October 18th

Charlotte woke up on the couch, but Michael was not with her. She looked for him, her eyes searching the living room of the rustic cabin, and she did not have to look long. He was sitting on the couch, which he had pulled closer to the fire. Charlotte's lips parted as she looked at him, his face unmasked and open to her gazing eyes. His skin was white and pasty, nearly as white as his mask, a result of being locked away from the word for so many years. His face was already showing signs of a five o'clock shadow again and she momentarily wondered if he would even trust her to shave him again after her recent escape attempts.

His nose was rather nondescript, neither wide nor narrow, neither arching nor straight, hooked nor upturned, large nor small. His lips were thin, straight, and pink. His eyes, deep and wide set, but not uncomfortably so, were stunningly thoughtful as he looked down at his mask. His fingers ran over the nose of the mask and his dark brown eyes moved over it slowly.

She watched the little movement of his right pointer finger, the way it glided slowly over the rubber. She watched as his eyes moved, the way his jaw would occasionally clench, and the way his lips twitched slightly. He did not look up as she slid off of the couch and approached him. He only looked up when she placed her hand on his shoulder and she saw surprise on his face. Open, sincere surprise. There was nothing malicious in the look. It was nearly childlike.

He immediately began bringing his hands up, trying to pull the mask back over his face, but Charlotte stopped him.

"Please don't, Michael," she said and he paused. There was suspicion swimming in his eyes but he slowly lowered his hands back to his lap. Smiling she cupped his face with her hands, stroking his cheekbones with her thumbs. "You're so handsome. You don't need to cover yourself up… not from me. When we first met you weren't covered up and I never tried to hurt you right?"

He nodded slowly and placed the mask back into his lap. She smiled and stroked his broad shoulders then lowered his hands to glide over his powerful chest. It was amazing how strong his body remained after so long of being sedentary. Even in the few weeks since his escape he had grown stronger, and she never saw him do any extensive lifting.

"Thank you for forgiving me last night, Michael. That was very good of you."

He tilted his head to the side as she said it.

"Do you know what forgiveness is?"

Slowly he shook his head.

"It's when someone does something bad to you, or something mean, and they feel sorry, or sometimes they don't feel sorry I suppose, though I do, and even though they did something bad, you let go of your anger and resentment, and start over with them. Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"And have you forgiven me?" she asked and smiled when he brought his hand up and pressed it to her chest, where her heart rested.

"Thank you Michael," she smiled. He looked down at her and she saw a glimmer in his eyes. His head tilted to the side and his hand moved to close around her breast. She touched his wrist and he let her gently remove his hand from her body and put it in her lap. She held his hand gently and smiled.

"Would you like to bathe Michael? It's been a white since you took a proper bath or shower and your hair is getting slightly greasy. You can take a shower while I cook dinner and then we can spend time together. Do you understand, Michael, spend time together?"

He nodded and she watched in amazement as he raised his hand to his head and almost shyly touched his hair. He took a little curl between his fingers and pinched it. He looked almost embarrassed, the way his shoulders hunched slightly and he looked down at his mask. She bit her bottom lip, terrified he would put the mask back on and try to hide from her again. She regretted pointing out the state of his hair.

"I can cut your hair afterward so it's a little shorter. It is getting a little long," she told him and brought his hand away from his hair. "Would you like that? You are so handsome a little haircut would look nice."

He nodded and stood, carrying his mask with him upstairs to the shower. She vaguely wondered if he knew enough to use the shampoo, but she figured he would. In the hospital he would be bathed by an orderly and shampoo was always squeezed into his brown hair. She had dinner, some soup and toast, ready for him when he came back downstairs and asked him if he could put some more wood on the fire. He did so as she put the soup down on the table.

His hair was wet and plastered to the side of his face. It appeared he stepped out of the shower and simply placed his jumpsuit back on, not doing anything to attempt to dry off. She was pleased that his mask, while securely in his hands, was not on his face. He sat down next to her on the couch and brought the bowl of steaming soup into his lap, eating it slowly and quietly.

"Michael? Come Halloween, we are going to stay here right? We won't be going to Haddonfield?" she asked. He tensed and she saw his face tighten into a taut frown. He continued eating, shoveling the soup into his mouth and biting into the bread fiercely.

"We will be staying together though right?" she asked. He looked at her, his eyes squinting almost. "I don't want to be apart from you."

She reached out and touched his arm, rubbing back and forth in a comforting manner. He looked at her a long time, no longer eating. His eyes moved over her face thoughtfully.

"I don't want to be left alone. If I am I might be taken away and you won't be able to find me again," she told him. "I don't want that to happen and I don't think you do either."

He shook his head.

"Do you promise that no matter what you will keep me with you?"

He nodded.

"Good," she smiled and patted his hand. He resumed eating and waited for her to finish once he was done. When they finished Michael followed her into the kitchen where she did the dishes. Her mind raced as she tried to find the best way to breach this subject with Michael. She breathed heavily as she scrubbed at the bowls for longer than necessary and began speaking with her back to him. She did not want to see his face when she spoke. It would be better not to know if death was coming.

She felt the chances of him killing her were high when she next spoke, but she had to try. She thought she had a fairly good idea what Michael had planned come Halloween, and if she could keep him from killing anyone else she would. She knew once he was recaptured, which she could only hope would happen eventually; she would never be given access to him again. And she felt that this time was coming soon and as much as she could do for Michael until then she would.

He was clearly insane, and so it was unlikely that any more added to the body count would affect him in anyway. He could not be executed, and the security he had been under at Danvers was so high and restrictive it was not as if anything more could be taken from him, but his treatment might grow worse. Meals might be skipped, med charts might be fudged. On top of not wanting Michael to suffer if she could save another life she would, even if it meant risking her own.

"You know you do not need to hurt anyone Michael. We are safe here alone. No one needs to die anymore, right?" she asked and paused. She heard nothing behind her, no movement, no breaking furniture, no sign of his reaction. She turned to face him, swallowing hard. He was standing in the doorway staring at her, face devoid of emotion. His eyes were on her as they normally her, thoughtful, but hard to read.

She watched him look to the calendar on the wall. Slowly he walked toward it. He ripped the day off and tossed it to the side, then turned back to Charlotte. She watched him a moment and then moved to speak again, taking a timid step toward him. Her lips parted but no sound left and she closed her mouth. She thought about her next words carefully but ended up speaking openly and honestly.

"Why Michael? Why do you want to hurt people?" she asked him. "You had a good life. A loving family and successful parents. You had toys and clothes and siblings. Why?"

He only stared at her but his eyes began to blink rapidly.

Prone to thought disorder, she thought quickly. She moved toward him and stood right in front of him, tucking some loose hair behind his hair and pressing it away from his face. He stopped blinking and looked down at her, his entire body taught.

"That's alright Michael," she told him. "You don't have to answer that."

She forced a smile. If only he could. That was the million dollar question. If she could answer that her career would sky rocket. She would be famous. She would go down next to Erikson, Frued, Jung and Maslow, Pavlov, Skinner, and Wundt. Unfortunately Michael could not tell her why. He probably did not understand himself and would be unable to tell her even if he could speak.

"You are a mystery, Michael," she smiled. "Now let me find some scissors and I can cut your hair."

Finding scissors was not difficult, but trimming Michael's hair was. She did her best to keep him even, and when she finished he could not find any glaring mistakes. She was pleased that when she finished he touched his hair and seemed pleased with the haircut. If Michael smiled, he would have smiled then. As his hair grew longer it tended to curl slightly, but now that it was shorter it appeared silky and straight. She smiled as he ran his hands through his finished hair feeling, his cranium intently. She took his hand and he stood from the chair.

"Feel better?" she asked and he nodded. "What do you like better, Michael? Murder or sex?"

He looked down at her blankly.

"If you leave me I won't be able to make you feel better," she told him. "I am your doctor and I care about you, remember. Don't leave me alone. Stay here and don't go to Haddonfield."

She tugged on his hand and brought him upstairs to the bedroom they had began to use. She froze when they were on the stairs and she heard the familiar sound of a car coming up the gravelly dirt road. She froze, keeping the scream from ripping through her throat. Her hands tightened around Michael's and he watched her, waiting for a scream or a shout of fear or warning. But she remained silent, looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.

"The man, Michael," she whispered. "The one that came a day or so ago… he must have been expected back by someone."

He frowned and began moving back down the stairs, dragging Charlotte by the wrist as he did. He placed her in the closet and put his mask back over his face. He looked down at her a moment before slowly bringing his hand up to his lips. He pressed a single finger to the mouth of his mask and she nodded, tears in her eyes. The door was closed and locked and she waited, her heart thudding in her ears. She listened, her eyes screwed shut, waiting.

Every moment that passed she wanted to scream, she wanted to yell out for this man to run and turn back but she knew she could not. She needed to get Michael to trust her, to make him think she has learned her lesson. Then she might be able to keep him from going to Haddon field and perhaps, save some more lives in the process.

When she heard the front door open and the sound of a woman's voice call out from inside the house Charlotte covered her mouth with the palm of her hand hard. Tears squeezed from her eyes as she listened on the other side of the door. She heard a bang, a muffled scream, and then another bang against the closet door. She yelped in surprise when, after opening her eyes, she saw the blade of the knife come ripping through the door. She bit it back the best she could and pressed herself into the wall, cuddling the corner like it was her lover.

Her eyes were closed and she was trembling when the door was opened. She let Michael take her into his arms, but kept her eyes shut. Her shoulders shuddered as she tried to keep her tears at bay. She did not see the body of the dead woman Michael had to step over before getting to the stairs, nor did she see the bloody footprints he left behind. She could feel hot liquid smudge against her arm as he brought her up the stairs and moved away from the touch.

After she wiped the blood away she was gently laid down on the bed. She looked up at him, up into the emotionless white rubber searching for answers she would never find. She looked down to his hands, finding the blood there and looked away. He saw the look and held his hands up to examine them. She bit her lips, tears silently dripping over her cheeks, as he disappeared. He came back with clean hands, holding them up to her to show her.

"Thank you, Michael," she choked out. She hugged her knees up to her chest as he reached into the drawer and pulled out the box of condoms.

"Not right now, Michael, please," she said softly and rolled over, laying her head on the pillow. He looked down at the condom and then down at her. Slowly he reached out and placed the condom back down onto the dresser and then climbed onto the bed beside her. She was nearly relaxed when she felt his hand on her back, gently, but choppily rubbing between her shoulders. The touch was rough and awkward, but it caused her to roll onto her back to look at him. He then put his hand on her stomach, and did the same.

She looked up at him a few minutes. Her lips parted when he reached up and removed the mask from his face, placing it to the side.

"You are an enigma," she told him. "I will never understand you."

She took hold of his hand, the hand that had just murdered someone, a someone that she could have warned, could have given a fighting chance, and did not. Her insides were in such terrible turmoil that she could not help but squeeze his hand. She needed some type of support, some type of comfort, even it came from Michael.

She cautioned herself against Stockholm. She was growing attached to him, she knew that, but she could not let herself give in completely. If she let herself fall completely into this emotional attachment as a means of surviving, and gave up her cognitive disinterestedness than it was all over. She would never be able to bounce back and she could kiss being a respected psychologist goodbye. She would need therapy when this was all over regardless. She only hoped who ever she found would be discrete and take patient doctor privilege seriously. Still, her chest ached, and her throat hurt. She felt her lower lip trembled and eyes squeezed shut again.

"Michael?" she asked softly. "Hold me?"

He stared at her. He did not seem to understand what it was she wanted. She sat up from the bed and patted the spot beside her. He moved to sit down and waited patiently. Carefully she slid into his lap, curling against his body and pressing her face to his neck. His arms remained at his sides and so she grabbed them and wrapped his arms around her, before snuggling back into him. She listened to his heartbeat, slow and steady and took comfort in the sound.

"Don't leave, Michael," she breathed. She clutched at his shoulders. Things were beginning to take a toll on her and she turned to the only person that could take care of her. She would be fine in a few days, when the sound of a person being murdered, a murder she felt complicit in, faded from her ears. She would have to be fine.

She was Doctor Charlotte Hurst, M.D.

His arms tightened, squeezing too tightly for a moment, but she said nothing. With his heart beat thudding in her ear, his warmth wrapped around her, and his murderous hands pressing against her skin, she fell into a fitful sleep.

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A/N:

Let me know what you think! Still in character? Not boring? An inquiring mind needs to know!

And thank everyone for the reviews! They mean so much! Things will be moving along well next chapter. I hope to have that up in a few days.

Happy Reading all!