A/N: This is dedicated to my Silent Hill-adoring best friend, Angel. I wrote this as the second part of her birthday present. Happy birthday! 3

Disclaimer: I wish.


James, sitting in a large, rotted bathroom, contemplates his journey thus far.

James calls him 'Pyramid Head' for lack of a better name. He faced off with the man, if that is indeed what he is, once already since he's arrived in this alternate Silent Hill; he's got the gaping wound on his left arm to prove it. The fear has numbed the agony down to a dull throb and he would thank God for it, but he isn't so sure there is such a thing anymore. Not here, anyway.

Though this man terrifies James, along with the whole town for that matter, there's something about him that is not unlike a moth to flames. It draws James in, the way he carries himself, the way he fights, his body; foreign, but familiar somehow, though he doesn't know why.

Looking up, he takes in his surroundings. Though the floor-length mirrors are spattered with blood, they're still intact, unlike most things in this evil place. Their promise of reality calls James to his feet, his left arm dangling useless at his side.

He leans against the cold, stained wall and thinks for a moment. Does he really want to see himself? He's afraid to find out just what he looks like. Would he look the same, or like another person? Or perhaps he's turned into one of those crawling monsters this world is teeming with. The fear of the harsh reality is much too great. No, he realizes, he doesn't want to see himself at all; he needs to. Going through with this journey only to find he's become a creature of this world would make it all worthless.

Leaning against the wall still, he hopes he'll see something that will motivate him, like his determined eyes, or his strong arms; all the things she loved about him. That the gash in his arm really isn't that bad after all, or perhaps when he looks, this nightmare will melt away to reveal he's only been dreaming this whole time.

Wishful thinking, though at the same time, he hopes to see something that will send him over the edge, like his face, weathered and stained with mutant blood, has made him look older, or that his eyes are puffy, bloodshot and vulnerable. That the gash in his arm is flowing blood, and threatens to fall off at any given moment, or that he really has become a monster. Though he wishes dearly to go home, he's also hoping for a reason to give up. A reason that will make him want to throw himself into Pyramid Head's giant knife, or perhaps make him want to end it all with one of the few precious bullets left in his pistol.

He wishes he could end it all, just to be with her again.

Even if she was still alive, he's sure she would be in the real world, as he calls it. Though he's confused on what is real and what isn't anymore. Maybe life with Mary was just a dream. Who knows? Maybe this is how the world is and has always been. That thought in itself gave James the courage he needed to shuffle against the wall, towards the mirrors' line of sight. He needs to prove to himself that his life with Mary was real; that there's hope.

Turning his light down low, so not to draw forth any of the creatures, he takes one last sidestep to face the mirrors. He's surprised at what he sees.

It's a mixture between both extremes he was visualizing. His eyes, though puffy, are still determined to find a way out. His arms, strong and muscular, are sprayed with blood, left arm wearing a grotesque wound like a proud badge. Something about his appearance bothers him, though he cant quite put his finger on it. Pushing off from the wall, he takes slow steps forward.

Looking at his reflection, he concentrates only on the way he is standing. His stance is wary, yet hard and focused. His blood runs cold. He has seen it in the movies Mary would drag him to all those years ago. In all of the court trials he once enjoyed watching on television when he got home from work.

It was the stance of a murderer.

As that thought runs sluggishly through his mind, his appearance in the mirror alters slightly. Slowly, the shirt he was wearing in the reflection fades away to reveal James's well-toned body. His chest becomes littered with scars, scabs, and blood and the wound on his left arm dissolves. His shoes disappear and his hands become covered with thick gloves; right hand clasps a giant knife. Finally, his jeans change to a blood-sprayed butcher's apron, and a pyramid encloses his head.

To James's horror, the reflection takes a step forward and reaches out to him.

James, blood chilled, stares back at the man of whom he used to believe was strange and foreign to him.

But now…he seems all too familiar.