Chapter Sixteen: The Rush
It wouldn't be too much to say that Michael had needs. Like food. Adequate rest. A knife. Preferably sharpened. Within arms reach.
Similarly, he also, though rarely, had wants.
Not to be confused with meager desires for comfort. He never needed that. He only ever had want of a need.
Like now.
When he espied that boy in the thicket of the trees, through the drooping branches snagging at his hospital gown, wearing the face, the skin— his identity, his trademark — Michael decided he had to die, unquestionably.
So, he predicted the boy's path down into a gully where one's inattentiveness could result in a fatal trip, and with much more care of where his feet landed, Michael stalked forward, using the shade of the trees as his cover.
The boy was so close now. Michael could hear his erratic breaths, could nearly feel the temperature of his body amid the frigid night air. His pulse thrummed so excitedly there was an echo to it in his chest. It almost dulled the throb of his bleeding side.
Michael's fist clenched hard around the handle of the knife. The burning sensation of sliced nerves had spread down to his hip like a disease. Every breath came with a gurgling within his right lung. Pain that should've subsided long ago, seared his flesh, branding him anew. All because of that—
He told himself not to think about something that would only serve to distract him; he assured himself he'd have his revenge. Preferable sooner rather later because a girl her age would be busy wrapping her legs around silly, horny boys, or thinking about wrapping her legs around silly, horny boys. And he'd surely get her back when she decided to fuck a juvenile meatbag in her bedroom.
Suddenly, that thought was not comforting anymore. It made him angrier.
A surprised shout and a hollow crack caused Michael to peer around a tree. His hands curled into fists as he marched forward taking no heed to liking quieted footsteps towards the boy now lain prostrate at his feet, body half sunk in a carpet of leaves.
And his neck broken.
Gray, so cold.
"No…"
Her gray eyes held Michael for so long he thought he would lose himself in that colorless void.
Why Michael? Why? Why are you so cruel? You deserve to burn in Hell. He could almost hear it in her dainty shaped head, in the lilt of her voice. The judgement.
Just say it.
"You're a monster…" Carmen whispered.
Michael agreed.
Her finger hovered indecisively over the trigger. The gun could have jumped out of her hands by how hard she trembled. The decision of whether she should fire a second round was made obvious on her face. She did not want to shoot.
Had she heard of the story? That he'd sustained one bullet to the head, five in the chest, two in the eyes and survived? He wouldn't boast, it was a fact. Maybe, she was thinking of how futile it would be to kill him. It would explain her hesitation. He could never die.
But…
He'd still like to see her try.
Not that he was particularly interested in knowing what would await him beyond death. But, this curiosity was for the same reason Michael yearned for Laurie.
His sister...
So unlike his other victims.
She made him work for it.
The hushed rustlings of the forest grew louder, as his musings receded to the back of his mind. He decided she wouldn't shoot. She couldn't. He could confidently wager from the uncertainty on her delicate and silly and naive face that she. Wouldn't. Shoot.
Couldn't.
He was fine with that.
Michael stepped forward.
Bang!
Blinding white.
Pain.
In the center of his sternum.
"You're a monster!"
It was that, and then four more times.
Bang—Bang—Bang—Bang.
Each shot went off in quick succession. The knife in his hand clattered to the concrete as he stumbled backwards until his back hit the trunk of a tree.
His chin dropped to his chest. His ears rang. His muscles quivered. Blood dripped out of him in globs. He was bleeding. Actually. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be this close to mortality.
This was awful.
This was why he never liked guns. A piercing shot delivered instant pain— there was nothing subtle about it. No art, no skill. And she'd unloaded a full revolver…A full fucking revolver. This girl obviously didn't know how to conserve her resources.
He wasn't known for his optimism, though he noted with some relief that she wouldn't be firing any more bullets. He assured himself he would be fine.
Until, blood appeared on the front of his coveralls.
Click. Click. Click.
Michael looked up from his wounds at Carmen who kept dry firing the revolver — what an idiot - as his hands groped to cover them. Pressure would keep him from…
What was he thinking? He didn't die, but even that reminder couldn't keep his hands from shaking. Was this shock? He tried to recall the night Dr. Loomis had shot him, the night Laurie had shot him, when an inferno licked his skin, burned his pores. No man could dream of enduring so much and Michael recovered from them all. But, the pain then was nothing in comparison to now.
The blood was cooling around his fingers.
For the first time, Michael didn't know what to do.
For the first time, he was worried.
A car's engine rumbled from far away. Specks of its yellowy headlights grew as it closed the distance. Quickly, Carmen crouched behind the police cruiser. In her hand, she gripped the revolver with such force that the tendons in her wrist forged through her skin. She shot a scathing glare at Michael whose surroundings were sliding out of focus.
Meeting her eyes set off a hot rush down the well of his stomach— it wasn't from the pain.