Doctor Sam Loomis sat in his office and glared disconsolately at the walls around him. Office, he thought bitterly. One in name only! If they weren't letting him practice solely because of his looks, that he would at least understand. It frightened him sometimes to see his own face, mostly very early in the morning when he was not yet quite awake, and he understood that most already traumatized children would be even more scared then he.
But no, that wasn't their reasons.
He warned them. He warned them all for years. And when Michael finally escaped and went on his killing spree, who went after him and was willing to die to stop him? None of them. All they did to help was send one inexperienced nurse and one guard. And who eventually got the blame for everything that happened? He did, of course, because Michael Myers was his patient!
Oh, they praised his bravery in the papers, paid for all his medical costs without so much as a complaint, even paid his divorce legal fees and then gave him a raise and a shiny new office, but privately, they buried him and dismissed him. Most of his younger colleagues even called him crazy.
He had this brand new office, though. It even had a nice view. But no patients ever filled his hours let alone his waiting room. Sometimes that really chaffed at him. But mostly, he was relieved. Now he could spend his time on what really mattered, what still mattered, the only thing that mattered, Michael.
Catatonic had been the official designation then, and now? Now they called it vegetable. They called it nearly brain dead. Nearly …
Loomis still went and sat with it for hours at a time, sat and stared in to that blank face, ignoring the monitors and all the equipment softly beeping around them. He knew, again, what no one else would admit to themselves. Michael Myers was still a danger to every living thing, in particular his family.
Today however, his vigil was interrupted.
"Excuse me, Dr. Loomis?"
An anxious young nurse hovered in the doorway to Michael's room and stared apprehensively at him, stared at his scars without meeting his eyes.
"I have a standing order not to be disturbed," Loomis snapped at the girl.
"What is it?" he inquired more gently, resisting the urge to tell her that it was impolite to stare at ones' elders, especially from one in the medical profession who should know better.
"Dr. Loomis, this registered letter just came for you by special currier."
The girl gingerly held out the letter, and Loomis took it.
"Thank you," he dismissed the girl, and she was glad enough to go.
Shoving the letter in to his pocket, he did not bother to open it until he was back in his office some hours later. When he did, his world came crashing down for the second time. For a letter delivered by special currier, it was painfully brief, only consisting of one sheet of plain white paper, with four words handwritten on it:
Laurie Strode is dead! Protect her daughter!
"So this is why you still live, Michael," Loomis muttered to himself. "Jamie Lloyd is why you still live. Well, you won't get that little girl. If it really costs me my life this time, you won't get her."
He put the letter in to his jacket pocket, and started making plans again. Plans to kill the devil.
No one will mourn hit, he thought with only the briefest pangs of sadness. But will anyone mourn me?
The End