Slasher Imagines

Rose and the Thorn Pt.2|Michael Myers

Requested by a few users on both wattpad and my tumblr.

Warnings: vomiting, mentions of mental illnesses such as OCD/ compulsive skin picking, descriptions of hallucinations. If you're going through similar stuff, please make use of the resources

Part 2: Blossoming Obsessions

When you walked out of the cafeteria with one of the guards, you took in the view of the hallway briefly as the bigger guard walked you towards your room. The hall looked infinite with the amount of doors that housed people who were various degrees of mental issues that made you feel bad for. 

The guard pushed you inside of your room rather harshly, locking the door behind him as you sat on the sorry excuse of a mattress. Your dull (e/c) eyes flickered to the pealing white walls as you thought back on your encounter with the mysteriously dangerous Michael Myers. There was something curious, yet strange about him that you desired deeply.

Maybe it was the way he spoke to you- even if it was to thank you- when from all of your grandfather's stories, he couldn't even get a response from Michael. Or perhaps it was how he didn't kill you like all of the rumors from both your grandfather and the media outlets said. You're aware that Michael was a ticking time bomb fixing to explode when the time becomes right.

Your hands instantly roamed your skin as you tried to let your mind wonder off  to your own thoughts and daydreams as you tried to cancel out the sounds of screams and cries of the other patients that echoed from the hall that seemed to never end. 

Michael sat at the desk of his room, his hands skillfully creating the form of the paper mask as his mind went towards (Y/n) Loomis. Knowing that Dr. Loomis was reluctant to allowing his grandchild to be around him, Michael wanted the young Loomis to himself.

The familiar form of his mother in all white was across the small room from him as Michel turned his head, seeing his younger form in front of his mother.

"Michael, that Loomis kid is yours. They could help you find Boo." His mother smiled sweetly, her heavenly presence made Michael feel like a he was a child before he ended up in Smith's Grove. She continued, her curls framed her face.

"I know you find them interesting. Go ahead and get close to her." Younger Michael responds with an "Okay Mommy" as both child him and his mom disappeared.

It wasn't until the next morning when you saw Michael again. You've just taken your morning dose of medications when you entered the cafeteria.

Soft chattering of some of the inmates filled the horrid room as the guard roughly escorted you inside. Grabbing the ends of your uniform, you held onto the plastic tray as the food was flopped carelessly onto your tray.

Once you gotten your milk carton and cup of water, you strolled towards the table where Michael was sitting with his food. As you got to his table, Michael looked up at you while you smiled, sitting across him.

"Morning Michael." You wiped the container of the milk carton seven times before you finally opened the top. Taking a sip of your milk, a faint milk mustache appeared on your upper lip.

The next thing you know, you feel Michael's calloused thumb rubbed the milk mustache off your lip. A crimson blush appeared on your cheeks as he pulled his hand back to his tray of food

"T-thanks." You bashfully looked down to your food. Glancing at the thick lumpy oatmeal, you decided to eat the slice of bread instead.

Michael's eyes were fixated at you, causing a wave of anxiety through your body as you tried to hold your anxiousness in. Your heart was beating rapidly as you feel your cheeks burn up from bashfulness.

You tried distracting yourself by trying to stomach the oatmeal. The taste of blandness and the runny- yet lumpy texture of the oatmeal made you want to vomit. Luckily, you forced yourself to eat it.

The two of you ate in silence as the two of you finished breakfast. You stared at the  mind begins to wonder off to your life back at home before your parents decided to send you away.

You weren't ever the type of person who liked having all the attention towards you. Instead, you would rather be in the background; reading and (your favorite hobby) while others prefer to be social.

Understandably, your parents were concerned about how quiet and withdrawn you were from the outside world. They wanted the best for you and they concluded that you were more of an introvert and would eventually grow out of your shell.

Then came your obsession with germs and the daily rituals of cleaning after yourself multiple times a day. If your schedule ends up affecting your daily ritual, the panic attacks and intrusive thoughts begin to take control.

It wasn't until the discovered your scared and scab covered flesh from the skin picking was when they were finally convinced that they needed to get you help.

Between your parents and grandpa Loomis trying to convince you  to check yourself into Smith's Grove and the threat of getting kicked out with no money, you took the institutionalized route.

Michael looked at your spaced out form curiously. He wondered what thoughts that you had running through your mind. Shrugging the thought off as the side effects of a change in medication doses, he finished his breakfast.

The way you chew your bottom lip gently while you're in thought made Michael wonder even more why such a normal person who's the Grandchild of Loomis would end up in the very hell hole that Michael has made his home after many years.

He knew that you didn't have the heart to cause harm or to kill people. You looked too innocent for a life of crime. Michael's eyes looked at your now exposed arms, the scars and wounds scattered your (skin tone) skin.  

The myriad of scars on your skin made you look exotic looking compared to other people that Michael has seen. Similar to you, Michael also had a plethora of scars that littered throughout his body from all of the times that victims have attempted to fight back. 

"Michael, are you okay?" You asked cautiously as  you interrupted his own wandering thoughts. "If it's the scars on my arms, it's just my compulsive skin picking. I do it a lot." You ran your smaller hand through your hair as Michael continued to stare blankly at you.

"Some say it's a nervous habit, others say it's a form of self soothing for when some people go through stressful times. I know they look gruesome but my arms are much clearer than my legs or stomach." you rambled anxiously as Michael nodded.

Just as you were about to speak up, an guard walked to the table that the two of you were sitting with a blank look on her face. "(Y/n) Loomis? Your grandfather would like to speak to you. It's an urgent matter."