully one that I can finish. Also, THIS WILL CONTAIN SLASH/YAOI. Preferably WalterxHenry. So you have been warned.

I do not own Silent Hill. If I did...well...I'D BE PRETTY FUCKING RICH.

He'd been sure to get as far away as he could.

After the nightmarish world he'd been trapped in for god knows how long, Henry had been sure to leave behind Room 302 and its demons. He'd ended it, and never looked back. He'd plunged the last spear into the monstrocity and unloaded the entire magazine of Richard's revolver into the man who had caused him so much pain. The man who had killed 21 people as if it were nothing. The man who had taken his best - and only - friend away; Eileen Galvin.

He'd never forget that blood curdling scream, the high-pitched type of sound like finger-nails scraping against a blackboard. Bloody murder. It made his blood run cold, made him loose the very feeling in his fingers and toes. Eileen was dead.

And the killer stood and laughed at him. Laughed. Henry had never felt so much emotion in his life. A strong mixture of pain, sorrow, and burning anger. He wasn't going to let him live. So he ended it, right then and there. Sent the monster back to his fucking grave and left.

He found himself back in his bed, in his apartment after that. Opening his eyes slowly and taking in the scene...Henry had jerked himself up from his bed and ran straight towards the front door. He'd turned the door knob, fearing for the worst...and was met with the entirely normal hallways of South Ashfield Heights. The feeling of relief that washed over him at that moment was incredible, like lifting a thousand pounds off his shoulders. He couldn't stop the few tears that made their way down his cheeks as he hastily packed whatever he could and left that cursed apartment, merely leaving a note telling the super that he couldn't stay there anymore.

Now here he was, a good 100 miles away, not too far from his hometown. The first thing Henry had actually done was visit his mother right away. She'd been a loss for words, watching as her son collapsed into her arms, sobbing about missing her and being so scared. All she could do was stand there and hold him, trying to figure out what was wrong. But, of course Henry couldn't tell her.

Digging through whatever supplies he'd managed to pack, Henry had come across his camera. He'd lifted up the black device, turning it over and over in his hands. That day, he'd gone out to a field nearby his mother's house - a field he used to play in as a child - and spent his time taking pictures of the quaint, peaceful scenery. It filled him with such a sense of noramilty, a feeling he hadn't felt in what seemed like ages.

It seemed like the nightmare was finally over. Henry could lie in his bed and sleep without the constant worry of being plagued by a haunting. But he was wrong. Because as soon as the last shreds of light faded away and his eyes closed, that's when the nightmare began all over again.

He'd hear his voice, calling out to him. Calling him by his sacrament name. "Reciever..." Henry would cringe, tossing in his bed, trying to rid the voice from his dreams. "Reciever...where have you gone? Come back...I need you here..."

Henry was thankful it was only his voice in his dreams. He never saw his face, but his baritone voice always haunted him. There was never anything to see in his dreams, only blackness. But his voice was still there.

These incidents began to happen more and more frequently, and soon Henry found himself a restless wreck during the daytime. He'd quickly thrown down his photography, much too exhausted to go out into the field. His mother, who he began regularly visiting again, began to worry herself sick over him. She'd always ask him what's wrong - Henry, please...what's wrong? - but the brunette would never answer, only shake his head.

It was becoming almost unbearable now. Like a terminal disease. It never got better, only worse.

Then one night, another entity invaded his dreams. A much more familiar voice. Henry would have been relieved that it wasn't Walter. Would had. But this voice seemed ot torture him more then the other. "I can't believe you, Henry...you promised me!" She'd wail, crying. "You said you'd help me! But you didn't...you didn't help me...you lied! You LET ME DIE!"

He'd stand before her, trying to think of an explaination while she cried tears of blood. But what could he say? How could he explain anything to a dead person? In the end, all he could do was stare at the ground and repeat "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over again.

Now instead of trying to find sleep, Henry tried his best to avoid it. It finally got to the point where he couldn't hold his head up during the day and would fall asleep performing simple tasks such as reading a book, or eating. That's whenever the pills came in. He'd began taking multiple doses of speed, things like "Stacker 2" and "Fasten". But that never made the situation any easier...only worse. Henry found simple tasks such as pouring coffee to be nearly impossible with all the shaking he did.

One day the pot had slipped from his trembling hand and spilled all over the floor - including his vulnerable feet. He'd suffered second degree burns, having to completely wrap his feet in bandages and walk around the house in them for nearly a week.

Finally, it came to a boiling point. Henry sighed, laying his head in his hands. He had to go back.

Back to South Ashfield Heights. Room 302.

If you want me to continue, review please! I already have the story mapped out, I just need a little inspiration *cough*REVIEWS!*cough*