9This is a yaoi story that I thought was interesting to put in the archives. I've been reading some good yaoi with plot involving Walter and Henry and would like to give it a shot.
I don't own Silent Hill and never will, please be courteous and review, reviews give me the inspiration to write more. Just to inform you I know when people are reading this story and it really does aggravate me when I know that people are reading but I only get two reviews.
Don't be lazy, and please don't flame. I have a habit for being a bit of a monster when people flame me.
It felt unusual, sitting in one place, being told to tell your life's story all focused on one moment. Honestly, I sometimes wanted to slap the suppose 'doctor,' what with his repetitive question of "and how did that make you feel?" I was practically paying the man to hear myself talk, didn't I come for help? In my mind I obviously wasn't getting any.
"So, lets begin where we left off yesterday Mr. Townshend."
The man across the desk from me wore the casual old teal suit, his long dirty blond hair was soothed and pulled back by way too much gel giving it a very oily look, without the sturdy ointment his bangs reached about to his shoulders but I had only once seen them down. He had a professional voice, taught to be cool toned so in order to keep the patients relaxed and calm, however it only put me on edge as I knew a lot better than to trust him just from his smooth tenor.
It was his eyes that gave him away, his eyes that kept me from telling him everything about me, my life, and the whole story that had occurred in the apartment. They were bright green, hiding shimmering gold treasures. Two dangerous colors clashed so greatly that I was reminded of a snake.
And snake-like he was, because he looked too much like him. The dirty blond hair, the eyes, the rough five 'o' clock shadow, the voice was a little off but it didn't matter. They looked too much the same.
"It's not helping." I did not make eye contact, but instead held my gaze on the picture framed mahogany red walls, looking at the certificates of degree and small pictures of recognizable vacation spots; beaches, forests, places that would have someone relax and imagine themselves at.
I hear him tap at his clipboard with the back of his pen, held nimbly in his large and calloused hands. The sound reminded me of a lock, ticking away the seconds. I counted in my head, one...two...three... "Why do you say that, Henry?" He considered himself at first name basis, but I never called him anything other than "doc," if I could help it.
"Because," Glancing away from the walls I looked down at my hands, my calloused, scabbed, and dotty scared fingers that had knotted themselves together unconsciously. "I've been having the nightmares again." I lied. True, I was having nightmares but they had never went away to beginning with.
I heard the fabric of his large red chair pull at the cloth of his clothes as he leaned forward. Still I kept my eyes away and felt my body tighten at the close invasion of my personal space. "Have you been taking the mediation I prescribed?" I could swear that I was feeling his breath on my face, but I knew claustrophobia had me exaggerating.
Silently I nodded my head, and he must not have believed my answer because the clock like clicking stopped. I was looking at the floor now, digging my shoe into the gray carpet absentmindedly. I heard him sigh and finally he leaned back in his chair, making it so much easier for me to breath. "Henry, I know that before me you met with countless others in hopes to get help. I believe you even checked yourself into an asylum, did you not?"
I didn't answer, I didn't need to anyways as he went on. "All of which told me that you had problem's with the medication. You either flushed them, or hid the pills in your mouth to spit out later." I felt his gaze on me, as sharp as a knife; fitting.
"I can't help you if you don't let me, Henry." Suddenly my gaze was back on the wall and the clicking of his pen began again; wash, rinse, repeat. "Why not just take the medicine?"
I shook my head "It won't help."
I heard him mutter under his breath but I didn't bother to pick up on it. Instead his pen stopped clicking and the plain sound of messy scribbling threw off the mental counting I had been keeping track of.
"Let's just continue from, Tuesday." Finally, I looked at him. One leg crossed over the other, board balanced on his knee and his pen writing in chicken scratch that I couldn't make out from my red cushioned seat on the couch. His eyes were staring at his work, covered by the black frames of his reading glasses; which was just one of the very few things that I was able to use as contrast between the two of them.
"I can't do it." I simply answered, and just like that my eyes were somewhere else as his were again on me. His staring after the first few days I began to meet with him, had quickly become a very annoying and bad habit.
"And why do you feel that, Mr. Townshend?" He only used my last name when he was stalling the fact that I wanted to avoid the storytelling.
I didn't answer him, allowing him to piece it together.
"Fine." He grumbled and uncrossed his legs. "Then I guess we ca-"
"I just-" It didn't go the way I wanted, the adult in me kicked the child in me out from behind the reins. "I don't think it's working. I want help, yes. But am I really getting that by just talking about my feelings?" I growled and felt my hands finally break apart and take place on my knee's. "That's not what I need, I need something else..."
"So, you feel that you need to talk about the incident itself?" Sudden pain laced from my knees and I notice that its from my white knuckled grip I now had of them. Taking a long deep gulp of the stale room air I loosened my hold and moved them to clench at the couch instead.
Slowly, I nodded my head and heard the clicking of his pen return once again.
"Well then, I don't see what's stopping us. Other then your need to be so-" He cleared his throat and I'm almost glad that he's so straightforward in admitting his annoyance with me. "Alright Henry, let's start with the beginning then."
I nodded and shifted myself in my seat so as to lean back. I tried to get comfortable for the long story that was about to be told.
"Tell me what happened in Room 302. What happened in South Ashfield Heights."