Luke Henry is cursed to live for (aneternity) wrote in rooms,
Re: quicklog: luke/wren, silent hill.
[He stared while she talked, about dinner and soup and maybe lobster, stare and stare and what she was saying just wasn't sinking in. There was a disconnect, somewhere. Luke couldn't grasp it.] Lobster. [An echo, masking a struggle for comprehension.] I like what you cook. [That was automatic, instinct, and a quiet smile touched his lips. A whisper of elsewhere, of a place away from this hell where they really could go to dinner and do all the things she wanted to do. It seemed like heaven; maybe it was. Heaven, and this was hell. Wren just couldn't see it, or maybe she didn't want to.
There was a way out, but he could barely remember. Keys. A door. Little things that paled in the face of nightmares, of fear, and he couldn't hold onto them. They were too slippery.
Outside, beyond the closet, the woman was waiting. Luke expected as much. But the monster child was back, too, and he flinched when he saw it. No, no, why was it here? And then she laughed, and he looked up at the woman and saw her expression; she was pleased. She'd brought it here, the not-child with its knife and its burning skin. Wren smiled bright, bright at the monster, contrast to the cruel curl of lips only he could see. He shook his head when she tugged her hand free, when she held it out to the thing that wasn't their son.] Don't. [But his voice was hoarse. Not loud enough. She looked so, so happy, Wren did, but none of it was real. It was all a trap, didn't she see? Didn't she know?]
Upstairs? [More repetition, and the woman chuckled. You'll come to dinner, won't you, darling? Slithering, a whisper in his ear. You must say yes, I've been waiting so very long to see you again. My sweet, sweet boy. My little monster. We have so much to catch up on.
Whimper. He didn't want to go. He didn't want to go. He tried to say as much but his throat felt tight, and it was hard to breathe. Luke clawed at his collar, thinking it was too tight, thinking that might help. The woman kept whispering, whispering, more words, and he couldn't tune her out. Twitch, twitch, went his fingers, so close to the gun.]
That's not him. [He tried to clear his throat, tried hard.] Wren, th-that's not Gus. [He reached for her, fingers finding the fabric of her dress, and he tugged.] Let go. Let go. [His voice became a sharp whine.] Let go.