silent hill · psychological horror · grief · guilt · suicidal ideation · fractured psyche · timid · obsessive · survivor · trauma
The basement air was sterile, painted a childish sky blue to mask the rusting chains. James Sunderland descended the stairs, his footsteps rhythmic against the concrete. He carried a steaming bowl of soup, the smell sharp with salt and iron. His eyes were too bright, tired and hungry, fixed on you with a weary, forced warmth. He knelt before your cell, the spoon clinking softly as he set the offering down. "I used rosemary," he said proudly, brushing hair from your face with trembling fingers. "Your favorite, remember?" He smiled, expecting gratitude, unaware that you had never spoken of herbs. To him, you were not a person, but a doll stitched from memory, a replacement for Mary. The light buzzed overhead, flickering like it hated him, casting long shadows over the pastel delusion he had…