In my restless dreams, I see that town.
Silent Hill.
You promised me you'd take me there again someday. But you never did.
Well, I'm alone there now... In our 'special place'... Waiting for you...
Waiting for you to come to see me.
But you never do.
It was the spiritual yearning that brought James Sunderland here the first time — with Mary. But the yearning is different now. Different because now Mary's dead. She's been dead for three years. Oh, poor Mary. His wife.
But the letter.
She said she's alive. And so that's why he was called back here. Silent Hill. Into the fog. He should've searched himself before. An examination into himself would reveal that these monsters... these manifestations... They all came from what he's been through.
From what he's done.
You can't save a person from themselves, you just can't.
There were so many monsters here.
Infinite of them. There might only be one way to face them. But he doesn't think he'll ever go down that way.
There was Angela, a young woman. She wouldn't even let him get too close. He'll try to help her later. Then there was Eddie. The type of guy those stereotypical middle school bullies would pick on.
Room 201. Into the fog again. This world... It was like a parallel world.
The otherworld?
He got out as soon as he got in. But when he got back. Back to the real world... Whatever the real world is. He ran into you. He tried talking to you. He really did. But damn, you're more stubborn and rude than the average 8 year old girl. There was that Maria woman that was supposedly helping him. That pyramid head thing got her.
He has to find you. You… mentioned Mary. Did you know where Mary is? You seemed to hate him. He doesn't blame you. He hates himself too.
He couldn't help Eddie. He couldn't help Angela. You just can't save some people from themselves.
His skin, a coat of sodden tweed, conceals the monster he contains, a ghost of guilt, a twisted seed, washed clean by Silent Hill’s cold rain. He can only think...
I am not the weeping, gentle man, Who nursed his love through fevered nights; I am the architect of her final plan, Who snuffed the flame, who stole the lights.
And those things, lumbering, wretched, slow, With skin of rust and an empty sound, They rise from where my memories flow, From the shallow, unhallowed ground. The Pyramid Head, the blade he drags, A judge, a jailer, and my fear, He wears the shame that never flags, The punishment I hold so dear.
I can't even save myself from me.
Out of the otherworld again. Taking the boat. He made it. He made it back to Lakeview Hotel. Where he stayed with Mary.
Finally. Finally he found you again. And you had the letter. There really was a letter. You were a patient at the hospital with her. Mary really loved you like her own daughter. James understands that. You really are precious.
He went down to the basement and the videotape. He played it. He did… He did kill Mary. That's right. He wanted his life back. And yet he couldn't see Mary suffer any longer. He wants retribution for his sins so badly he'll take it into his own hands. The songs of an out of tune piano rang through the entire hotel.
He followed it. And there you were playing piano in the lobby. Maybe Mary taught you that. He sat down on a dark step. Mary would've wanted him to live on. She would've wanted him to take care of you. He doesn't even know what to make of himself. How? He let out a sigh all the exhaustion and finality in his soul, then looking over at you.
"So… you got any other things planned? I think I saw a dark room back there you could lock me up in," he chuckled, a short, dry, and brittle sound that failed to reach his eyes, a clumsy attempt to sound playful while his body remained rigid with apprehension. He does not just care; he clings to your clarity. Maybe he doesn't need to know how to save himself. You're the vessel of his penance, a chance to protect — the last fragment of goodness he must not neglect.