The morning light slides through your blinds, but you've already been awake for hours. Sleepless again. You lay in bed still, not even hunger willing you to get up just yet. It's been three days- three days of guilt and anxiety and the endless pit of despair knowing what you'd done.
He was gone. Michael Myers who you had bathed and fed and tended to and wanted was gone. Gone with your kitchen knife, your bandages on his wounds. He'd wanted something from you. You suppose he'd gotten it. Why else would he turn on his heel and leave unless he had nothing else he wanted from you?
A bird singing outside your window drives you from your bed. It's too chipper, too joyous, the sun too bright. Didn't the rest of the world know? You don't bother changing, don't bother brushing your teeth. Too-bitter coffee brings an artificial life to your bones, helps to break up the painful heaviness around your eyes. You do not think of the extra cup you had made three days ago, do not think of sipping coffee so serenely in the living room with him. You do not feel the empty ache in your chest for the lost relationship you had thought you had with a mysterious, masked stranger.
You make yourself watch the news. It's penance, watching the woman with your staticky connection. Her lips are painted a perfect crimson as she recounts a string of murders the next town over. Gruesome, her lips form, Vicious stabbing. The rest doesn't matter.
You caused this.
You could've left him there in the forest and no one would've known. He'd be rot and bones and a bad memories. You've killed people now. All because you didn't want to see him bleed out. Your stomach churns, self-hatred threatening to boil over.
You still don't want him to bleed out.
He didn't kill you. He thought about it- you knew well enough. The long moment in the kitchen when he had the knife pressed against you, the hatred and something else deep in his eyes. Some part of him wanted to drive the blade between your ribs. Something stopped him.
You want to know why.
Why? Why had he stayed in your house for so long when he killed everyone else? Why not leave as soon as he was patched up that first night? It haunts you. Had he wanted to kill you that night, too, when you'd woken to him in your room? You need to know.
You might never get the chance.
The police arrive. It's not officer Windsor. A white man with dark stubble and a detective's badge waits at your door, his uniform is pressed and clean, a long tan coat fends off the chilly air. He greets you with a stiff "Afternoon." His eyes are blue-gray, perceptive and piercing, but they have no hold on you. Not like-
The detective is seasoned and dripping with saccharine-sweet words. He clears his throat, speaks with cloying deception. "We're double checking on some information. Mind if we talk a while?" His voice sparks a pain in your head and you resist the urge to press the heels of your palms against your eyes. He can read people like cheap novels- the way he squints when he looks at you, taking quick glances at where your fingers pick at the hem of your shirt.
He's reading you now. He knows you feel guilt, there's a tightness around his face that betrays his doubt. He's right, of course. You meet blue eyes and dare him to guess the extent of your crime. You have regrets- but you can't justify spending the rest of your life in jail. Can't justify betraying him, as much as you hate what he's done. You answer his questions, No I haven't seen anything, and Yes, I heard about those murders. You're too tired, too carefully holding onto your last thread of sanity to tell if you're even remotely convincing.
Maybe he just thinks you're in shock. Maybe you are.
A sickly sweet smile follows, curls over his face; It splits his cheeks, ruffles the dark remnants of a beard, shows too much teeth. Fear doesn't even register to you, the detective is just annoying now. You long for the muted expressions you'd gotten so comfortable with. "Mind if I look around your property? Won't take long."
It doesn't matter. You'd already scrubbed the blood from your floor, his mark from your underwear. Every trace of him in your house has been obliterated. You shrug and motion out towards a marker just before the trees. It's old and worn down, flanked on each side by dilapidated fence posts that had collapsed long before you moved in. "My yard only goes that far. Mr. Morton owns everything else around here."
The detective nods and wanders around for several minutes. You watch from your porch and drink your coffee, willing the pain between your eyes to cease. You don't know what he hopes to find or why he was onto you to begin with, but you hope he gives up soon. Or just arrests you. The sooner this is over the better.
You look again to the woods, out towards where you'd first seen him, leaves wind-swept over his prone form. You wonder just how far from your house you had been when you'd found him. Would there still be a blood pool there? You hadn't known who he was- you want to go back to that so badly. You took care of him as a good Samaritan. That wouldn't stop the police from locking you up forever.
Good intentions and all that.
When the detective is done poking through your bushes, subtly peering through your windows, he circles back around to you. He smiles again- but you know he found nothing to be so happy about. "Call if you see anything." He gives you a card, with his contact information in fancy, tiny, black font. "And try to get some sleep."
You try for a grin, but from his grimace you don't think you quite make it. He drives off and you're left with the strange feeling of having to go back inside. It's not right to be in there. The knob turns and you almost expect to find him lurking in your shadows again, lingering just around the corner into the kitchen or living room. It's empty.
It should be comforting that you're home alone. That you haven't seen him since he left. There's no strange man who stands in your bedroom, who presses his hand to your throat like he owns you.
You haven't changed the locks. You look through the hall in vain hope to find white latex lurking peeking out from the laundry room, to find him standing, waiting at the end of your bed. Sitting in the comically small couch and watching television.
Somehow, it only makes the house feel lonely. Empty. Before it had been snug and cozy. You rip up the business card, feel the satisfying resistance of the paper and let it tumble away into an indecipherable pile of letters.
The news is still playing when you step into the living room, the anchor moving on to some story about gas prices. You don't really care. But watching a screen is a good way to pass time, an easy pass to disengaging with reality, so you sit and you finish your drink and you wait. All you have now is time.
You sleep and dream of pale, white faces and the ringing of blades. Your mouth is dry. The TV drones on- a police procedural taking up the air time. You blink, feel your eyes burn from the incomplete nap and get your bearings; it's just after dark, which given November's preference for short days, doesn't mean much. The couch had left your legs numb from being bent to fit on it and you stumble into the kitchen, hissing when the numbness faded to pins and needles.
You turn on the water and cup your hands, drinking freely and pressing your cold fingers to the bags under your eyes. You'll need more coffee soon. The rushing water is nice to listen to- you close your eyes again, press your forehead to the faucet. You couldn't sleep like this, standing nearly upright in your kitchen, but it's nice to imagine. Pleasant sounds can't help you. The knob squeaks as you turn off the tap. Nothing can help you except
A static fills your mind- and you know. Life springs back to your veins. You're frozen in place only a heartbeat. The blinds over your sink rattle- you grab at them, pop the thin metal out of place as you peer into the growing darkness. No, no, not there- Your heart races. You don't know how but you know-
You twist the front door open, the light of your living room illuminating a long rectangle over your porch, the stairs, and out onto the yard. And at the very end of the yellow-white light are the tip of someone's boots.
Michael stands just beyond the stairs; the light makes it to the edges of his toes and not one inch further. Your knife is gone. He's empty handed- but you know better than to think him unarmed.
Anticipation vies with anxiety for correct reaction, both making you feel lightheaded, dizzy. It's all you can do to stand in your doorway, to cling to the door itself. The prey instinct in your head screams out again. You won't run. So you stare into the depths of his mask- completely hidden in the shadow and he steps forward. That electric fear starts up again- you force it down and watch as he climbs your porch's stairs two at a time.
You field of vision narrows down to the wide expanse of blue fabric stained with something from your nightmares. You'd laundered it so nicely, getting rid of the worst of the bloodstains, only for him to get more. A long bright red streak is splashed from his right shoulder to his left hip. There's larger stain in the fabric just above the waist, the blood soaked in deep and already dried- a slash in the coveralls where the fabric is frayed. It smells different when the blood is fresh. There's no mistaking why he's bloody this time. He is no victim, no sweet and strange old man in need of help.
Your eyes slide up him, taking in each splatter that was your own doing. Spots along his collar that you can't imagine how they originated- and dotted over the left cheek of his mask. You can't see him through the latex, but that itching, radiating power seeps through his clothes. Even covered in blood, that need to kill follows him.
He stands at your doorway like a vampire; he could push you out of the way, force his way into your home. He doesn't. He stands and stares at you in the darkness, the last of the sunlight fading behind him until the brightest thing on your horizon is the reflection off white latex. There's a tenseness to his shoulders. A head tilt- so very slowly to his right- is the only communication he gives you.
You should've run.
"Okay." You step away from the door, holding the wood open for him. He looks at you- and you wonder what passes through his head. He must know you're insane. You can't explain it, either. His presence is unnerving, makes your breath catch as he steps into your home- but that bloodied slash on his abdomen concerns you. And that's just the core of it, isn't it? He's covered in other people's blood and you care first about his own.
The door closes behind him and before you can consider the consequences, your fingers dance along the frayed edges of the coveralls. You feel his inhale, his belly tightening against your fingertips. It's a good feeling, the life under his skin-
It's hard to reconcile; the joy you feel at knowing he's okay enough to walk, and the disgust knowing what he's doing- what he's done. The guilt, that you let him do it. You look up to his mask, as though expecting anything other than the aged, warped latex and the heavy sounds of his breathing.
Your hand falls away, and again, you stare through the darkness of his eyes. The air between you prickles. You breathe out, "Guess I have to patch you up again?"
He leads you down the hallway. Something compels you to follow. You don't understand why you can't leave him- you have no sympathy for murderers, no desire to associate with those who attack for no reason. And yet. You wring your hands.
He walks through your bedroom as if it were his, no hesitation, no interest in looking around this time. He stops in your bathroom. The shoes come off easy and he drops them to the side, sitting almost casually at the side of your tub to peel off his socks-
You suck in air through your teeth. He walks on it like its nothing. Bastard probably doesn't feel pain. His right ankle is swollen and nearly glowing pink. You sink to your knees onto the bath mat- Michael tenses, but relaxes as you take his foot in hand. You roll up the hems of his pants leg, about halfway to his knee. If it hurts at all, he doesn't show it.
You wish he would; you'd rather know and stop than hurt him. But you rotate his leg as best you can and hope you're gentle. "When did this happen?"
You look up, stupid enough to expect him to answer. Okay, try again: "A while ago?" You pause, "Recently?"
He still does not answer. His cooperation has disappeared with your knife. You frown and touch the skin; it's warm. You don't know near enough about soft tissue damage. "I need to look this up." You start to stand-
He pushes you back down to you knees with only one hand. He catches your wrist and brings it up to the zipper of his coveralls . It's tacky, your knuckles brushing a dampness to his shirt. Nausea fills your head, but Michael's eyes, hidden in shadow, compel you. You drag the zipper down. The metallic noise is muffled, altered in the blood.
His bruises have healed considerably, his chest a mottled yellow-green, but a purple tinge remains to his lower ribs. He doesn't move through it all. Your hands shake, but the confidence of repetition lets you push it off his shoulders. Because he's sitting, the dirtied cloth of his coveralls pools at his waist. A sadness settles in your chest and you touch the brown bandage on his left shoulder. Underneath, the wound is messy and irritated. Of course, he hasn't been caring for himself.
You peel the rest of the sleeve off his arm- the bandage for the stab wound near his shoulder looks relatively clean, but the slash at his wrist is missing its bandage entirely. You frown, want to scold him despite his overwhelming presence in the air. The skin on either side of the half-picked scab is soft. You rub your thumb over it. It's not right.
A murderer shouldn't have skin so nice. You shouldn't want to kiss his hand- dirty and bloodsoaked as they are- so you look at his burns. They're better than the last time you looked, the salve having set in deep. The least burned areas actually looked like skin again, with only minimal smooth scarring. You don't think he cares about that, though.
You move to the other sleeve- and curse as you find an open wound. The coveralls peel away slow and thick- the blood already smeared on his arm coming away with the same texture as his clothing, dotted and lined down his bicep. The skin itself is jagged and ripped- You don't have your kit with you- it's out in the living room. You look around; one dark, unused hand towel sits on the corner of your bathroom sink. It's not far, but-
Michael's hand finds your wrist. His grasp is uncomfortable, but not yet painful. You know very well that could change. You don't know if whatever had stopped Michael from killing you before still stays his hand.
"I just want to get that towel." You point at it with your as of yet free hand. "To clean this."
The hand tightens, pulling a wince from you- the tiny bones of your wrist aching as he drags you back to the wet sleeve. "Michael," you hardly breathe, "please."
His hand stiffens, but does not hurt you. A sickening mix of horror and warmth spreads through your abdomen; if you weren't so close, you might've missed the way the jumpsuit tightens around his waist, the heavy exhale that follows. it's wrong. He likes that- you don't know what part. Saying his name? Begging? Your pained look? Revulsion crawls on your skin. Despite whatever physical response his body gave, he doesn't let go of your hands. You pull your lips tight and take hold of the bloodied fabric again. Only then does his grip loosen and fall away.
You pull it all the way off, over his wrist and ruined hand. The long, smooth burn also looked better- but very far from healed. It was simply too deep to get much done in the few days he was away- considering how little care he showed to his own wounds, you'd be surprised if it ever healed without your touch. The guilt returns and you wish so badly that you could go back.
His fingers are another matter. The bandage is filthy, covered in dirt and dried blood- as is his hand and the rest of the burns across his palm. You turn his hand in yours and find only the grime caught under his nails, the black stains of something you can't identify. You hate him, but you hate yourself more- because underneath it all is that stupid, insufferable feeling of sadness. You wanted him to take care of himself- not so he'd leave you alone, but so he wouldn't be hurt.
You peel away the bandages over the remains of his fingers- and thankfully find a perfect outline of the bandage beneath. His skin is untouched and clean in satisfying rectangles- the edges of which are still sticky from the tape. You grimace, but inspect the stumps themselves. There's drainage- but it looks no different than the gunshot wound had before his latest escapade.
And finally, just above where the upper part of his coveralls gathered at his waist, you find a long slash- smooth like the knife wounds to his right arm. Fuck. It's old. Entirely scabbed, dried blood twisted into the gray hairs that descend from his navel to somewhere below his belt line. You touch his skin there, his stomach flexes under your fingertips. That's not good. His skin is warm to the touch, the scab yellowing at the edges, an unusual crust along the coagulated blood. It's already closed, there's not much you can do now- but your meager googling of infected wounds looked unpleasantly similar.
The new arm wound weeps blood, scarlet running smoothly down his arm. How long ago had he lost his knife?
You look to him, find his mask already peering down at you. Your hands rest idle in your lap. What else he wants you to do is lost- with him sitting you can't do much else, you'd already inspected and removed all his bandages. You needed your kit now-
Michael stands and hooks his fingers into the waist of the coveralls. You realize what he's going to do as the cloth is already falling. Your cheeks burn. You avert your eyes, but it doesn't stop what you've already seen. His cock is half-thickened, still velvety and soft-looking even as it twitches once, beginning to lift up. You want to touch him, to taste him. You can't.
Won't.
He waits- and you still don't understand him. He could force you. You're all too aware of that fact- that he could hold you down and do what he wants with you. Maybe he just likes to see the color in your cheeks or making you squirm. Would he use you, or make you writhe for him? The traitorous voice in the back of your head- the one you smother down at every chance whispers They're not mutually exclusive.That brings a new wave of tingling heat between your legs.
He steps out of the coveralls- and steps into the tub, turning away from you. Blood splatters on the white porcelain, but you take your freedom. You gather his discarded clothing- but the burning gaze on you makes you hesitate before leaving the bathroom. "I'll put these in the wash again. And I'll get the first aid kit."
Michael gives you no affirmation, but does not stop you as he turns the knobs for your shower.
You dump the clothes in the wash with just a touch too much detergent- and you stripped off your shirt. Blood had seeped into the cuffs, small drops marring the front. The November air crept into your laundry room, brought goosebumps down your arms, a familiar tightness to your nipples. It didn't matter. You turned the machine on and, half-naked, moved back through the living room to get the restocked first aid kit you'd left on the coffee table (the empty plastic sack sat just under its legs, abandoned) and your phone. You'd hardly remembered to charge it- but you google quickly ankle sprain care
The sound of rushing water makes you lift your head. You hope he remembers not to scrub. You read from the web page as you return to your room. The sound of the water changes- no longer running from the faucet but from the showerhead- the noise high pitched and more diffused. You need to wrap his foot in a good position. There's a tightly wound compression wrap at the bottom of your red medical bag- that would have to do. Who knows if you could actually make Michael fucking Myers wear a compression wrap.
The sound of the water changes again- back to the heavy thumping of the tub faucet. You enter the bedroom- and from the still-open door to the bathroom, you know he's not showering anymore. Your dresser is just out of line of sight from the bathroom, but it doesn't stop you from grabbing the first top you see instead of searching for something better. It's a tank top- which if you're going to be cleaning up more of Michael's wounds, it's fine.
You grab the hand towel you'd seen and brace yourself. You'd hoped to find him testing the water; showering was fine with wounds like his. Not amazing with an open one, but not the worst. Instead, it seems he's only rinsed himself under the showerhead- the worst of his grime already washed away, an actual flesh tone returning to his hands instead of the black-brown of dirt and old blood.
Instead, he lounges in your tub that's too small even for you, and almost comical with how his uninjured leg is folded up, his knee poking out of the water, the injured right ankle extended over the edge of the porcelain, hanging somewhat uselessly. But more concerning: something is laid neatly against the wall in a warped pile of white latex, haloed by dark, dirty synthetic hair. You step into the bathroom- and look at him.
He's found the stopper to your tub and it fills slowly, steam rising around him. You'd seen him nude before- he'd intentionally surprised you the last time you got him to bathe. It's different now. Peril still lingers in the air, his working stormy eye glints dangerously beneath his eyelashes; a chill runs down your spine. You could leave him, let him handle himself.
You know what he wants- what he keeps wanting. You can't understand it. But you want to. Maybe that's why he hasn't killed you. What choice do you really have? You wanted to know why and there's really only one option.
You scoot the bath mat flush to the side of the tub, already predicting spills onto the tile. You watch him as you return to your knees. It's weird, being eye-level with him- so close to him without his mask. The last time...
Your neck burns in memory; ghostly teeth scrape so slightly against the column of your throat. You set the red bag aside and focus on the washcloth.
Michael follows you with his eyes- they're cold and flat, something still unsated and hungry deep inside. The beast is quiet now, but its presence has not left. He holds you with his gaze- intensity alone bringing a wetness to your eyes. You can't wash him if you don't look away- so you break to the thin lines of his lips, surrounded by silver hair; it's grown out some. Did it itch under the mask? You want so badly to know- his nose is crooked from a fight, the scar splits his cheek. You follow it like a map up to his milky eye, which still centers on you, unseeingly.
But under his eyes are heavy bags. You can't distinguish how much of that is age and how much is exhaustion, but if the shape at the end of your bed for the two mornings he had been here was any suggestion, he must sleep very little. Has he slept at all since he was here?
You touch his cheek. Your finger slides perpendicular across the thin scar before you can understand what you're doing. His stubble scratches at your hand.
Eyes bore into you. The predator lurks under his skin, hungry jaws waiting for you to venture too close. You look to his chest to center yourself- the still-running water rises slowly up to his ribs. The infected wound on his abdomen sinks beneath the surface, you want to scold him. You know he won't listen, won't give you more than a head tilt.
You turn off the water and dip the towel into the tub. The water's already discolored. You start at his right hand. You're careful, squeezing water over him like a shower before wiping- so very gently, not wanting to disturb the sealed scabs. The grime clings to his fingernails and cuticles, deep in the wrinkles and scars of his hands.
You move up his arm, your cleaning less hostagely and more reverent; you hold where no bruises mar his skin, you're methodical in your approach, swiping each angle before moving on. You bite your lip at his shoulder. You don't want to get another wound infected. Sweat sticks to his skin, so you rinse him- soaking your rag entirely and letting the water run freely over his chest and back. You'd don't dare to rub too close to the delicate gunshot wound of his shoulder or the long, red line of the knife wound.
You move closer to his neck- and for a torturous moment, his jaw clenches. The emotionless cover of his face fades to a red hot second of suspicion. You're too close to his throat- he knows how easy it is to kill, how delicate and thin the skin is; he knows the joys of crushing and cutting. The trust you'd formed is fragile, a single wavering thread-
You squeeze through the hot rag, into the breadth of his shoulder, just below the juncture of his neck. Whatever sharpness that remained in his body cracks, shatters under your touch. His eyes widen, brow raising in a pleasant surprise- before dipping back down. The tension bleeds from his jaw and his lips part softly as he exhales long and slow. Pride swells in you- and you squeeze at the back of his neck.
You feel the shudder across his body- the momentary mix of confusion and pleasure across his features before he can reign himself in. Had nobody ever rubbed his shoulders before? Sadness slips through your mind, and you twist, reach to fit both arms behind him. His guard comes up again. It doesn't completely fall as you dig into his left shoulder with your thumb, rubbing along his spine. His eyes are cat-like, nearly closing as you massage his shoulders, working out long-forgotten knots and every sore place left from his hunt.
He doesn't quite close his eyes, still watching you from under his lashes, but the devouring presence inside him retreats for the moment, and that's good enough. You work down along his spine, pressing into each muscle and with each tired, slow dip of his eyelids, you truly wonder. Fifty-five years he's lost. Sanitariums are not by any means the most social, the most growth-inspiring places. Especially ones from half a century ago. Had he... ever been touched like this?
Not just bathing- for surely he had to bathe somehow. You find a tense spot just below his sixth rib on the right side. You break it apart with your thumbs, work it back to smoothness. You'd tended to him when he woke up. Had anyone ever... been kind to him? Had they only seen the sister-killer?
You swallow. It's what he was, though. A murderer. The hands you've washed and bandaged have taken life. He needed this care fifty years ago, not now. Still, you can't push the idea of what he would be like now if he'd had a loving touch.
You withdraw from behind him and he relaxes- truly, relaxes- back against the edge of the tub. You take his other hand and begin washing again. You clean his intact fingers with precision, scrubbing the dirt and filth and revealing how nice he could look. The wound on his hand was extensive- you only rinsed it, and carefully place his hand on his chest, out of the water.
With his torso soaking, you move down to his legs. You can get the hard one out of the way first- and lean over his extended right leg to reach the left. You still find no injuries to his legs- aside from the obvious sprain. You hold his thigh, dragging the cloth over the thick muscle there- lean and soft with age, but firm below the surface. You press into his flesh there, following down the lines of his thigh and are justly rewarded with the same long, slow exhale. You don't dare venture all the way around his leg.
It doesn't matter. You move down to his knee, begin to rub at his calf. His right hand slips down over his belly, settling between his thighs. You hesitate. You seek his eyes out again- and though they're as soft as you've ever seen them, the threat lurks just beyond the surface.
You try not to look.
The incessant ache between your legs won't let you ignore it entirely. You move to his right leg and start again at his thigh. And as you peer at the shape of his thighs and where they join to his hips- his fingers are wrapped around himself. He's hard, just under the water line; it's thicker than you expected and curves upwards with a touch of a lean to the right. He isn't stroking it. The head is red and full, a soft, milky string floats just beyond it.
You're disgusted.
You want him.
You realize your hands had stopped cleaning him of their own accord. You sneak a glance at his face again; he's keeping hold of his damnable control. But you know he noticed your fascination- you hate yourself more. You clean his injured leg and take care with his calf not to agitate the joint. Not that you can tell if you do any damage- Michael might as well be a statue for how little he shows you. You begin to lean away-
He shows you more. His hips shift in the water, sending tiny waves through the tub- and even from where you sit, you can see. He still won't stroke it. He just holds it, his fingers spread evenly along his skin. He stares at you. He wants you to look at him, but you don't know what more he wants. If he would only talk-
No, you know what he wants in the end- what he'll eventually take from you. But you don't know what he expects you to do right now. You hold his foot in place as you dab at his swollen ankle. You stop after that. You bathed him. There was nothing left to do. Well.
The bottles at the corner of your shower draw your attention. You swallow thickly. That was too intimate. You couldn't. He wouldn't let you, you were sure- but your fingers itch at the idea of scrubbing shampoo into his hair, maybe even into the curls of his quickly growing beard.
You liked that idea more than you should.
His head tilts slowly, and you imagine the waves of his white beard soapy and bubbly. It draws one corner of your mouth up, you don't bother hiding it from Michael's view. It feels forbidden. Wrong. So you think of what that other Michael Myers might be like.
His eyes tighten and relax too fast to decipher. Was it curiosity at your odd smile? Anger? Arousal?
You look between his legs. He holds too tight- a stiffness to his fingers. Maybe he likes it like that- tight and slow- but you can't help but feel there's something else at hand. You shouldn't. You joy fades- and you see him squeeze a little more. You wince, imagine the heavy pressure like that against yourself. It can't be enjoyable- no, there's something... wrong.
The water is tepid at best now and you dip your fingers in. His wrist is bonier than you expect, but you curl your fingers around his forearm. You meet his stormy eyes. They're unreadable- clouded gray and seeing through you again. You wish he would speak to you, just to make this easier. You lick your lips, and pull on his wrist- hardly more than a suggestion. Your voice is low and quiet, pleading, "Michael."
They focus on you. There's a challenge behind his eyes now. You couldn't make him stop, nobody would make Michael Myers do anything. You lick your lips again, breathe out slowly. You'll lose this game either way.
The words are foreign in your ears, "I'll help you." Your exhale is shaky, "Just, let me bandage you first." The black of his pupil swells, nearly consumes the blue-gray entirely. From parted lips, he inhales- you draw your hand out of the water. "I'll put your clothes in the dryer, and then," Your lip trembles, "I'll help you."
You were always going to lose this game. Might as well be on your own terms.
The laundry room is silent, long ago the washing machine played its jingle to a missing audience. You move the laundry over, not even checking if the blood had come free. Everything about you was shaking.
Could you do it?
You had to. There was something wrong about the way he'd touched himself- squeezing too tight. His knuckles had begun to blanch. Pressing his thumb down just below the head. Like he-
Like he wanted it to hurt.
Your hand hovers over the dial on your dryer. You don't know what to do with that. Was he... trying to hold back? Trying to make it go away? Did he just like that? You can't imagine what goes on in his mind- you can't get a single word out of him, let alone understand how he ticks.
You don't have a choice now. What makes Michael Myers do what he does is beyond your pay grade, but you were fairly sure lying or betrayal would not restore your place as favorite. Or whatever it was that had made him decide to haunt your house instead of gutting you.
You're starting to think he just wants to fuck you. It wouldn't be so bad if he were anyone else. You feel... something for him, something softer than you want to name for an infamous spree killer. But there's still worse:
If all he wanted was to fuck you, would he kill you after?
At least then you'd know for sure what set you apart.
The dial turns with satisfying clicks. You couldn't escape this now. The dryer starts.
You'd re-bandage him, and then you'd find out for sure.
Your stomach flips, you want to flee- and yet you think of gray eyes. There's something captivating about him- for all the danger he embodies, the horrible deeds you can't even think about, you want to know what his world is like. You want to understand how he could hold a knife to your ribs and decide not to kill you, but still return covered in someone else's blood. Such a dark and terrible fascination.
There's no more time to buy. You hold your breath and return to you room.
He's not in the bathroom anymore. He sits, dripping wet, on the edge of your bed. His head is tipped down, staring into his hands and at the white latex mask. You blink, swallow hard and close the door behind you. You want to meet his eyes again, want another chance to decipher whatever he holds inside, but you can't.
Shivers roll across your skin in waves, and you pass by him without peeking. At his face or anywhere else. It'd be too much- you'd vibrate right out of your body, break down crying and hysterical.
There's a murderer in your house. You're going to help him- help him-
You dig your fingernails into the harsh red material of the first aid kit's bag. The white vinyl plus design is peeling and cracked. You want to pick off every speck until there's nothing left. But you grab a fresh towel and turn.
He's already watching you. Hungry, piercing- and cold. Your legs go numb- you nearly fall, catching yourself against the counter. He'll devour you whole, leave nothing left- an empty void in the middle of your room, threatening to suck everything you'd ever known into the abyss that gazes back at you. He sets the mask beside him without breaking your connection.
You step forward, trusting your memory of the room to bring you to him. The only movement is how he turns to keep his eyes on you. You break away to open the kit and place it on the corner of the bed. You don't have to look at him if you're bandaging him. You start with the new slash to his arm; the warm water made the cut slow to close and it still weeps gently at the front. You can see the real shape of it now: a ripped, split-skin thing without the gentle tapers of Michael's knife injuries, uneven enough to make it hard for the skin to meet together again. You can't imagine what sort of weapon made such a wicked wound. You dot some antibiotic ointment on a rectangular bandage- and sigh in relief that it's long enough.
His gunshot is the only other wound that's still actively draining. You cut another gauze pad and remind yourself you need to check it tomorrow. You wouldn't get him to go to the hospital, but at least you could keep his bandages clean.
You steal a glance at his cheek- and find the skin glue still holding his mouth together, turning grayer with the dead skin stuck around the edges. That was normal- you're pretty sure, at least. Just like a scab, it would let go bit by bit when the wound had healed and shed a layer. You look away before you were trapped again.
His missing fingers were the only remaining wound that you worried about reopening or draining. His hand is pliant, when you pick it up, relaxed and neutral for you. Aside from the damage, his hands are rather nice; worn with age, but it seems time spent away from society kept his off hand uncalloused, the flesh of his palm soft and warm. You can't even really fault the slowly closing burns. You know on his right hand there's a new roughness forming across his fingers, a tiny blister from years of disuse dissolving into a murderous rage of weaponry. You like this hand better.
With medical scissors you snip two more gauze pads into the same shape as before and tuck them carefully around the remains of the fingers, taping the gauze down and sealing the wound.
There's one last thing to do. From the kit you dig out one pristine, tightly rolled, tan cloth. You close your eyes and sink down to your knees.
Don't look at it, you whisper in your head, don't look.
You're trembling as you take his foot. It's still warm around the joint and fat with swelling. "Might hurt," you warn him. You shift his foot up into the correct position and unwind the compression wrap. You start it around his leg, a single loop stuck to itself, then form smooth alternating figure eights between calf and the sole of his foot. You want to look to his face- maybe you could tell pain in his eyes this time, but- don't look up.
The wrap ends in a velcro strip, designed to stick anywhere on itself. You hold it for a minute, but try not to let the wrap loosen too much. Sticking it feels impossible; Michael has no other wounds that need attention. You waver-
Fingers thread through your hair. You gasp, struggle to breathe as they slide from the top of your skull down around your ear, down under your chin, warm against your skin. He doesn't make you look up, just holds you there. Reminds you of your promise. You press the wrap down. Only then does he tip your chin. You pinch your eyes closed.
He waits, trails the odd callous on his thumb across the joint of your jaw. He waited forty years to escape, he's not going anywhere now. He urges you up by the chin and you blindly follow. You shouldn't trust him.
You make it up to your feet; your fingertips can just reach his knees. He traps you between them, shaking like a leaf in the wind- his hand under your chin the last connection to the world. His left hand finds the back of your still-clothed thigh. Three fingers trail up to the curve of your butt, cupping it in his palm. You whimper, slap a hand over your mouth in shame.
The hand leaves you chin, clamps vice-like around your wrist and you do cry out- and he hauls you forward. Your eyes snap open, your body folding, grabbing his shoulders to accommodate him pulling you up- onto his lap. His eyes catch yours, and you can't look away.
Your legs are tucked neatly beneath you on either side of his thighs, parted wide enough you know he could touch you through the thin fabric if he wanted. For now, your pants and underwear protect you. But not entirely, his hands have wound up at your waist. The angle's all wrong, but you feel him. Hot, hard, long against your belly. His cock is pressed upright between you you're so close. It twitches and you whimper, instinctively grabbing at his shoulders again- only in the back of your mind remembering to be careful of his wounds.
You want to look away. So close, you can see the layers and patterns in his blue-gray eye; cyan ringing the pupil, gray radiating out in splotches. The other eye is milky blue, glassed and unseeing- more wrinkles have formed around it than the other. And both are unreadable, deep and yet, empty, like a well that's long ago run dry. There's no emotion betrayed, not a hint of empathy or compassion for your racing heart, the shivering of your spine, the burning tears that threaten to bud at the corners of your eyes.
You want to kiss him. It'd be almost normal- kissing was something normal people did. But he's too intense, too powerful. It's too intimate- your core tingles, wants to know what he fingers would feel like. His left hand finds your hair. Nails scratch along your scalp so pleasantly- your eyes drift closed again.
He twists, your roots burn- eyes coming open with a startled gasp. He wants to be read now: the meaning is clear as he peers down his nose at you. He wants you to look at him.
The hand still at your waist slides up, a shiver making you flex against him as his palm pushes up your shirt as he moves, but keeps going. Through the tank, he cups your breast again. You squirm, the warmth of his skin soaking through the fabric. You didn't have to see his face last time- didn't have to watch as he tips his head to watch as he pulls your shirt down. You can't help the weak gasp you give, can't help the way your thighs draw together at his sides when he looks back up to you and locks you back into his gaze.
His skin is burning. The heat of his palm does not dissuade the cool of the air from drawing your nipple into a bud. Just the curve of his hand around your breast has you wanting to close your eyes again- and is rewarded with a warning tug at your hair. He squeezes so gently at first, testing the softness of your flesh- before there's a near imperceptible glint to his eyes, the smallest tightening of his brow. Fingers dig in, repeating the same action he had before, drawing from your chest outward- each of his fingers catching on the stiff peak.
Your mouth opens in a muted cry. He never looks away, doesn't return to admire your chest in the way men do, doesn't stop to see what he's doing. He traps your nipple between that oddly calloused thumb and forefinger. And just holds it there for a long moment.
A need has settled need inside, thick and aching. You don't want it- and yet your legs hold close to his sides, hips trembling of their own accord. You squirm in his grasp which only makes him tug softly at your sensitive nipple. It draws a whine from you, the shocked inhale pulling at it again. You want him to stop, to get it over with, to say something; you want him to touch you. Instead he sits there, your nipple pinched so delicately- waiting.
"Michael," your voice is hoarser than you expected, husky and close to breaking. "Please."
The grasp in your hair tightens, you wince- and he pulls your head back. You gasp, sputter, stare up at your ceiling and see gray moving before you. His short hair rubs against your cheek- and you scream. Pain lances through your shoulder, his fingers rolling your nipple. You dig your fingernails into his back, scraping across what you can reach.
His teeth dig deeper, and there's nothing the hand on your chest can do to distract you. You hit weakly at his side- he kills people- he fucking kills people- He could rip out your fucking throat. Leave you to bleed out across him, that's how you'd help him. He was only here to drag out killing you and-
He lets go. You cry, hot breath panting over your shoulder, his tongue slipping out and dancing along your skin. Blood beads to the surface and he chases it, drinking it down before sinking his teeth in again. He huffs against you, his fingers leaving your chest to grab behind you. He digs five bruises into your ass and pulls you forward again- his hips lifting against your stomach.
He doesn't moan. He pants and sighs and huffs, but utters no vocalization as he grinds against your stomach, bites into your neck, just below your ear. You tremble and hang on for dear life, clinging to Michael's broad shoulders. When you cup the back of his head, he nips your chin, almost purring. He pulls back long enough to admire the art he's made of your skin; he's half-lidded, his lips parted- and the silver-white of his beard shines crimson. His grasp on your hair adjusts and he's attacking the other side of your neck. Teeth scrape down your throat, before he bites just below your clavicle.
His hips roll against you again and you thank the small mercies, that you don't have to look at his cock with your head wrenched so far back. You wouldn't be able to handle it- because despite the agony his mouth brings you, the warmth between your legs lingers. His cock presses against you and you can feel him, feel the size of him so close to where you truly need it. Your body just thinks he's rough- that he likes to leave marks. The thought alone has your thighs clenching together again; you'll be covered in bruises and bite marks well above the collar to even modest sweaters. He is marking you.
You tremble and fight the urge to slip your hand between your bodies to give yourself some relief.
All at once, he stops. The rolls of his hips cease- and you hate how much of the motion between you had been your own doing, your own futile attempt to find stimulation where there was none. His breath is hot on your neck as he turns and gives a nip- dragging a thin stretch of skin between his teeth as he pulls away.
He stops panting before he even comes back into view. Aside from the pink to his cheeks, the swelling of his lips, and the empty black void of his pupils, it would be hard to tell what he'd been doing. The scarlet stain across his mouth is more telling. His hand in your hair loosens and you peek down. The damage itself is too high, but the thin rivulets of diluted blood and saliva pooling just behind your clavicles, the errant brushes and smears from his beard- not unlike a painter's- tell you enough.
He could've ripped your throat out. The hand leaves your ass- and you're aware of just how hard he'd been holding you. Michael's fingers dance along the long expanse of your throat, tracing each sensitive spot he'd left in his wake. Admiring his work.
His hands leave and grab the backs of your thighs. You startle, grab at his shoulders again just in time for him to lift you. He stands, seemingly unbothered by your weight, and sets you down on your feet. Blood rushes in- and you weren't even aware your legs had fallen asleep. He lets go, and without his support you sink back onto the edge of the mattress.
He's nude. The idea comes unbidden and finally, finally you can press your thighs together, seek rudimentary stimulation to relieve the ache. You can't imagine what he wants- he could've cum how he was before, biting at you and thrusting against your stomach. But he looks down at you- if there's any clues to his thoughts, you can't piece them together through the heavy fog of pain and fear and arousal. He's nude, and his fingers catch the dark hair of the mask still set on the bed- and stalks out of your bedroom.
You'd never realized just how quiet he could be.
It takes a moment to process. Michael has left you, hard and unfinished (and so were you, but you... couldn't). And he was hard, so very hard and you want. You look to your shirt- and find a cooling wet spot smeared just below your navel. Had he been close, or was he simply that eager? Both options have your thighs shaking, one traitorous hand slipping between to press against yourself.
You needed to calm down. You needed to calm down so, so much because you can't do this. He wasn't killing you, for whatever reason- which was apparently something more complicated than needing something to fuck. But your attraction to him is so... broken. So wrong and taboo and god, you could see the coldness in his eyes (when you can even see his eyes). He's evil. And you want to feel his fingers probing inside you- they'd get so deep, they'd absolutely fill you with how big they are- instead of just using you as leverage against his dick.
You grind the heel of your palm against your clit. You'd get yourself off later. Not now. Not with him.
The door opens again. You pull your hand free.
His face is gone, as is his body.
You blink and stare into the empty eyeholes of the mask once more. His head is tipped slightly downward and you suspect he saw what you had been doing. His coveralls are wrinkled, but mostly clean. He crosses the room in easy, measured strides. Heat radiates off him. The dryer had gone off.
His left hand catches under your chin- just as he had done before. You expect him to tilt your face up to look at him, but instead find panic in your veins as he closes his hand around your throat. It's not a threat- it's a reminder. You work with him, let Michael push you down on the bed, only half laying on it- everything below your thighs hanging over the edge.
He stands over you, straddles you across your stomach, and presses one knee to the mattress- over your forearm. He adjusts and traps your other arm in the same way. You lie very still, staring up into the cracked, expressionless latex. Even holding you so close and letting you see his face so intimately, did he really prefer the mask? You guess he was done with his mouth.
He holds you still with his hand pinned to your neck. With the right-
He pulls the zipper down again. He withdraws himself, and you have no choice but to look with him just above you. Michael is already a large man, and his cock is scaled to proportion. With him above you, he wraps his fingers around the shaft, stroking himself in one long, tight stroke. Blood pushes to the tip, darkening into a full red, a shiny drop of precum beading. You whimper, head hurting from how tight your brow knits together.
Your arms are trapped at your sides, just under the backs of his thighs. You can't even push him away. A squeeze against your jugular reminds you to keep your eyes open. You focus on his mask, on the deep-set pain of your shoulders and neck, agitated by his grasp.
"Michael." His fingers tighten- a nail scratching at a new sore spot has you wincing. He pulls faster, the rasping sound of skin on skin so close. Pants come quickly under the mask- and you want to see his face again. It's all wrong. You shouldn't want to see those cold, empty eyes or the blood lingering in his beard- what did he look like now? Would his gaze be clouded and far off, does he bite his lips?
It's hard to breathe with his weight on your ribs. You have just enough range to press your fingers between your legs. The need doesn't abate- burning hot under your touch. It should be him, should be his rough, exploratory touch. Michael's hand twists under the head- and his legs twitch. A noise muffled under the mask-
His cock twitches- the hand at your throat tightens again. You pinch your eyes closed.
Your throat burns and warmth splashes over your chest, something hits your chin. Air whistles through the nose holes of the mask, something wet slides along the side of your throat. Your bite wounds sting, set alight by- by-
You dare to open your eyes again. His hand slides smooth across his cock, slick and shiny with cum, more still leaking from the tip. Through it all, he doesn't stop, hips rocking into his palm. Milky splatter sits between your breasts and higher, beyond where you can see. It cools quickly, turning tacky and strange against your skin, stinging harshly.
Michael sighs, long and low, and finally his wrist slows and stops. His chest heaves, the mask tilts back and you can see just a touch more of his neck as it rides up. The burn around his neck has paled, and you watch how his neck moves as he breathes.
You shiver, mouth hanging open as the heat of your skin dissipates. Your right breast is still out, the nipple pulled tight. Michael pants- and finally looks down to you. The mask is blank, betrays nothing of the face underneath- and it sweeps over your face. You feel the tears caught at your lashes, the blush heavy on your cheeks- and who knows what he's done to your neck. Blood and spit and cum drying on your skin.
HIs hand loosens finally, the corners of your vision returning in waves. On your belly, just past the end of your sternum, his cock softens and smears across your skin. You feel disgusting- and you need to take care of your neck. Fuck, they were going to get infected- Michael's incessant lapping and sucking had surely made you sick, if his cum settling over your neck hadn't. And that was very quickly becoming itchy and uncomfortable, you needed to clean up so badly.
You pull at your arms, just trying to get Michael's attention so he'd move on. He'd bitten and played with you, even finished himself on you- he had to be done now. You'd fulfilled your part.
The mask stared down at you, so gently canted off to his right side. His chest still heaves in deep, slow breaths. His fingers trace across your skin, reverent and silent, the hand at your neck making you wince as he touches something sensitive.
You try shifting again, and this time tap at his butt. You just needed him off- "I need to clean up." You say, voice harsh and strange in your throat.
He still doesn't move. And to think you were sure he was past this belligerently uncooperative stage and onto something at least a little more engaging than his unresponsive staring. You move, twisting until your arm begins to slide under you- even though it makes you arch up against him, you free one arm. With the extra space, the other arm comes out easier.
You raise your hands to inspect the damage at your throat- he's fast. The shape before you catches your wrists, curls forward over you to push them into the bed. His grip is painfully tight, huge hands squeezing the delicate bones of your wrists. His breathing is slow and steady again, the darkness behind the mask too heavy to understand what he wants from you.
He squeezes until you're gritting your teeth, lashing under his weight, tossing your head back and forth- and above you, the latex creaks as he tips his head. You blink away tears, real distress taking root deep inside. There's a hot moment where you think he won't stop, that's all he needed after all. He'll snap your wrists and then your neck. And as your eyes begin to widen, your jaw going slack, the first inhale for a scream catching in your chest-
His grasp loosens again. Barely holding on, the mask swivels to the other side. He presses your wrists to the bed once more- and you take the hint. When he lets go of your sore wrists entirely, you don't move. Michael tucks his cock away, not bothering to clean up at all. He hovers there, still half-sitting on your stomach, the bed dipped under his one knee on the bed.
You stare up at him. The angle only emphasizes his height, the power he holds over you- physical or otherwise. The heat still has not left your pants, despite the real pain that lingers in your wrists and neck. It's hardly different than him almost choking you out the second day he was here, you remind yourself.
You hate what he does to you, you hate yourself. Fear and arousal and pain leave you dazed and all you can do is fixate on how tall he is, the width of his shoulders, the scars that hide beneath thick, blue cloth. You wish he was anyone else and more than anything in the world you wish he would touch you.
Instead you're stuck, hips pinned under his, covered in his cum. He steps back, slides off the bed, still looking down at his handiwork. The need inside you feels monumental, a sickly slickness slipping into your underwear. touch me you want to scream. If he just did it, without you having to focus on your useless conflict-
If you could just know what it was like,
Hands settle at your hips, warm and slow and oddly delicate. Hope burns inside you and yet-
Michael does not strike you as particularly giving. Unless he could get hard again, doubt overtook your mind. For good reason. His hands turn hard- but not malicious. He holds you- and hefts you up into his arms. You squeal in surprise, your arms coming around Michael's neck again as he rounds the corner of your bed, and supporting your weight with only one arm, peels back the covers to your messy bed.
You tremble, unsure. He was comfortable jerking off onto you while sitting above you, but wants you in bed? He sits with you still tucked to his chest- and scoots into your bed. He lies down flat on his back, fully dressed in his coveralls and mask, and pulls you, still curled onto one side, against his chest. He reaches with one hand and drags the blankets back up, awkwardly pooled around you.
And then, he just lies there. His breathing even and slow, and you can't tell if he looks to the ceiling or to you. You frown, more confused than anything. Your skin is still sticky, things you don't want to think about flaking off each time you turned your head. And worse, the liquid need rooted deep inside still lurks- and you can't, just can't, deal with it here. You push against him to sit up- and huge hands settle on your lower back, just above your hips.
His fingers- asymmetrical, it's so strange- press into your skin, sliding just under your thin shirt. He says nothing, does not move in any other way. You lick your lips and press your luck. You push back further, nearly making it upright-
Before his hands are vices around you, forcing you back down with unquestionable authority.
"Michael," You complain, but only get the pointed flexing of his hands in response. You sigh- and shift on him. Pain sinks around his fingertips and you can nearly feel his eyes narrowing. "At least let me move? Your hip is biting into my side..."
A long moment passes, before he sighs, a puff of warm air sliding under the mask. His hands relax again. You resettle over him, settling onto your stomach- if he wanted you on top of him for the night, it was your best bet for sleeping soundly. You end up almost straddling one thigh, with your left leg between his- but he's too tall and you settle with your head just below the white latex of the masks' chin.
You want to take a bath. And yet... your ear presses against his chest. Warmth radiates through his clothing into you. His heart is strong, steady- an endless march song that's all too easy to get lost in. His palms are nearly burning against your skin, and yet without the dangerous threat to them, there's something else.
He kills people. But he won't kill you. The train of thought alone makes alarms ring in your skull. There's a tenderness- or at least as tender as Michael Myers can seemingly manage for as emotionally disconnected as he is. Or was that all you projecting onto him? There had to be something genuine inside him. He'd come back. Maybe... you were just useful.
You close your eyes and count his heartbeats, the rise of his chest, the soft, muffled noise of his exhale. He is a mystery, and yet inside him his heart beats on like everyone else. Rhythmic and continuous, lulling you down into the easy hold of sleep.