Her thirst forced her to leave the bathroom and head down the stairs. The floorboards creaked with each step she took, but it didn't matter. She wasn't trying to be sneaky. Michael was already gone anyway. Out there, killing innocent people. Even if he wasn't she had no reason to hide from him.
Her hand clasped the banister as she walked down the stairs. Nightmares, a serial killer who made her heart pound, her inability to mourn her boyfriend, and a presence that wanted her dead. Was it the house? Guilty conscious? Or maybe it was just her. When she was a child people used to say her brain wasn't right.
Reaching the ground floor she paused, tapping her fingers on the banister for a moment. The presence. Would it show up again? She didn't feel it. But, that didn't mean it wasn't around. Yet another thing to figure out. So many questions. And she had time to figure out answers if there were even answers to her questions. She had a lot of time while she waited for Michael.
Waited for Michael?
She blinked for a couple of seconds. Wait for him to what? To help her figure things out? He didn't know what was going on with her. He didn't care. All he cared about was fucking her. Come home, fuck, and sleep.
She stormed towards the kitchen. Her feelings shifted from contemplative to annoyance. Grabbing a pot, she filled it with water before setting it on the stove and turning it on.
Wait for Michael. She snorted. She grabbed the rest of the items she needed for her tea. She'd deal with him and her feelings towards him at another time. It was her dream that was far more important to her. Her dream mind tried to kill her. Setting everything on the counter, she stared at the pot, waiting for the water to boil.
Was there a meaning? A reason behind her dream? Her own brain manifesting her guilt in such a way as to terrify her? Harm her? She got Brandon killed by following her vision through. Gods, she wished she could speak to her uncle. He was always there for her. Whenever her brain went a little "crazy".
"Jethro! You need to stop encouraging her and her belief she can see the future. It's not helpful." Her father's angry voice popped up in her head. It was one of the last arguments her father had with his brother. She remembered crawling to the edge of her door to listen. Jethro had brought her a sketchbook to draw in that day. A book her father had angrily snatched away from her.
"Sam. You can't ignore-"
"No!" her father had said firmly, interrupting him. "You will not encourage her. She's going to live a normal, kid-friendly, happy life."
She rubbed the back of her neck and let out a loud sigh.
Oddly enough her life did get somewhat normal after her parents' death. Maybe it was the grief of losing them or the guilt perhaps? She wasn't sure. But, her visions had slowly lessened to such a degree that they became more of a vague, random nuisance in her life. It had gotten to a point where she had started to question herself if she really did see the future. Her uncle still encouraged her to tell him what she saw and to draw. But it was hard, describing blurry images, unintelligible voices, and actions that could be anything.
That was up until recently. The vision of her and Brandon in the car was one of the clearest things she'd seen in years. It didn't start out that way. But, as time went on, it became clearer and clearer. A path she knew she had to take.
What if she didn't? Brandon would still be alive. Chills pulsed through her body at the thought. She frowned and rolled her shoulders as she stood up. That was odd.
A flash caught the corner of her eye. She cocked her head to one side, staring at the knife that was laying on the dining room table. With tentative steps, she walked over to it and gently picked up it, turning her wrist to examine it. He had left it? Why? Subtle hint maybe? Give her the chance to end her life and finally be free of her? Joke was on him if that's what he expected. She liked life and she'd fight the Grim Reaper himself if she felt that it wasn't her time. And it wasn't her time to go.
Then she heard it. The recognizable sound of heavy, steady breathing. She slowly looked up, eyes immediately focused on the corner of the dining room. He stood there facing her.
"Hint?" she asked. It should have shocked her that he was there. Scared her even. She hadn't noticed. But she wasn't frightened. She was baffled.
He didn't say anything, didn't move. She looked away for a moment, just in case, then back at him. He was still there. Setting the knife down, she walked toward him. She didn't feel the familiar press behind her eyes of a vision being shown to her. Still, she reached out, hesitated then pressed her hand on his chest. Firm, solid.
"You're-" she paused raising her gaze to meet his eyes. "You're still here."
The boiling water caught her attention, making her turn and go to the kitchen. She flipped on the light to the dining room as she passed the switch. Preparing her cup, she forced herself not to steal glances in his direction as her heart pounded in her chest. Questions bubbled inside of her. Why? How long? The whole time? The whole time she'd been in the kitchen he was watching her from the dining room? He hadn't left.
With cup in hand, she turned and paused. He was sitting down at the table opposite of where she was going to sit. She walked over to her normal seat, and paused again, noticing that her sketchbook was in front of her. She set her tea to one side to let it steep some before sitting down.
"Oh," she said as if she suddenly realized why he'd stayed. She flipped the book open till she found the sketch of him. For the briefest of moments, her brain wondered if he'd somehow finished it. But, it was the way she'd left it. Only, along the border of the page, she'd written words in a fancy style. She frowned. When had she done that?
His bloody fingerprint marred the top corner of the page, catching her attention. Gods, that had scared her. His hand suddenly came into view from the corner of her eye. She hadn't even heard him come in.
"Don't like that I drew you?" she asked, turning it a little to show him.
He didn't move. She placed her fingers on the page, half tempted to rip it out and give it to him. But then she thought better of it. Not like the drawing would ever be completed. And what was he going to do? Keep it? Cherish it?
"I've always liked drawing. Helps calm my mind. My parents-" She paused then shrugged. "They discouraged me when I was a kid. It was because they wanted me to make friends and not huddle in a corner and draw all day." She chuckled, shaking her head. "I was a strange kid though couldn't make friends."
She didn't expect him to respond in any manner, and he didn't. He just sat in his chair, body relaxed, one hand on the table while the other was on his lap.
"My uncle encouraged me to draw," she continued, closing the book and setting it back on the table. She raised her eyes to look at him. "But, it was when I was in the hospital that I really started. Not much to do, ya know?"
What was he thinking?
His mask helped keep a stern, passive face, darkening his eyes, making them seem black. It suited him. Fit the killer that he was. The town's faceless and yet recognizable boogeyman. But when he was close, when he was over her looking down his eyes were blue and so very expressive. His elegant, long fingers caught her attention as he moved them along the handle of his blade. Her brain reminded her of the cuts she'd received from him. Deep enough to bleed and hurt. But, the hungry look in his eyes when he saw the blood or the scars turned her on.
She cleared her throat. What was she saying?
"Ended up staying there longer than expected," she continued, remembering where she left off. "Had a couple of surgeries to save my life."
She winced and turned her gaze away from him towards the boarded-up window. Trees would have been nice to see. She absentmindedly placed her left hand under her shirt, tracing each scar with her fingers. She frowned as her brain started to make sense of everything.
"You don't," she paused, carefully trying to say the right words. "You don't really like them either, do you?" she asked.
His position nor movements changed. He still ran his fingers along the handle of his knife. However, it was hard to tell, yet she couldn't help but feel as if he rolled his eyes at her. She blinked in surprise. That had to be in her head. But, for some reason, it felt true.
"Or is it, you don't like looking at me?" She quickly lowered her eyes, shaking her head. "Never mind." Her cheeks burned as the blood rushed to them. She felt like a silly insecure teenage girl all of a sudden. As if he'd suddenly say something comforting.
Oh no, baby. Of course, I love looking at you.
But, he hadn't fucked her facing her since their first time together. The thought hadn't really popped up until that moment. He seemed to have no problem touching her scars, but he never really looked at them. Granted, the first time he really saw them she did her best to make sure he couldn't get a great look at them.
Michael exhaled loudly. She looked up at him, startled. Was that a reply?
You're being silly, Gretchen. He's not actually communicating with you. The question as to why he'd stayed was on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it back.
Why did he stay? Why did she care? It wasn't for her that was for sure. But, he was sitting in front of her, watching her. Why not take advantage? Was he listening? She had no idea. He had ears to hear. But in the end, it didn't matter if he was listening to her. Wasn't as if they'd have a conversation.
Her fingers brushed her scars again. She leaned back, tilting her head to one side, recalling a memory.
"Brandon and I almost had sex, you know," she stated, flashing him a mischievous smile. Well, if he didn't want to hear her talk he could leave.
His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his fingers carefully wrapped around the handle of his knife. He wasn't jealous, was he? No. He was leaving. Undoubtedly, he was in that corner doing some killer prep-talk or something. Hyping himself up for his kills. Now that she was there, she was disturbing his concentration.
But, he didn't get up. He just watched her.
"I mean, can you blame me," she continued. "Don't know if you got a good look at him before you killed him, but he was handsome. Can't compare the two of you though. I don't know what you look like. And never had sex with him."
Her eyes danced with mirth, relishing the fact that his fingers tightened their hold on his knife. She was poking the bear. What would he do? Pin her to a wall, rip her clothes off and fuck her hard to show his dominance? That he was better than Brandon?
Brandon would have-
Her smile faded and she looked away, staring at the boarded-up window again. Huh. She wasn't sure. She'd hung out with him and his friends plenty of times. He rarely let her out of his sight, during those times. She'd been okay with that. Big group settings always made her uncomfortable. She only went to them because he wanted to go. Not that she would have looked at any other man anyway. Her heart and vision told her he was her path.
She waved her hand in the air in a dismissive manner. "So, I came here for him. Did I tell you that?" Her eyes widened, she laughed and shook her head. "No. You don't really know much about me. Do you care to know?"
She didn't expect a shrug or an answer. But, he didn't leave. He leaned back against his chair, keeping his eyes on her. His knife was in his hand though.
Curious?
"Well, since you're currently my captive audience," she said with a chuckle. "Long story short I had a-" She paused.
She almost told him. She almost let the words slip that she had visions. Not that it mattered what Michael thought. But, she stopped talking about them at a young age when she realized that people got uncomfortable and sometimes even angry with her. Not even Brandon knew. She wasn't even sure if she was going to tell him. Yet, she nearly casually just told Michael.
"I met Brandon online," she corrected herself. "Moved down here because he had family and a lot of his life was already established here. Easier for me to move. It was a few days after I arrived. Wasn't even settled into my new place. Brandon and I went out for dinner, fancy restaurant. He paid. Then, he took me back to his place. It got steamy. Like really steamy. His hands were all over me-"
Michael slammed his knife on the table leaning in. His eyes flashed with anger. She should have been afraid, she should have jumped. Instead, she found her mouth twitching, trying to contain her smile. He was jealous.
"Michael," she stated as calmly as possible, leaning forward. She wanted to laugh. She looked at his knife and very casually ran her index finger along the flat of the blade. The very blade that killed her boyfriend.
"You killed him. Remember? And we didn't have sex. You were my first if that's so important to you." She waved her hand in the air again in a dismissive manner.
Huh. She was so casual about the way she talked about Brandon's death. Her heart didn't pound dramatically in a wistful manner for him. She didn't even feel guilty. Although that made her feel a little guilty. Why don't I miss you?
She leaned back as casual as possible and picked up her pencil. She glanced at Michael again. The man was jealous and that made her heart flutter. She clasped her pencil, lightly tapping it on her sketchbook, studying his movement.
She could see his little fight with himself as he slowly settled back into his seat, taking his blade with him. He didn't get up to leave. He didn't try to stop her. Still curious to hear her story? That amused her. Or was it something else?
"Anyway." She forced a smile. "Hot and steamy. Brandon took off my shirt." She leaned in, her eyes dancing with mirth again as Michael tensed. "My bra. I was practically naked. His hands grazed my scars. He looked at them and you know what? He avoided them." She let out a bitter laugh. "I thought at first it was just me. Like, maybe he didn't notice them. Or, perhaps there was something else he had in mind. But no."
She shook her head and leaned back again.
"Any time he so much as felt a small bit of them he'd jerk his hand back." She demonstrated with her hand. "He tried to be subtle, but it killed the mood and I left."
The tension in Michael's body slowly loosened.
"You're a lot of things, Michael," she said. Her voice was gentler. She twirled her pencil on the cover of her sketchbook. She couldn't look at him yet. "But in that aspect, thank you."
She raised her eyes just on time. His mask raised slightly as if he were raising his eyebrows. His breathing stopped for just a brief moment. And his body stiffened.
Gretchen leaned forward, focusing on his eyes. "I don't know why you like touching them. And I'm sure you'll never tell me," she said. "But, you don't shy away. I expected you too. I know they're not pretty to look at or touch. And it's probably not for my benefit. Maybe telling you this will make you stop. I don't know. But for now. Thank you."
There was a moment of silence, not that she expected him to answer. Gretchen rubbed her index finger with the nail of her thumb. Taking in a deep breath, she slowly let it out. She picked up her cold tea and automatically blew on it before taking a sip.
The chair screeched as it moved along the wooden floor as Michael stood up.
"I guess you're leaving, huh?" she asked. She didn't have anything else to say to him. Well, that was a lie. She had a lot she could talk to him about. But, she needed time to reminisce on things. Recollect herself. Clear her head. Remind herself who he was.
He didn't answer, but of course, he wouldn't.
She got up and walked around the table. "Michael," she called out. She needed one last thing.
He turned to look at her. Hand on the doorknob. The killer needed blood. It was a miracle in itself that he even bothered staying. Was he just resting? Or, did he have another plan and changed his mind? In the end, it didn't matter what his original plan was because he'd stayed and actually listened to her. His reactions were proof enough.
She walked over to him, stopping in front of him. Tilting her head up, she looked into his eyes.
"Can I?" She didn't finish her question or wait for a response. Slowly she raised her hands up, pushing his mask up to reveal his mouth. Clenching the fabric of his coveralls, she used him to rise onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips against his. Simple.
She wanted more, but she didn't demand it. She couldn't. It was starting to hurt.
He didn't return her kiss, making her heart sink. But of course, he wouldn't. Falling back onto her heels, she let him go.
"Don't kill anyone," she muttered with a wave of her hand as she turned her back to him and started to walk away.
Dr. Loomis's words from his book that she had read about Michael came to her mind: "He has no reason, no conscience, no understanding of life or death, right or wrong. He has no soul. He does not know nor does he understand or care about love."
Stupid, idiot, fool! Stop. Just stop! She couldn't help but beg her heart that kept involving itself in situations that would only break her. Situations? No. Not multiple. Just this damn one. This single situation that only had one ultimate heartache.
He's never going to give you what you crave. The presence's damn words echoed in her mind. Did he even realize it? The mind game he was playing on her? Making her feel wanted, only to leave her hanging. No, he most likely didn't. But now he didn't even have to do anything. She was the one setting herself up.
Fuck! He should have just killed her. She should have let him kill her. It would have been far easier to deal with than her horny ass and desire. It had to stop. She had to stop. She could do it. It would be hard, but he was gone for hours on end. So, she could use those hours to work on herself. Steel her heart. And yet, she felt that just maybe there was hope. She felt bound to him in a strange way. That's what it was. Bound to yearn, which in turn sparked hope for something that she knew just couldn't be. Something that-
His hand clasped her wrist almost painfully, causing her to turn. There was no time to think, no time to react. He pulled her to him with one arm, wrapped his other arm around her back, and dipped her just enough so that his mouth could easily find hers. The flat of his blade pressed against her spine.
Her body went rigid for a moment, the alarm of her rational brain blaring loudly, screaming at her to remember her resolve just seconds ago. Steel her heart. He didn't care about her. He had no feelings. He was a killer.
Not to me, came back the reply as her mouth parted and her body relaxed. He's my lover.
Fuck