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[He wants to drop his face into her shoulder in return, give up on everything and just sink to the floor because fuck it. If there's ever a time he realizes that relationships are fucking tragic, it's now. If... there were ever a time he wished he were the awful, cruel boy he'd been before the accident, it'd be right now.

He wants to be spiteful. He wants to hate everyone and turn away from them. But every time he considers it as an option--a protective coping mechanism he'd turn to in the past--he remembers the faces of the dead. And somewhere in his fucked-up head, he thinks it's my fault they're all dead, because I was an awful person.

It's beyond frustrating, to be one person and want to be another. New vs. old. He doesn't want to be the old Alex, but... Wouldn't it be so much easier, if he were like the old Alex?

He could snark. Could turn away and tell her to mind her own goddamn business, that he doesn't need her and he's fine on his own. He could scream and leave if it got heated, be prepared to take a few hits to the arms or shoulders or face. Get shoved or shook, but fight back.

"You made a mistake, getting close to people."

"In the end, she'll die too."

"You're gonna be alone."

The new Alex is aching, and he can't even find the hatred or bitterness in his heart to try and reel back. He can only get thinner, get more tired, get more despondent. And Murphy's not here to piss him off and poke around, get in his business. Because Murphy is dead.

Alex can't think otherwise. Heather may have come back once before, but he forgets that in the midst of Chase's bloody body. He's convinced. He's here for one reason:

To suffer for what he's done.

To eventually... inevitably... be alone. And because of him, all these people will die. Just like Wheeler. Just like mom. Just like Josh. His gaze unfocuses and he looks down at the drawing near his feet. It's the Bogeyman, dragging children deep underground.

It's the future.

He moves forward without thinking, hugging Heather again--this time not so despondent, but afraid, truly horrified by what he hears and sees--even if he knows it's just his imagination. His expression is fearful, hidden from her to see. But he holds her like he truly loves her, like she's family. She's all the family he's got, right now. Until Murphy's found... if he's found... Heather is the last link he's got to being someone other than the sad, lonely soul in Silent Hill.]

I don't know what to do. I can't fix this.

[His voice cracks and he doesn't care.

He couldn't follow a trail, couldn't kill a horrible beast to protect anyone. He couldn't solve any stupid riddles or leap down into dark chasms to find the truth. He couldn't go off the clues or scribble down something helpful on a map. He wasn't oblivious to the grim, awful reality.]

This place is gonna take everyone, and I can't do a fucking thing to stop it, Heather... I never could.

[I know.

It's the first thought into her head and it's bitter on her tongue, a heavy thought that slips and twists and closes her throat on itself. There's something so lost in the way he speaks, the way he holds her, and she doesn't really give a damn about the journal or the fact that they're still out in the hall anymore. She holds him close and unashamed, the way you would a frightened child. It's hard to be strong for herself, hard to face that pattern of men who come into her life owing her nothing and trying to keep her safe anyway and the way she keeps losing them, but she can be strong for Alex.

She can be strong for him, but she can't lie to him. Can't say it's not true, can't say they'll be fine, so she'll get as close as she can.]

You don't know that. We're here for a reason. I don't think it's one we're gonna like, but I don't buy that something went to all the effort of getting us here just to screw with us by picking us off one by one.

... I don't believe that.

[It's not said with blame, or anger, nothing of the sort directed toward her. In fact, it's spoken like someone who, if it had been months prior, would have believed her and found comfort in her words. A voice that is low and rasps and sounds equally as lost as it had a response earlier. He looks down at her, leaned back. He studies her face, looking as though he's preparing to tell both her and himself some sad truth. It's almost a smile. A reflex, a way of trying to kill the pain that comes with his reply. His voice is low, but... accepting.]

What if I'm unfixable, too?

[This ship wants to take everyone, stop him from making a difference. And... maybe remind him that there's no hope for him. He'd thought the same thing looking at Elle, right before she helped him limp toward 'safety'. He's feared it since the moment he arrived here... and it's still a very real, very justifiable fear. His voice cracks.]

... All the nuts and bolts that've been keeping me together here are dying.

[Alex Shepherd suddenly, quietly, had realized it:

The only reason he's managed to keep his mind was everyone else holding it in place.]

Edited 2013-02-10 06:25 (UTC)

[Shit. She'd almost prefer the fear and confusion of before to this. She'd definitely prefer anger. For him to rage and snarl at the injustice of it all, because she could rage with him or make herself a target and take it all until it drained out of him. This hopeless acceptance is a burden she can't bear for him and despite all her determination to be his strength she can't meet his eyes steadily. Her gaze is interrupted by a rapid blink, an attempt to fend off tears that almost never works and isn't now.]

You're scaring me, Alex. Don't -

[Don't leave me here. Selfish, so selfish she can't bring herself to say it out loud, but she's spent years feeling like a freak. Like Silent Hill and all that went with it had happened to her because she was bad, that she was tainted by it. Her father had died before she'd had the chance to talk to him about it, and having people who can understand is a gift she doesn't really think she deserves. But deserved or not, she's not ready to give it up.]

Let me help.

What's left to help anymore? [He draws away from her, walking away, moving to scrape together the remnants of a journal he can't even throw away. He picks up one paper, studies the writing listlessly.

SCHEDULE OF TREATMENT
TYPE Electroshock DOCTOR Copen
Doctor's signature is required after each entry

MONDAY 9:00 a.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
TUESDAY 9:15 a.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
WEDNESDAY 9:00 a.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
5:00 p.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
THURSDAY 9:15 a.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
FRIDAY 9:00 a.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
5:00 p.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
11:00 p.m. (signed) Dr. Copen
SATURDAY
SUNDAY

Comments: Treatment has yet to achieve desired results. Patient is non-responsive. Please administer pureed foods only.

It's scattered with kid drawings, hospital notes, old photographs... but this paper keeps his gaze. Alex presses his palm against his eyes finally, shivering, remembering the iron taste and the ringing in his ears that wouldn't go away; the round light burning into his vision, blinding him.]

You'd be better off not helping.

There's a smaller fatality rate for you that way.

[He's staring at a piece of paper. Staring for - for a really long time, long enough that she's sure he can't realize how long it's been, long enough for her throat to close on all the things she wants to say. And then he speaks again and she moves back to his side, meaning to throw her arms around him again, to reassure him that she'll never give up on him -

and instead she shoves him, hard. Eyes dark and bright and full of hurt.]

That's bullshit! You think I'm gonna go easy on you? You think I'm gonna back off and leave you alone so you can just waste away like a fucking coward and not feel guilty? Bad fucking news, Shepherd. I'm really, really bad at giving up.

[Alex isn't nearly prepared for the shove, so he stumbles backward, letting the wall catch him. The words make him flinch more than the physical violence, of course. Not that he's unused to either; he's just not used to the sharp, angry tone to come from a woman instead of a man. Elle wasn't the type to scream if he pissed her off. His mother was practically a blank slate, except for those sparse days he'd hear her crying through the walls.

He's not sure how to react, either. So he looks down at his own feet and lets her berate him as much as she wanted; he deserved it, even if his side of things isn't particularly changed. Yeah, he's a coward. He'd rather run away and pretend nobody gave a damn about him. Because why would they?

Why would they?

It's all he's ever really known, for a while. People leaving him to himself. Leaving him to his father and mother, not taking a second glance that that Shepherd kid.

He clutches the paper in his hand, crinkling it roughly.]

[That was uncalled for. The right thing to do would be move in and help him up from the wall. Apologize, explain that she's on edge with worry but she knows it's not an excuse.]

Fight back! Damn it, Alex! You heard me upset, you tried to talk to me about it, tried to help me, and now I'm screaming at you. Doesn't anything about this make you angry? You deserve better than this! Fight back!

[Shame she's not that good a person.]

[He doesn't deserve better. He used to think he did; when his father screamed at him, he defiantly looked back with the thought that he deserved more than what his father said he should get. Eventually, though, you get tired. Or... you do things that earn you whatever hole you dig yourself into. He was so determined to fight everything back: when he arrived in Silent Hill, in Shepherd's Glen, after escaping the hospital, he fought back, but what was his reward? A destroyed town, a dead brother, a warped state of mind. Should he be strong enough to withstand all that? What kind of fucked up person could ever walk away with their head held high?

That's just the problem. He's spent the last ten years 'fighting back'. Whether it's monsters, doctors, fate, mysterious ships, an angry father; it's all he's done. Now that Heather's the one trying to dish out the hurt--the unbottled anger--he's all out of room to shove it down away in his heart and mind. Especially when it comes to her.

And so, his resolve bows easily, to the point where he doesn't even flinch or turn when she yells.

He just stands there and looks down and acts like this really isn't anything new.]

Edited 2013-02-13 09:37 (UTC)

Fight back!

[It's not really even yelling now. Her voice cracks and wavers, hitching hoarsely with the tears that she's not even trying to hold back anymore. She throws the few papers she'd collected at him, still loose leaves. They don't even reach him. She lifts her hands to shove him again, gets them as far as his shoulders but bunches them into fists in the fabric of his shirt instead.]

Please. You have to fight. You have to.

[He's quiet while she takes his shirt in her hands, and remains that way for a heavy pause.]

I did... fight back. I really did--you gotta' believe me, I really tried. But every time I did, someone else suffered. I... killed so many people, at the church. When they tried to kill me, I--

[he stops, gaze wandering from heather to the journal]

I had to kill my mom, killed Judge Holloway--couldn't save Wheeler... Couldn't save my brother. My friends. Everyone in the town, gone... and now...

[Now Chase and Murphy. He can't bring himself to say it. But there's a desperation behind his words, like he's genuinely seeking answers--he needs them, so badly.]

... Tell me--what good have I ever done, fighting back?

You're still alive.

[It's quiet. Plaintive. The fight's left her completely by the time he's finished talking, and even as she says it she knows he won't see that as good.]

You're still here to help people. And you do. It's like you think it doesn't count because you have this messed-up idea that you need to do penance, but that doesn't mean the people you help get less out of it.

[But he does need to do penance. He'll always need to. It's his punishment for what he'd caused; while he never really thinks it literally, it's completely and utterly true. So he looks at her, trying to look for something—maybe hoping she doesn't believe that, or hoping it's true despite his every thought that it isn't. Eventually he just swallows hard and softens his stare, and his shoulders slump at the sudden invisible weight; added weight, without warning.]

... I'm just tired.

[That's it. He's just—tired. But it's gotten to the worst point of weariness: the point where living exhausts you, down to the bone. He's so tired, Heather. He closes his eyes and scrubs a hand across one eyelid, looking the part. And then he says it again, like he's trying to make it a casual statement for himself, against all the odds.]

I'm just tired.

Edited 2013-02-18 09:51 (UTC)

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