Chapter 3

It was a few days later, she wasn't sure how many exactly – three or four perhaps? That she felt good enough to start putting steady weight on her injured leg. The need for physical activity was paramount for it to heal properly. It hurt like hell.

Christine had started to notice a pattern in Michael's activities. She suspected it was a remnant from his time in the sanatorium. Order and schedules had been the norm since he was six years old, he probably didn't know how to function without some semblance of it, now that he was free. From what she'd heard about him, it was noticeable if one listened carefully enough. Even his killing held a faint pattern. He would stalk, get familiar with his chosen target, eliminate any possible disruptive forces and all the while toy with his "prey". Some people had apparently died in quite imaginative ways.

So, she had noticed things, for instance, he would leave for short periods three times a day. Christine guessed it was for meals and other personal needs. He would lock her into, what she realized after a while, was an old and probably long abandoned small maintenance room somewhere in the sewers, under what she hoped was still Haddonfield. She had woken up alone the first time it happened and intended to use his absence to escape. Hobbling to the rusted metal gate standing between her and freedom, she shook it and pounded on it until her whole body hurt from exhaustion. Needless to say, it wouldn't budge without a key.

The day after her fever broke, Christine had discovered a tiny alcove in the room that served as toilet…it was crude, only a drain hole really, but it served her purpose and she took advantage of it in those short private opportunities. She relished those moments alone, able to gather her confusing thoughts into some semblance of normality. She would have to find a way to escape soon…or die trying.

What she thought might be evenings, though couldn't be sure, he would go somewhere for hours and return with either food and water or covered in new layers of blood. Once he'd come back with all three and a butchers bloody cleaver to boot. Christine had hurriedly turned away from him as soon as she saw him that time. She couldn't bear to look at him, imagining what he'd done, who he had killed and for what? A candy bar, a can of soda? What? She didn't want to think like that, but…sometimes it just invaded her thoughts and she didn't know what to do to stop it.

She also didn't exactly know when or where he slept, if he even did, it was probably as soon as he was sure she was out soundly. He was one giant, deadly enigma wrapped in questions no one would ever get the answers to, probably not even her. From their last "encounter" Michael hadn't touched her again, unless it was strictly necessary and even those instances were brief. For which she was grateful.

Christine wasn't certain her private struggle could handle any more of his physical contact, no matter how unintentional or innocent it was. The more time she spent with him, the more her body and a small shadowy part of her mind, she would never admit to in the light of day, whispered just one more…no one will know…just touch him…feel him…burn for him. It was getting harder and harder to ignore.

He watched her from outside the small room, hidden in shadows, Michael could observe without her being aware of his presence. His head tilted every time she glanced in his general direction for a moment with a slight frown on her features. He knew she couldn't see him, and because of that, it made her behavior all the more puzzling. She did seem more relaxed without him there though, more willing to move around, eat and drink. Michael could almost see the wheels turning in her head. In the past few days she'd explored every nook and cranny of the confined space, he was sure, looking for a means of escape. He'd made certain she'd find nothing to aide her.

He admitted to himself that he was fascinated by her, and realized that this fascination was the only reason she was still alive. What intrigued Michael was her dual response to him. One moment she would quake in terror, avoid his gaze or even try to fight him, and then in other moments, she would stare at him, only glancing away briefly, she would easily submit to his will, bend her shape to his. Those last instances were the ones he didn't understand. The way her eyes would turn dark and she would reach her hands out to him.

Christine's head shot up as she heard the rusted hinges proclaim that the door was opening. She didn't have to turn to see who was entering, but did so anyway. The small space seemed to shrink even further when he stepped in. Good thing she wasn't claustrophobic. Looking him over, a sigh escaped her and her shoulders sagged in relief, he wasn't covered in fresh blood. Her mind reasoned that that didn't mean anything; he could have killed a dozen people without the gruesome evidence showing on his clothing. Christine decided she preferred the comfort of illusion against stark reality in this case, at least for now. Scooting to the head of the bed and propping her back against it, she faced him and drummed her fingers on her knees, trying to figure out what to say to him.

What could she say anyway? "Hi sweetie, how was your day? Kill anyone interesting recently?" She shook her head in disgust "Yeah, that would go over well. Like he needs my encouragement for that." God, the silence here was almost enough to drive a person up the wall. She was tired of it. Looking at him as he moved to his usual seat, she settled on the most generic topic that she could find "So, ummm…how's the weather out there? Christine didn't pretend to expect an answer, so she just smiled slightly and prattled on as he stared at her. "I love thunder storms. I know some people are afraid of them, the lightning and booming noise…" She chuckled and whispered "Don't tell anyone, but it makes me jump too." Sighing wistfully, she glanced at the door and continued "I like them because after they're over…well, there's just this feeling of peace… freshness in the air, like the storm washed away everything and the only thing left is a new day…"

Michael watched her face change as she spoke. He hadn't seen her so calm in his presence before, it made him wonder what her reaction would be if he decided to touch her right now. He moved to stand next to the foot of the bed. His head tilted as she smiled despite the flash of fear, which only showed in the slight widening of her eyes and flexing of her fingers on the blanket covering her chest when she'd glanced at the knife by his side. Bending forward, his free hand shot out and grabbed her injured leg just above the ankle.

She barely had time to gasp in surprise as he pulled her toward him across the mattress. A bare second later, Christine felt his knees press apart her thighs and his hands dip the mattress on either side of her head. If it weren't for the fact that they were both very much clothed and covered, she would have…done what exactly? Screaming wouldn't help her and neither would fighting, he had almost 200 pounds over her own 140. Looking up at the mask, Christine could make out his eyes, this close they seemed almost blue. It struck her how massive he really was. How he easily overpowered her senses in this position, making all her focus center solely on him. "Damn it to hell, he probably has no idea what he's doing to me!" Swallowing past her suddenly dry throat, she whispered "Michael please… why are you doing this?"

He was wondering the same thing. Why did he keep experiencing this need to touch her, to feel her? She was nothing, only a damned distraction…a burden and a nuisance. His head tilted. She had closed her eyes and tears were making moist paths down the sides of her face. Michael knew he hadn't hurt her yet. Was she finally afraid then? His hand moved to the side of her face. He almost flinched as she turned her face to it, gently rubbing her cheek against his thumb. He could feel her whispers on his skin "You're slowly torturing me Michael and the saddest thing about it… is that you don't even know how you're doing it."

Her eyes snapped open as his hand twisted painfully in the hair at the back of her head. She ignored it, instead focusing on his eyes. They were still as empty and emotionless as ever. Something in her snapped, and before she even gave a thought to what she was doing, Christine grabbed his shoulders, tightened her legs on either side of his and arched her back, giving a low moan "Do you know what this is Michael? This need I feel for you?" She felt his whole body practically turn to stone. Christine didn't give a damn if he pulled half her hair out, she wasn't backing down. Using all her strength to hook an arm around his neck, she pulled herself up, letting the blanket slip to her waist. Pressing her body against his, her cheek to the masks, she whispered close to his ear "Do you feel it too Michael? Does your stomach clench in anticipation, like mine?"

Christine went right with him as he abruptly straightened to his knees. Tightening her grip, she swallowed a pained cry when he jerked her head back roughly. It made fresh tears sting her eyes. Caressing one of her hands down his arm slowly, she moved it to her bare back, moaning "Touch me…" Christine failed to suppress a shiver as the cold flat metal of his butcher knife pressed into the small of her back. Was it her imagination or had his breathing become more…shallow? Maybe, just maybe he wasn't as indifferent as she'd thought.

He was struggling. Michael's judgment was clouded by his physical response to her. He didn't like it and yet found himself reluctant to push her away. His hands fisted tightly for a moment when she rocked her hips against his. He couldn't help but follow the small movement her tongue made with his eyes as she licked her lips "Does your blood pulse with a mix of lust and desire Michael? Do you want me, as much as I want you?" His eyes narrowed at her words. So, this was it? Lust? He'd seen enough through windows and doorways to know what it meant. Though, this was the first time he was experiencing it because of someone. Michael wasn't completely ignorant of his body's basic needs. If this was what he had to do, to get her out of his head, then so be it. Releasing her hair he grabbed her arms and shoved her off of him.

She barely bounced twice on the bed before Christine felt his callused hands on the waistband of her torn sweatpants. Bolting upright, she frantically tried to still his hands "Wait, Michael. Slow down!" Ignoring her, he caught both her hands in one of his and firmly pinned them over her head. With his other, he used the knife to cut off the rest of her clothing. Naked and squirming, Christine tried to reason with him "Please Michael not like this! I need you to- Oh!" Her whole body stilled as he tugged the zipper of his mechanics jumpsuit down to his waist, revealing his scarred and burnt chest in the process. "Dear lord! What had they done to him?" No one deserved to suffer such extensive injuries in one single lifetime. She stared at what was left of bullet holes, burns, slashes, stabs,… you name it, she'd bet he had it somewhere. Christine was shocked. How he could have survived most of them, she couldn't even begin to fathom.

She was brought back to the moment at hand when he forcefully spread her thighs apart with his knee and moved over her. Christine's whole body tensed involuntarily "Wait! Please! I'm not rea-aaaahh!" Her pain filled scream cruelly echoed off the walls. She didn't register the quiet grunting noises he made at the back of his throat. Every powerful thrust hurt as much as the first one. Crying, she prayed it would be over soon. "P-p-pleaseee stop!" Christine knew she should relax, that it would be better if she did, but her muscles didn't seem to want to obey. Forcing her eyes open she begged "Please Michael. You're hurting me. Stop, please, stop…"

It wasn't anything she'd said that made him halt his movements. It was the look in her eyes. Michael couldn't explain or interpret it, but it was wrong. He couldn't say how he knew that, it was simply not what he wanted from her. He stared with narrowed eyes into the wall at the head of the bed. A cold sensation he was familiar with and understood started to make its way through him. Gripping the knife he moved.

Relief tinged with surprise made Christine shake as he swiftly withdrew from her. Lying there and breathing hard, she quickly pulled her legs under her and covered her breasts. Staring at him, wiping the tears from her eyes, a large part of her wanted to lash out, but something held her back. Momentarily closing her eyes, Christine's conscience wouldn't allow her to solely blame him for what happened. She was the one who pushed him, recklessly started this. And in all honesty she couldn't blame him for reacting with base male instincts. He was after all, who he was. Why did she keep losing focus on that point? Was she slowly going mad?

The jagged sound of a zipper moving, made her eyes snap up to his. Knowing he was about to leave, Christine scrambled off the bed, again silently cursing her impulsiveness "Michael I…I don't want you to leave like this… We can…" the words trailed of as she tentatively reached a hand out, smiling shakily when he moved a step closer. The smile disappeared when he pushed her away, slashing through the air with the silver blade. A hiss escaped Christine and she gripped her palm tightly. He cut her! She stared incredulously at the small slash across her right palm. Letting herself drop to the cold floor, she absently reached for one of the drawers. Tugging out a bandage, she berated herself "Hell Christine! You know better! What the fuck is wrong with you? Where's your common sense!"

Jumping a little as the gate closed with a loud slam behind him, Christine turned to glare at it, listening to his echoing steps retreating farther and farther away. Turning her attention to her palm with a sad sigh, her head snapped up and eyes widened when a faint rusted squeak reached her ears. "Oh my god!" The gate! Grabbing the blanket to cover herself, Christine clambered to her feet and moved as quickly as her slight limp would allow. Touching the cold rusted metal, she took a deep breath "This is it. This is my chance. I have to take it." She pushed it open far enough to slip through.