Stupid fucking bitch, Michael thought as he stormed back home. He should have known better. He should have known she was seducing him, trying to get him to lower his guard so that she could find the right moment to escape. She almost made it out. She probably didn't plan on him coming back as soon as he did. She probably figured she had all day.
And to think, he was trying to be nice for once. Bringing her some items she asked for. He had already been excited. The thought of her lips against his. Her warm wet heat embracing his cock. Her soft, smooth skin under him. He had been determined to get her to scream his name again.
Oh, he felt her skin against his alright. As she rushed right by him without a second look. He wasn't sure how she thought she'd opened the door. But, maybe she just took her opportunity, knowing he wouldn't be expecting it. Didn't matter what she thought.
Damn, she was fast. Faster than he realized. It would have taken him far longer to catch up to her had she not stopped. But she did and he managed to catch her. The look she gave him she knew she'd fucked up.
Michael pushed the front door open and let it slam shut behind him again. He had to show his anger somehow. He was furious, he wanted to kill someone, anyone. Make them die a slow and painful death and pretend it was her.
Kill her?
Michael stilled, tapping his knife against his thigh. He hadn't though. He'd walked to her car, got in, put the key in the ignition, and just sat there. Fuming, of course. His body, his thoughts, a mixed web of tangled emotions.
She screamed his name alright and begged. But not the way he wanted. Begged for him to listen to her reason. Why? So she could lie and try to get away with her betrayal? Betrayal? Yes, he felt betrayed. Which was rather stupid.
She hadn't really tried to escape before, and it was his fault for lowering his guard. When he took her outside the day before, he watched her. But she gave no indication that she wanted to run away. In fact, he was honestly somewhat surprised she didn't try to do that the first few days she was there. Try to escape through the front door when he was coming back home.
She was his prisoner. His prisoner who just the night before screamed out his name in passion, begging him to fuck her harder and faster. His prisoner who looked at him with lust in her eyes. Who carefully opened up about her past and clearly yearned for him to give a shit. And she fucking tried to run away the moment he started to show some softness towards her.
Michael stared down the hallway to the staircase. He took her to the basement. The one area of the house he knew she was terrified of. The thought to take her down there had hit him all of a sudden. He was going to take her to her bedroom, but that was no punishment. Besides, there was nothing down there in the basement.
Michael listened. The house was quiet. He hadn't been gone that long for her to lose her voice. Or, maybe he had. He didn't exactly time himself, sitting in that car. It still kinda smelled like her. Which frustrated him even more to an extent. He couldn't escape her.
He glanced back at the front door. Why did he come back? The basement was cold, and she was barefoot and in pajamas. But she could survive the day and even night down there. And he was going to make sure that she stayed down there all night long.
She needed to learn a lesson. He might be her lover, but he wouldn't allow such behavior to go unpunished. And the next time he fucked her, he wasn't going to be nice about it either. Next time, he'd make sure she felt used.
Michael went to her bedroom where he pulled off a sheet from her bed. Enough to cover her and be a little bit of warmth, but not enough for her to be comfortable. She didn't deserve that.
He made his way down the stairs and paused by the basement door. She didn't start struggling until she realized where he was going. Her fear had spiked then. A fear he would have normally fed off of if he weren't so pissed off.
Getting to the main floor of the basement, Michael stilled again. He waited and listened. In the early days, she tried to fight him. Was she going to do that now? Was she lying in wait, readying herself to battle him? Was it back to day one? Only, this time there would be no eventual lead-up to anything nice. She was untrustworthy.
His mouth opened slightly at the thought of getting so rough it'd change to fucking. That would help him blow off steam. He felt his heart rate begin to rise and his cock twitch, just imagining her. Hearing her. Feeling her unwilling body struggle under his. Hearing her say no, while the rest of her screamed yes. That's not a punishment. She'll enjoy it.
He looked down at his knife, twisting his wrist. He could cut her again. That, she wouldn't like. Yes, he'd do that instead. That too would help him cool down a little. A real punishment. This time make it long and deep for her to remember. Somewhere that she'd always be able to see and always remember why she got it.
No one escaped Michael Myers.
He dropped the sheet on the ground next to him. Bracing himself for an attack, he opened the door.
She was huddled in the far corner, arms pressed against her head, covering her ears.
So, no fighter, just a victim? He couldn't help but feel disappointed by that. His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Or playing victim, hoping he'd lower his guard? She was a fool if she thought she could catch him off guard again.
Her body loosened and she carefully set her arms down. She still stayed huddled up, but she raised her head. Something about her movement felt familiar, old. Her eyes landed on him for a moment, before they drifted away. She shook her head and wrapped her arms around her knees.
"Go away," she said softly. "I don't-" the rest of her words were muffled as she pressed her lips against her knees. She moved one hand close to her face then jerked her head back as if surprised.
"So much blood," she said. She brought her other hand close and tilted her head in curiosity. "Hmm." She twisted both of her hands quite gracefully as if inspecting them. A giggle escaped her lips, surprising him.
Michael felt his body tense. Something wasn't right. He strode over to her and crouched. He half expected her reaction to be some sort of trap. For her to jump him and try to run away. His muscles bunched and he clenched the handle of his knife harder.
But she didn't acknowledge him, turning her hands around as if they were the only thing of interest in the room. She was incredibly pale again. A little clump of hair was stuck on her face. She didn't acknowledge him. Did she even know he was there? Her skin glistened with sweat, and yet she shivered. Was she sick? Why didn't she tell him?
You didn't give her a chance to.
No! It was clearly a trick.
She dropped her hands to her sides, letting out a sigh. Her eyes lazily moved finally looking at him.
"At least it's you," she muttered before looking away.
At least? Did she really think her innocent act would fly with him?
I know your tricks. You can't fool me again.
He roughly grabbed her face with one hand and twisted it to one side. He raised the knife up, searching for just the right spot to cut her.
She watched, out of the corner of her eye, not even flinching.
"Is this how it happens?" she asked, almost as if she were talking to herself. "Is this how I get that scar on my face?"
Scar on her face?
Her left hand moved. If she wanted more marks on her then he was more than okay with that. It would be on her for fighting back. But, she closed her fingers, sticking her thumb out, aiming to run it along the blade. He jerked it back, away from her. It was one thing for him to cut her on purpose or for her to get a cut while fighting him. Why was she trying to hurt herself?
She brought her hand back to herself and stared at her thumb. Did she think she cut herself? She wasn't acting right.
She let out a sigh, looking away. He squeezed her cheeks, forcing her to focus on him again. Her eyes were slightly glazed and they moved off him. She couldn't focus. He'd seen that look before. The look of someone who wasn't completely there in their own mind. A look he'd seen in other patients when he was young and in the psych hospital.
Setting his knife down, he brought his other hand up to cup her cheeks. He stilled her weaving head to focus on him. It took her a few moments before her eyes started to light up with recognition.
"Michael," she said softly. She looked away from him and around the room before back at him. "You made him go away."
Go away? She watched him, breathing in deeply. Her body began to relax.
His own breathing distracted him amplified by his mask. He'd been too angry to take it off. He wanted to frighten her after all.
He set one knee on the ground for better balance. Taking one hand away from her face, he pulled off his mask, gently setting it to one side. Her eyes rolled a little and her head lulled slightly as if she'd lost her anchor that kept her grounded in reality.
Before he could grab her, she stood up and started to pace, pressing her hands against her temples.
"He's not there, idiot. Stupid, fool," she mumbled to herself. Michael reached out to grab her arm, but she moved just before he could. She paused, looked at her thumb then at him before letting out a dramatic sigh. Her eyes wandered to the middle of the room and she tilted her head to one side, staring at the ground.
"Do you see that?" she asked, pointing at nothing.
He shook his head and slowly stood up. She studied him for a moment, a frown across her brow.
"I think you kill me here," she said, turning her focus back to the ground. "There's a lot of blood. I should have told you before. But-"
Michael took a step forward. She noticed and took a step back, wary of him. He thought for a moment. Yes, he was mad at her. But his feelings of anger were quickly being replaced with something else. Concern? No, he wasn't concerned. Confused. He shook his head.
As angry as he was at her, he wasn't mad enough to kill her. Was he?
"Well," she said as if she heard his thoughts. "If not you then it's him. Whoever he is." She pointed toward the door. "I don't recognize him." She circled an area near the door as if she were inspecting someone. "He's shorter than you. Not Brandon though."
Brandon? The boyfriend that he killed.
She paused, resting her chin on her hand for a moment. Then she shook her head.
"How do I tell you?" she asked. She put ran one hand through her hair, clasping a chunk for a moment. "You're really mad at me, but he scared me. He was hurting me. I had to get away. I-" She closed her mouth and turned away. "Shut up, Gretchen," she muttered. "He doesn't care. It doesn't matter."
Hurting her? His chest felt as if it constricted. Regret? No. He couldn't regret or feel sorry. He needed to get a better look at her.
She let out a sigh and slouched against a wall, sliding down. Her eyes focused on the emptiness between them. But they moved as if she was watching something.
"He's choking me," she whispered. Her eyes glanced up in the direction of the kitchen. "Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. They will say." She cocked her head to one side. "No. They scream. Shut that fucking bitch up."
Michael took a step closer. She gave him a side-eyed glance, a smile slipped past her lips. One he'd never seen on her: Triumphant, dangerous, daring, deadly.
Her eyes closed and her smile disappeared. She let out a sigh, stood up, and took a step toward him.
"Do you think you'll listen to me? When you get-" she started to ask. Her eyes rolled slightly and she cried out, dropping to her knees while she clutched her head. Michael's body stiffened. This wasn't right at all.
He dropped to one knee, reached out, then pulled his arms back. She immediately took advantage and leaned her body against his.
"I wish you were here," she sobbed. "It's back. It hurts so much."
Her body trembled as she pressed her hands against her head. Her breathing was labored. He hesitated for a moment then placed the back of his hand on her forehead. A movement that his mother used to do to him when she thought he was sick.
He wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to get out of that. But, her forehead felt as if it were on fire. She reached one hand over to clutch his sleeve.
"Too many voices. Too many images," she groaned. "It's too much."
He moved his hand off her forehead. Suddenly, she pushed him back and scurried away.
"Please. Don't be Brandon," she begged. Her eyes were wide with fear. She stood up and hit the wall behind her.
Brandon again. Was it the guilt that was getting to her? Maybe, but there was something else going on. Something he didn't understand. Yet.
"I'm not," he said softly as he stood up. He'd fucked up. He should have been more patient. He shouldn't have allowed his anger to get the best of him. He normally was pretty patient. But, he thought she'd tried to leave him. And that hurt far more than he expected.
She clearly wasn't sure she believed him. Her hands moved closer to her chest. "I wasn't trying to run away from you," she repeated.
That, he was starting to realize, was true. He'd jumped to a conclusion. The only one that made sense. But, she didn't always make sense.
He took a step forward and she pushed back against the wall. She sank down again, eyebrows pressed with worry. That expression. He'd seen it before. Her desperate need for him to listen to her. To believe her.
He dropped to one knee. Keeping relatively close to her level seemed like the smart thing to do. She trembled when he touched her. But he had noticed something.
Focus, he demanded, keeping his hands firmly on her face. As if she heard his command she focused on him. Her body slouched with relief. "Michael," she said softly.
He steeled his shoulders, ready for her eyes to descend into that part of her mind she was in. That part of her that he had seen glimpses of, but never thought too much about. But, she didn't. She searched his face as if trying to make sure that he was there. Before he could react she pushed herself forward, wrapping her arms around him burying her face in the crook of his neck.
"I wasn't trying to leave you," she said again. "There's something wrong with me." She gasped for breath, clearly fighting to keep from crying.
He couldn't move, couldn't wrap his arms around her like he knew she wanted like he wanted to. He managed to place one hand on her back to keep her close.
"Michael," she whispered, clasping his coveralls. "My head. It feels as if it's on fire. It hurts so much. He's tormenting me. I can't get him to stop. I see… I see so much. Too much. More than ever before. I don't know what's real. It's never been this bad. I'm so scared." Her body shook. "I don't know what to do," she added. Her voice was barely a whisper.
He wasn't sure what to do either. The only thing he was sure about was, that for whatever reason, having more contact with her brought just a little bit more sanity to her. Rather ironic to have a serial killer calm someone down. Nonetheless, he knelt there, feeling her body relax against his as she breathed in deeply. Her face pressed against his chest and her right hand clutched the fabric of his coveralls. Her left hand was around his side and she was half kneeling, but her body was slouched against his leg. For a moment, he could have sworn she'd fallen asleep in her position.
She leaned her head back to look up at him, eyes slightly glazed and clearly feverish. He couldn't help but stroke her face. She was so warm and so pale. He frowned as a little bit of blood trickled down her nose. He gently wiped it away, smearing her upper lip.
"Can I get out of here?" she asked softly.
Yes.
He went to pick her up, but she stopped him, tensing. Her eyes were staring at the middle of the room again.
"Michael," she whispered. He kept his focus on her. Her hands clenched onto his coveralls, then loosened their grip. Slowly, she used one hand to point toward the middle of the room. "I think I die here, Michael. There is so much blood. I don't-" whatever else she was about to say was cut off as she arched up, using his body to pull herself up. Her hands landed on his leg for support as she pitched herself forward before throwing up, barely missing his mask. There wasn't much food in her vomit. She heaved a few more times, spitting out saliva more than anything else, before slumping back onto his chest.
She moaned then sighed. "I can't make sense. I don't know what's real," she mumbled. "You're real. Right?"
He didn't bother answering. Unsure if it would help anyway. Wrapping one arm around her back and the other under her legs, he picked her up. She tried to help, placing one arm over his shoulder, but there was no strength. And it soon slumped down his chest to rest on her body.
He walked up the stairs. The shine of his knife caught his attention as he hit the ground floor and light came from one of the unblocked windows. At some point, he'd picked it up again without realizing it. It teased him, reflecting just a little bit of pink from her pajamas. It almost looked red.
Reaching the first step going upstairs, he paused and looked down at her. Her body trembled in his arms. Very weak, very fragile. Not quite the perfect victim, but a victim nonetheless.
Killable?
He dropped down to one knee, pulling his arm out from under her legs. He switched the knife to his free hand and ran it down her skin. It glistened with sweat. He paused just over her heart.
Her right hand gently grabbed his wrist, surprising him. He didn't notice her move. She was looking at him.
"I guess," she said slowly. Her grip was loose. She only intended on having him listen, not stopping him. "He won after all. He said you'd kill me. Just… don't be slow about it. Please. Don't let him be right about that."
He? The ghost of her dead boyfriend? This Brandon? Or was it whatever madness her brain had conjured up?
Her eyes shifted towards the wall by the stairs before looking at him again. "I really wanted to fuck you against that wall," she muttered softly.
His eyes widened at that random sentence. She didn't elaborate, dropping her hand down. Her hazel eyes looked up at him, glazed and feverish. Her deep, heavy breathing told him she was exhausted.
She was sick. Taking her to a hospital was out of the question. He didn't know what to do. He could kill for her. He could fuck her. He could give her the essential items she needed to live. Hell, even some items she asked for. But he couldn't wait by her side all day for her to get better. And that's what she needed. Someone to take care of her. Unfortunately for her, that wasn't him.
He set her down on the floor and walked away. He needed to get something. The stairs creaked with each step he took as he headed back down into the basement. He walked into the room and picked up his mask. Her vomit had missed it, luckily. And it didn't smell.
He walked back up the stairs and stared down the hall. She'd only moved to lay on her side, but she'd stayed where he'd left her.
He slipped his mask back on, easily allowing the killer inside of him to take over. He took a step towards her and paused. The knife in his hand had a nice weight to it. He twisted it, seeing and hearing it scream and demand for blood. And blood he would give it. He had come to a decision. He knew what he needed to do.