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October 15th
6:21 am
Michael watched her droop her head in defeat and recognition. He allowed himself the fleeting feeling of gratitude that he had not killed her when she came downstairs back at the house. He had heard her speak but it was not until she said his name that he knew it was her. She was the only one that used his name. The other doctors had picked up where Loomis left off and began referring to him as 'it'. It didn't bother him, not in the sense it would bother a normal person. But when his Lottie first came in to speak to him and greeted him like he had seen others greet each other there was a strange pressure in his chest that seeped warmth into his body. It was one of the strangest feelings he had ever encountered. He was skeptical of it at first but he soon came to the understanding that it was a good feeling. Something he wanted again.
His first urge when he realized he had found his Lottie was to touch her. It was again a new desire for him. He wanted to touch her to know she was real, that he had actually found her. He couldn't bring himself to touch her though. There was a type of barrier he felt erected between them. Every day she had come to speak to him, her hair pulled back neatly, glasses resting on her face, her pristine white lab coat not all that different from his white hospital gown. She had been his doctor, unobtainable. When she was in the same room he had been bound, tied up like an animal and unable to go near her.
That was why the first thing he did once he had her unconscious was bind her. He was the one in control now and he could do as he pleased. He circled the duct tape around her ankles more times than he could remember, just to be sure that she could not break free. When he bound her wrists he was a bit more careful and was even thoughtful enough to wrap her wrists in a piece of ripped fabric before binding them with the tape.
It turned out to have been a good thing he had not taped over her mouth. But it was not the possibility of a concussion and the likely vomiting that came along with it that had stopped him. In fact he had never considered the dangers of striking her over the head. He knew it would not kill her and that was all that mattered. In the end though, it was his desire to hear her speak that made the final decision. He wanted to hear his name on her lips.
When she woke up in the car he had been glad to hear her voice again. He had come to the understanding in the hospital that when she walked in and he felt the small spread of warmth in his body, that it had been what others would call happiness. Had he deemed the information worthy enough he would have informed someone he was feeling an emotion he had heard Loomis say multiple times was beyond him. Talking had always seemed useless to him. Speech was something that should only be used in a time of complete and utter necessity. Michael, since the age of six had never felt such a necessity. There was nothing worth vocalizing.
Michael reached down and scooped the little doctor up in his arms and carried her like a new bride into the house. He stepped over the dead man, a shot gun still in his hand, without a care. Lottie looked down at the man only briefly before turning away her face scrunched up and a tear coming from her eye.
Inside the house it was small but comfortable for two people. Once inside he placed her down gently on the floor, aware she had something called a concussion that was causing her discomfort. He took his knife form his pocket and walked the bottom story of the house. He heard no noise, except the occasional sniffle form Lottie. When he finished his search of the first story he went to check on Lottie. When he was comfortable with the knowledge she had made no attempt to run he searched the upper story. There were no pictures in the house which gave Michael the impression that the man had lived alone and no one would come looking for him. It was useful seeings how Lottie would need a place to sleep, eat and stay warm. Things Michael had never bothered to provide himself with.
"Michael?" he heard Lottie's voice from down the stairs and he followed her voice. When he got to the bottom of the stairs he scooped her into his arms once against and carried her into the living room. "Michael, I need ice for my head."
He put her down on the couch so she was sitting upright. Her small hands resting in her lap and her feet planted on the floor for balance. He looked at her a moment and frowned underneath his mask. Dried, rusty colored blood coated her forehead and matted the side of her hair. He hadn't meant to make her bleed. He had been hit over the head countless times but had never bled. Lottie must be more fragile than he originally thought.
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7:06pm
"Michael, please. My head hurts so bad," Charlotte told him but he continued to stare at her.
The mental processing of a psychopath is more cognitive than emotional.
Charlotte sighed and her shoulders dropped. She was about to give up when Michael stood and walked out of the room. It took him ten minutes to return but he had with him two cloths and a small bag of ice. He handed her a cloth and a bag of ice before rather forcefully pressing the damp cloth into her bloody forehead. Charlotte grimaced but said nothing. Michael's actions may have been rough but he thought he was helping her. She didn't think chastising him would get a positive reaction out of him. She sat through the pain as he wiped the blood away from her face before rising the ice to what she was sure a sizable bruise and bump on her head. Michael stared down at the cloth for a moment before dropping it on the table. Charlotte kept her eyes on the table in front of her and tired not to look up at Michael. She didn't know how to approach the situation and she wanted to gage Michael's mood before acting.
"Michael," she said softly and looked up at him. "Can you take your mask off?"
He looked away from her, something she learned meant no.
"Michael, I know you," she said. She was going to reach out to touch his sleeve but didn't. She had never, besides being carried by him quite recently, touched him. She didn't know if he would be ok with it or not. She thought, maybe, if she could see his face the terror she was feeling would subside slightly. Seeing him outside of his hospital gown was unsettling, seeing him in that mask, terrifying.
Her stomach clenched when his hand hovered over her cheek. She could feel her hands tremble and she lowered the ice from her throbbing head. When he finally pressed his palm to her face she was surprised by the warmth of him. His large hand rested on her cheek and his head tilted to the side. Once again she was at a loss. She had prided herself in her ability to analyze, understand and then predict the behaviors of psychopaths, but this was beyond her. His touch was not one to harm, nor was it one to move her. Strictly speaking, based on her analysis of Michael, the only reason he should have to touch anyone is see to his own needs.
His hand slipped down lower until it rested on the side of her neck, his thumb circling around and resting firmly on her windpipe. Charlotte swallowed hard and could feel her lips tremble. Strangulation was always a way she didn't want to go, and now she was going to be murdered by a patient, former patient she supposed. And not just that, but a patient she had worked so hard to understand. She had started her own private research before she even left high school. The moment police reports and case studies had been available for her at her college she dug even deeper into the mystery that was Michael Myers. Hell, she did her dissertation on him for God's sake.
His thumb stroked her neck slowly and she was stricken by the horrible thought that he was just savoring the moment of her death. Perhaps he did see her like any other doctor and had brought her here to torture. She bit her lip. That didn't make sense though; it wasn't in keeping with Michael's character. He was a serial murderer but he never tortured anyone.
She took in a panicked breath when she felt him apply pressure but she soon realized he was in fact pushing her to her side. She went with his guiding hand, all the while appreciating the fragility of her neck in his hand. Once her side was pressed to the couch he picked her feet up from the floor and brought them up so she was laying on the couch. Charlotte watched in silent wonder as he placed hand over her eyes gently. She understood he wanted her to go to sleep but she didn't understand why.
She hoped, when her mind was clearer and she wasn't suffering the after math of a blow to the head, she'd be able to think a little better. Perhaps figure out what it was he wanted. When he hovered his hand over her eyes a second time she shut them. She had no intention of sleeping but as soon as her eyes were shut she felt exhaustion overwhelm her. Perhaps sleep wasn't such a bad idea after all.
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8:20 am
When Michael was sure that Lottie was asleep he left the house to bury the body on the front porch. Lottie wouldn't like to see it. He dragged the body around the side of the house and dug a shallow grave with a nearby shovel. The back yard was large and covered with lush green grass but a forest, thick with trees, lay just at the edge of the property.
Once the body was buried he went in through the back door. He made his way back to the living room and sat down on the coffee table. He reached out and gently ran his fingers over the large bruise on the side of her head. He saw her forehead crinkle and he took his hand back and waited. When she didn't wake up he continued to stare at her. He didn't like watching her sleep. The muscles in her face were slack and relaxed and she looked totally at peace.
She looked dead.
And he would know, he had seen a lot of dead people. If it were not the small rise and fall of her body he would not have been able to tell the difference. The breath going in and out of her body was the only sign to Michael she was alive. His discomfort began to fade as her eyes began to shoot from side to side underneath her eyelids. He had never seen a dead body do that. Of course he had never seen anyone do that. He wanted to touch her again but he kept his hands down. He would wait until she woke up.
All the others he watched did it while the girl was awake…
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1:15 pm
Charlotte woke up alone and with a dull aching in her head but the worst of it had subsided. She pulled her elastic out of her messy, blood matted hair and ran her fingers through the greasy strands. She couldn't put her hair back up due to the duct tape around her wrists so she hung it over her shoulders. She listened hard for a few moments trying to see whether Michael was in the house or not. When she heard nothing but silence she leaned forward and did her best to rip through the duct tape around her ankles.
She looked around anxiously as she pulled at the tape. Her heart pounded beneath her rib cage and she was finally able to fully appreciate the situation. She was alone with Michael Myers.; a man who had killed seventeen people, one of them his own sister. She was not under the allusion that Michael was not going to hurt her. Even at this point something small could set him off. The longer she lived, ironically, the more dangerous her situation became. Sooner or later Michael would change his mind and kill her.
When she broke through the tape her finger tips were red and sore. She ripped the tape off of her jeans and stood and began to work on her hands. She walked to the edge of the living room and looked down the hall. The house was silent and all Charlotte could hear was her own heavy breathing. She stepped into the hallway as she tried to get the tape off and managed to find the kitchen.
She found a knife sitting on the table and struggled with it as she tried to cut through the tape. It was difficult with her hands bound together but she eventually broke free. All the while listening for music Charlotte washed her face in the sink with cool water and tried to clean out her hair. Once she pulled her hair back in a ponytail she took a quick drink from the faucet to replenish her dehydrated body. When she was satisfied she made her way quickly and as silently as she could to the front of the house.
Looking out the windows she saw the front yard empty. The car Michael had driven them there with sat alone in the front of the lot and Charlotte bit her lip. She took a breath and tried to evaluate the situation. It was unlikely that Michael had taken the keys with him when he left the car. She actually in that moment had the absurd thought that she would have to remember to use that as an example in class on Monday for the impulsiveness of a psychopath. If she could get to the front seat of the car without Michael seeing her she would be able to get the hell out of there. She'd get to the police, tell them where Michael was, and hopefully he would be brought back to Danver's.
She looked around once more time and listened for movement. When she was sure there was none she opened the front door. She expected to see the dead body of the poor, former owner of this house, but the body appeared, judging by the blood stain, to have been dragged away. She hurried down the steps, surprised by the rush of cold air she was met with once outside. She looked over her shoulder as she hurried toward the car and saw no one.
She yanked the door to the Honda accord open and slid into the driver's seat and look to the ignition. She felt a wave of triumph run through her when she saw the keys still in the car. She shot her hand out to grab the handle. Instead of grabbing the door handle her hand came into contact with a solid mass of warmth and fabric. She jerked her head to the side and looked up to see her former patient looking down at her. Without a moment's hesitation she reached for the keys and tried to turn on the car.
Before she could get the car started her hand on the steering wheel was seized and she was yanked from the car. Her body hit the cold ground hard and the wind was knocked from her lungs. She looked up at Michael as he approached her slowly, his knife held firmly in his right hand.
She crawled away from him until she managed to get on her feet and head toward the house. She had always found it annoying how in horror movies when girls were being chased by a murderer they ran into the house. When she found herself running into the house all those memories of throwing popcorn at the movie screen with friends came back. She had no choice however. She couldn't outrun Michael, even if Michael never ran. He would get her some way or another. Her only hope was to lose Michael in the house and try to get enough distance between them so that she could get back into the car.
She was halfway up the stairs when she felt his hand close around her ankle and yank her down. Her feet flew out from underneath her and he body hit the stairs hard. She cried out as Michael pulled her down toward him and she was sure he was going to kill her. Tears left her eyes as she started to breath heavy and she flipped herself over onto her back. Michael pulled her to the base of the stairs before raising the knife to her neck.
She thought it ironic the man she was fixated on would be her death. The cold steal pressed against the soft vulnerable skin of her neck and tears leaked from her eyes. She looked into Michael Myers' eyes. The eyes of death.
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2:05 pm
Michael dropped to his knees on the stairs so he straddled her legs. He noticed her sharp intake of breath when he hovered over her, his thighs gripping her lower hips and holding her in place. He watched her throat constrict under his knife and he held the blade to her neck for a few more moments. He could feel her body tremble underneath him and he felt his anger dissolve.
When he had come around the side of the house and saw his Lottie getting into the car he was consumed with rage. This was the second time she tried to leave him, first when she was fired, and now this. But now that he had her on the ground beneath him, with his knife to her throat, he knew she couldn't leave him. It eased his mind and he looked down at her.
She was his doctor. She couldn't leave him.
He looked down at her. His free hand touched the side of her face gently. Her skin was soft and wet and Michael tried to wipe the tears away. His hands brushed over her face and he made her stop smiling. She sniffled softly. His hand replaced his knife on her throat. Her skin was milky. Creamy. So unblemished and untouched. He wondered what it would taste like.
His hand moved lower and he trailed his fingers tips along the collar of her shirt. Her breasts would rise toward him before dripping back down away from him. He watched them and a strange burning spread through his body. It was something he had never felt before. He would sometimes feel the low hum in his body when she came to him to talk, the way she would chew on her pen or bite he thumb nail while she thought.
He felt the pressure between his legs and frowned. It hadn't been since he was a teenager that this happened to him. He grew harder as he looked down and he was overcome with the need to touch her, the need to see what lay beneath her clothing. He could do that now. They weren't back at the hospital. He was in charge; she was his prisoner, not the other way around. She was his.
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Charlotte remained still as he gripped the base of her shirt. When he pulled the shirt upward and revealed her smooth stomach she bit her lip to keep a cry of surprise from her lips. When his hand pressed down on the flat of her stomach Charlotte flinched and made a move to the right. Michael gripped her firmly and held her still.
"Michael," he voice was a frightened whisper. She was shocked by his actions. Never had Michael Myers ever shown any sign that he has any sexual drive. He'd been in contact with naked women, vulnerable women, and never had he acted on any baser instincts. All he wanted was to kill.
That was what she had thought until this point however, but his actions were without a doubt sexual. His intentions were clear. They were made clearer still when his hand slipped under her shirt and halted over her black, lacy bra. His eyes were swimming with heated arousal as he looked down at her and she shivered. Charlotte had been wise enough to see Michael Myers as a human being, but not wise enough to see him as a man. And Michael seemed to have discovered women as a sexual counterpart.
Her chest heaved and when his hand gave a firm, exploratory squeeze she felt hot liquid pool in her stomach. Her face flushed in horror as she realized her body was reacting to her current situation.
"Michael," she whispered and his hand relaxed on her breast. He picked up his knife and she screwed her eyes shut waiting for the blade to sink into her flesh or be dragged along her throat. Instead, she felt a tug on her shirt and the sound of ripping fabric. When she looked down her eyes widened. He was literally cutting through her clothing. He pulled the torn fabric, which had once been her shirt, and tossed it behind him.
Once again he brought his hand to her breast and gently stroked the swell of soft, blushing flesh that spilled over the front of her bra. When he gripped the top of the cup of her bra and pulled down gently her hands went to his biceps and gripped his jump suit firmly. Her eyes flew up to his and she saw him looking down at her in surprise.
She didn't push him away but instead held onto him firmly. His muscles flexed under her hands and his hand went back to her breast. She watched him explore her body, touching her firmly but with the curiosity and timidity of an inexperienced virgin. It was strange that such a vicious, powerful man could be so inexperienced in something like sex.
She actually found the idea exciting. His need was driven on instinct. Everything he was doing was what his body and mind were telling him to do, not what he had learned from another women. The unpredictability of those with mental disorders had always excited her. Knowing that those men would act on baser desires and not societies norms was deliciously frightening.
She gasped when he sliced through her bra and her breasts spilled free. He let out an audible sigh when he saw her and it was the closest she had ever heard to what his voice may have sounded like. His fingertips gently rested on the tip of her hardened nipple.
A shiver of pleasure ripped through her when he circled the pink of her breast. A grumble came from low in his throat and took the nipple between his thumb and finger. She watched as his head titled to the side. Suddenly, and without warning his fingers pinched together painfully and she cried out in pain. His fingers quickly left her nipple and he looked down at her in confusion. Her finger nails dug into his jump suit and his arm as an extension.
"That hurt, Michael," she whispered and blinked back tears. His eyes, and the skin surrounding them, looked down at her through the watch. She wished Dr. Loomis could see what he looked like now. She'd like to see him try to say he had no emotion now.
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Michael watched her eyes turn wet and he took his hand away from her. Instead of continuing to touch her breasts he pulled at the button of her jeans. He wanted to see her naked. He wanted all of her clothing gone. The more he thought about her body being covered from his view the angrier he got.
His body ached.
The throbbing between his legs was growing and he found it almost painful. Sweat was perspiring on his forehead and dripping onto his mask. He could hear his heart in his ears and his breathing seemed painfully loud inside his mask. He had never felt so out of control. He'd never felt so in need of something. Not even when he was stalking his prey. When he was killing he was at peace, nothing bothered him. This was painful. This was unyielding and demanding.
He pulled hard on her jeans. The squeak that escaped her pleased him. The way her body moved the way he wanted. Her body was small but full and curvy and Michael wanted it. He pulled the jeans down the length of her long legs before yanking on her underwear.
He often wondered what she would look like under her clothing. When she came in to talk to him, besides enjoying the sound of her voice as she spoke his name, he'd look over her small body and wonder what it would feel like to overpower her to have her to way he wanted her.
Now he finally did.
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Goosebumps spread over Charlotte's body as her skin was exposed to the cool air. Michael's jump suit rubbing against her thighs offered a small area of warmth and as the fabric brushed against her bolts of pleasure coursed through her. Despite the pleasure her body was being bombarded with Charlotte couldn't stave off the horror that she was experiencing.
She could not fight Michael off. He was too strong and could easily over power her. Even if she wanted to fight him off and take the risk he would kill her. She was sure of it. Michael was on a mission. His mind was set on something and he would react violently if he didn't get it.
She looked up at him. His eyes were burning and dark as they looked down at her and something was made painfully clear to Charlotte. She was about to get fucked by Michael Myers.
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