Work Text:
Angela Orosco watches the man in the green jacket fade into the fog, heading for the town. Slipping her hands into her pockets, she wanders along the line of graves, scanning the names. So many people, dead and buried. Rows of experiences, now just stone markers, slowly decaying in the open air. Weeds grope up at the sky they cannot see, obfuscating names and dates. She wonders if they know where her parents are.
Angela kneels beside a grave again, brushes away some of the small yellow flowers with the tips of her fingers. For a moment, she is a force of nature.
There's a name stenciled in the stone, but it doesn't mean anything to her. She sighs, stands back up, and gazes up at the small church on the property. Maybe… maybe there's something there? She starts up towards it, not really sure why she feels there'll be anything for her in the church. She supposes that there has to be something for her somewhere.
Everyone has a place.
The door is covered by a wooden board, but a board half-rotted away by the damp of Silent Hill. She reaches up around the edges of the board, begins to pry it away from the doorframe. Bits of it crumble away in her hands, and she begins tearing at it like wet paper until the door handle is exposed. There's a desperation, an anger, in her movements. Not one she recognizes in herself, but a definite anger. She reaches through, face flushed from exertion and heart racing a little, and grabs the door handle. Pushing it open, she steps through the large gap she's made in the board, and enters into the church.
Angela coughs loudly as she enters, pushing apart a cobweb or two as she enters through the door frame. This place is very damp, and very cold. The fog seeps through broken glass on the north and south of the church, and the pews sit dark and empty, smothered in shadow. She steps forwards, gazing around at the ruin of this place. She imagines that, despite the graveyard outside, there must have been a sense of community here once. People who came here for their weekly sermons. People who loved each other.
That thought suddenly makes her feel sick to her stomach. She takes another few steps forwards, but her knees are shaking, and she sinks to the ground, placing her hands on the cool stone, even while nestling her chin into the neck of her sweater. Her breath is shaky, and slow, and her heart is thundering like a storm in her ears. She keeps her eyes closed for several minutes, just trying to forget that sick feeling in her stomach. But… she can't.
She opens her eyes. The fog is all around her, a tight, constricting blanket. She looks up at the altar ahead of her. There are four candles, three of which are standing lit together. The fourth is off to the side, much smaller than the others. She stares at them for a moment, watching the wind gently caress the precious flames, with every touch of the cool air threatening death. Outside, the trees creak with that same breeze, leaves shifting and brushing against each other.
As the leaves rustle, a voice comes from behind Angela. "What are you doing here?"
"Mama?" Angela asks, still staring ahead at the candles.
"What is it exactly you think you're up to? What kind of game are you playing here? It's time for you to come home."
"I'm not playing any games!" Angela's voice twists and shatters like glass. She closes her eyes again, keeps her head down. "I wanted to be here. So I'm here."
"But who told you you could be here?"
"I - did."
"Your father will have some words for you when you get home, Angela."
Angela remembers a flash. There's a lamp on the bedside table. That lamp captured everything. It would have been better if it was dark. But… this time, this day, it captured something different. The glint of light against metal was the first, and only clue.
"I don't want to talk to him." Angela manages to say, her eyes flickering open again.
"He'll want to speak to you. He's been very worried about you, girl."
"I don't care." There is nothing in her voice but the feeling of tumbleweed moving down an empty street.
Angela should have been ready for what came next.
"You ungrateful little bitch!"
But the words still sting. She turns, sees no-one there. "Mama?" She asks aloud, the sound echoing through the old church for just an extra second, then dissipating. She stands back to her feet. I was so rude. I made her run away.
The look of the blade in the dim light is nothing compared to the sound. Three wet strikes get him off of her. He is finally separated from the bed as he collapses to the grey carpet. He is still breathing, but barely. He's trying to crawl away, get to the door. He doesn't make it. In a second, the blade is on top of him again. And again. And again. And again. He stops trying to scream in pain. He stops breathing. But Angela doesn't stop until the twitching stops. She can feel tears streaming down her face, and blood pouring onto her hands.
She can't decide which she hates more.
"Mama?" She asks again. There is no response. Still, Angela calls for her several times.
The door opens. She sees who it is, and does not hesitate. Her mind is buzzing. An ugly droning noise is going around in her head, like the moon orbiting the earth. The knife is already brandished and ready. It is oozing dark, sticky blood.
She remembers everything that was done to her.
Behind her, the candles have all fallen on each other. The cloth on the altar, damp as it is, is no match for the flames. It begins to smoulder, then to burn. Smoke mixes with fog. Angela turns and sees the flames building, wrapping around the wood inlay in the church, spreading to the pews. She coughs, covering her mouth with the crook of her elbow, and heading towards the door, back into the fog. Back into the silence. She can't look at the fire. She can't. She hates looking at fire. Hates the heat. Hates… hates the way her own eyes stare back numbly at her in mirrors.
She wonders, quietly, if there will ever be a place for her.
She looks out over the still field of graves, and decides to ask a few questions. She wonders if they know where her mother is going now. Angela has a few ideas.