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@firebrightspark
im permanently emotionally damaged but itâs chill, Iâm chill
aesthetic post for @firebrightspark
â You sleep coiled; tightly wound. Â Hands are fists beneath pillows, Â clenched above cotton sheets.
 You are at war, even in your dreams. â
HV. âWelcome to Silent Hill.â
Kawasaki Warehouse restroom via @wongJP
This is an image of the Wish House Orphanage. Housing the cult members of Silent Hill, this particular area was one associated with where Walter Sullivan grew up and the environment responsible for his decent into madness and the murders he committed. It was a basic torture strong hold for many of the children there, many theorized to be given punishments like forced to swallow leeches or mutilated in ways similar aside from the Water Prison. It was built by the âSilent Hill Smile Support Societyâ, (sometimes called 4S), as a charity organization for children who donât have homes. The orphanage was secluded in the woods near Silent Hill to keep citizens away while the cult taught them the ritualistic matters of it, however, many neighbors near the woods complained of hearing children cry during the night. Jasper Gein is eventually burned alive inside Wish House as victim 17.
Sinners welcome, Chris Maggio
âWere ya smoking?â
Rostenâs own desk is a wasteland of cigarette butts.
âOr possibly roasting some marshmallows?â
Thereâs an acid bite in his voice. Rosten sounds twenty, no quaver of age in his tone; the red hair coiling over his mask is streaked with gray.
âOr fire-setting, Matthew?â
âN-no Sir, I...â He gulps back the stammering confession but he knows itâs too late. Itâs always, always too late and not late enough.
The whites of Matthewâs eyes glisten with suppressed tears.
âI-I swear as the S-Sun God-â
Oh no, no he means to swear on Her Divine Presence as they taught him but if Father Rosten doesnât believe him... no. No this is a bad idea. He knows heâs telling the truth, that he didnât consciously start the fire but... but... this fire always follows him, doesnât it?
âI donât smoke.â
@firebrightspark
Heâs a ghost in white, all hissing breath and ash-smell. Father Rosten fingers the scorched book; the soot crumbles onto his glove.
âYa mind telling me how this got burned, Matthew?â
He flashes a toothy smile behind the mask.
Time never did work in a linear fashion for Matthew, did it?
Or should that be, does it?
Heâs all of twelve years old, just skin and bone after a brief growth spurt. Thereâs puppy fat at the edges but heâs too thin for his age already. He knows this without looking in a mirror, without considering all those extra years and memories pushed aside to make room for a familiar encounter.
The snake in his gut gets to biting so hard he damn near throws up.
âI donât know, Father Rosten,â he whispers to his feet. It comes out in one breath, one measly little mumble.
omg g pas publié depuis longtemps c la tuile
me
A sketchbook page about fear