Kids don't get much until one day they do, and then they are not kids anymore. This breach to comprehension—this moment when they shift from innocence to maturity—it undoes the fabric of a child, adds the elements of the moments, and stitches the child back together again.
As the Collin home burnt down, Michael's parents refused to allow him to leave the home. Too dangerous, they justified, and Michael saw the fear in their eyes. The family held him.
As the Collin family left town, Michael's friend refused to take him with them. Too messed up, he justified, and Michael saw the pain in his eyes. The town held him.
As the Collin boy returned, Michael longed to tell his friend. Too soon, he justified, but he felt the insecurity in his eyes. The loneliness held him.
As the Collin boy died, Michael longed to rescue the man. Too much, he'd scream, but he felt the prison in his bones. The house held him.
There is nothing the Glass House hates more than to lose a resident.
And there is nothing that Shane Collins hates more than vampires.
But there is nothing that Michael Glass hates more than to be held captive.
.
.
.
In the end, it wasn't even a decision, really.
The unjustly imprisoned man jumps at any chance for escape. If you lack the keys, you don't stop to contemplate a door swinging shut—you simply shoot out your hand to catch it before the chance is gone. It's instinctive. Who could blame you?
"You will not be the man she knows. Or the one Eve loves. Will you risk that, too?"
He caught the opportunity. "Yes, I will."
The threads of Michael-the-child were undone, hanging bare, and the strands of Amelie, the house, and instinct wove themselves in. The three grated against one another; he lunged at the humans, and you could see it in eyes no longer his. Michael Glass had stepped through the gate, and they were stitched into him—Amelie, instinct, and that damned house.
The new man was—oh, God—snarling.