Disclaimer: I dont own Michael Myers.
Location: Domestic domicile. 3am
Clink
Tick, tick, tick
Beep
I sat again. The same wooden chair I had claimed as a child. Mine. The whole house was mine. Empty, quiet, dark.
Perfect
… too perfect.
I place my face in my hand, awaiting the only thing that has dared, that I permit to break my silence. I wonder, though, why I like the silence so much... I know that I do, yet I still wonder where the fascination came from…
Childhood?
Adulthood?
Murder?
I simply blink and change hands. I notice the rubber idly. Its then that I realize
I have no idea what I look like.
That seems kind of sad when you think about it. So I do, for there is nothing much to do but think in my current situation. I think I remember what I looked like... but that was many years ago. How many? Let's see…. Ten, twenty-five, almost forty, no, fifty years ago.
That is rather sad.
So, what did I remember?
Young child of six, maybe seven. Messy brown hair, kind of short… and… and…
A clown costume.
What?
Oh, now I remember. That last Halloween. My first kill. No one blamed me for it. No one knew, save me and the corpse. The perfect crime. Though now I suppose, they know who it was.
Sometimes… sometimes I think what I did wasn't in the best of judgment. It gets sort of…lonely at times
Sometimes I think that I shouldn't have killed my sister.
But then the kettle starts to boil, and I don't think that anymore.
Such is the case here. It screams at me, begging me to take away the burning torture of the hot plate under its venerable body. I debate between leaving it and relieving it of the pain.
I remove it. I'm not one for torture anyway.
My cup is filled, the tea stirred in. Nothing left to do now, but think again.
Why does the stove work?
That's my first question. In truth, I don't know. Maybe they feel pity for me. Maybe they want to appease me.
So I try the light switch.
Click
Click
Click click
Click
It doesn't work. So why the stove? Who knows? Who cares?
Not me, as long as I get my tea. Speaking of which, it has cooled enough not to burn me, so I raise it to take a sip.
And then remember my mask again.
I blink and lower my drink momentarily, pulling my mask off my face. I lay it face up and pick up my tea.
I immediately regret my decision to have this mask face me.
It's so... plain. A killer incased in this? Is this what these people fear? Maybe it's the fact that it is too plain, without emotion. Too much unlike them.
Or maybe it's my knife.
Either way, I diffuse further thought by flipping it over. My mind refuses to let go, however, and drifts back to what I look like.
I still don't know.
But I don't want to get up and find a mirror at the moment.
I pick up my tea and take a sip. The liquid in my hands does little reflection wise. A dark outline of messy brown hair and a faceless…. Face. The kettle wont do much either. It just gives a distorted and dusty picture. A little more detail then I first thought, but still not a clear view of the man behind the mask.
So what can I do?
I raise my hand and touch my cheek. This may help. Over my mouth and chin to my other cheek. Small mouth, thin lips, normal-sized chin, no stubble… which seems odd.
Oh well.
I further the exploration up to my nose. It's not bulbous, but not too thin, rounded at the end. Slipping up the bridge of my nose I don't go up too far before hitting a mass of hair. I slide my hands through it, and find some of it clings to the gap between my fingers. Brown, as I remember, but it fades to grey at some parts… a human curse.
A quick check assures me I'm not balding… yet.
Something seems to be missing… oh, my eyes. I haven't checked them yet. My hand rises to my right eye… tracing around it. Seems normal, by American standards anyway. I move to my left, and then remember that night…
I cup my hand over it, lightly skimming the scar she left there. It still stings… every once and a while.
It doesn't matter. I can't even really see out of it anymore.
I sigh and look down at my tea. Distorted. I am nothing but a distorted monster, left alone and hated by all of society.
Perfect
… too perfect.
The doorbell rings and interrupts my musing.
I have a doorbell?
I put down my cup. It takes me a minute to find my knife. I bend down to pry it out of the corpse on the floor. I rise once more and take a step out the door.
My hand stops me. It grasps the doorjamb and keeps me there. My mask. I forgot it.
How?
No matter.
I don my mask and head down the stairs.
I open the door.
No one
I look around the yard.
No one
No Dr Loomis
No people
No one
But a package.
I merely blink and look around once more.
I lift my mask and look down at the box, remaining that way longer than I should have.
Again I blink
And head inside, the package –and mask- in hand.
Yay! Third chapter is over. This one was kinda long, wasn't it? -shrugs- WEll, you know what to do -stares at review button hopefully-
