Chapter Text
Working in a mental health institution, the sole responsibility of trying to aid and potentially get ill patients to a better state, always came with an ultimate price to pay. It was comical, in a way, how she felt this place was draining her sanity with every useless attempt at helping lost people find their way. Or perhaps, live out their life in a place where they are unable to hurt themselves… or others.
She feared she’d get admitted one of these days.
Leaning over her cart full of pills and syringes and medical equipment, she took a deep breath, but all she smelled was rubbing alcohol and death. The sounds of muffled deranged chuckling, rambling, crying rang hollow in her ears—it was background noise, something she heard so much it was like static to her.
The fluorescent shitty lights made her eyes ache, already red and heavy from her long shift, but she forced herself to keep moving. Right down to the door of her last patient, the one that always took the longest. Not because it was difficult—no, it was too easy, seamless and a breeze. She just felt obligated to… stay, to be a presence, to make her patient not so alone like how she felt. She couldn’t imagine how isolated every single person here felt.
Smith’s Grove Sanitarium was, by no means, a great psychiatric hospital—there was corruption lingering everywhere, but it ran thicker in the facility. Haddonfield, Illinois was a small town, and the chances of finding any kind, hard-working staff for an institution that harbored murderers was innately difficult.
She couldn’t blame them necessarily, but all of the patients were human. Despite how most of them would and have hurt the nurses, lashing out and screaming and laughing, she was adamant that they needed to be treated carefully. Softly.
It was cruel already how they were locked in cages, for reasons they could not help.
And with her resilience and her unwavering patience, the hospital had given her the task of someone no one else was willing to check in on. Michael Myers—on October 31, 1963, he was admitted at only the age of six for stabbing his sister to death.
But the staff back then didn’t necessarily fear him. He was a deluded, ill child that hardly moved or spoke a word. They neglected him then simply because he gave no reward—no chilling stories to write about, no promise of redemption. Just an empty, silent ghost.
Maybe, she wondered while she began to unlock his doors, maybe he would’ve turned out better if he was put under better care here. Maybe he wouldn’t have broken out in 1978 when he was twenty-one, and he wouldn’t have done the horrendous crimes, the brutal killings.
Pity was a fickle thing, and while she knew she shouldn’t pity a serial killer, she couldn’t help how bad she felt for him. Like it was her fault—everyone’s fault for a child to succumb to such a sin, for them to never end up guiding him towards a better path. And now, 1995, he was a thirty-eight-year-old man stuck in an institution that only continued to fail him.
She thought again how this place was definitely making her lose her mind. She was too nice, too full of hope—or was she just as sick?
The lock clicked open and she grabbed her bag of equipment and clipboard as she hurried in the room, making sure the door shut and locked behind her. Why the hospital allowed nurses to go in alone with the patients with no cameras, she had no idea—well, she could only assume they just didn’t care enough as a dingy, middle-of-nowhere facility that didn’t want to spend the money on more guards or cameras.
But she didn’t mind with him. Michael didn’t need to be restrained, as per her request, given how he hardly moved a muscle. He was catatonic almost, never having spoken a word. She remembered some of Doctor Sam Loomis’ rants about how his vacant, mindless state was only an act. She didn’t know what she believed.
He was facing away, his large figure imposing and consuming the space. His posture was always straight, surprisingly perfect and alert, hands typically on his knees, unmoving and without a twitch. His dark brown hair was mused and messy from lack of care, and she felt a twinge of anger that no one was keeping up with his hygiene in the way he deserved… that every patient deserved.
“Hello, Michael,” She greeted him each time, even knowing he’d never say a word to her. She didn’t care, she just wanted him to hear something from someone who wasn’t hurling insults at him or scoffing at his presence.
She walked around his back, going to face in front of him while she placed her bag down on his cot just inches away. Her eyes couldn’t help glancing over him. She knew he liked wearing a mask, and that for some reason, he didn’t want his face exposed. He must’ve felt vulnerable, awful here without it. So she tried not to look at him too much, but he wasn’t bad looking. Dark thick hair, a strong jawline… his height. He was so tall and big that the chair he sat in looked far too small. The muscle he maintained, in his arms and chest and legs, was surprising. They ate well here fortunately, but she never saw him exercise in such a way to keep such strength.
She wondered if it was his eye that made him want to wear the mask. One eye was a deep, dark blue that almost looked black, but the other was a milky, frozen blue bordering on white. The skin around littered in jagged scars, causing his eyelid to drop down over permanently. She didn’t think it was ugly, merely a sign of life lived. She never knew what happened for him to have that wound—did it happen here? Did it happen that time he escaped?
But she pulled herself from her staring and her trailing thoughts, instead focusing on taking out everything she’d need to do a check up on him.
“I hope you’ve been enjoying the weather whenever you get to go outside,” She idly chatted, her hands rummaging through her bag before pulling out her stethoscope, “The leaves are beginning to change and the breeze feels nice—it’s… serene, beautiful.”
The small smile on her face was for him as she walked closer to him, or maybe to soothe herself as she felt bad letting her hands brush over his shirt, needing to place the bell end of the stethoscope to his bare skin. She had done this many times, but she always felt awkward… like she was crossing a boundary with how he couldn’t verbalize he was okay with it.
It was her job, she reminded herself.
Her hand trembled ever so slightly as she snaked under the fabric of his shirt, making sure not to brush her own hand against him, and she let the cool metal place against his chest. She listened, her own breath caught in her throat as she heard his heart beat, steady and healthy. Maybe she lingered just a little too long, caught up in the fact it was proof he was human. A human just like her, unfortunate and lost.
Was he truly lost? Or did he know right where he was? Did he like what he was?
When she pulled away, she felt that breath she held release, the tension in her shoulders she hadn’t even felt relaxing. She picked up her clipboard, checking off a box before moving on to the next thing. But she hesitated, looking back to him, to his unkept hair, and she sighed.
She shouldn’t engage in touch not assigned to her, not a task for her to do, not necessary. But it was necessary to her.
Her hand reached out, that tremble returned, and she didn’t think enough about her own actions before she threaded her fingers through his hair. Gentle yet determined to comb it, and she wished she had a brush. But she saw him tense, could feel his body go rigid, somehow more still than it usually was.
Her eyes flitted down to his face, and she noticed Michael’s cold eyes looking at her. Not empty, glaring holes through other beings, thoughtless. No, he was seeing her, assessing her because she had touched him, caressed him in a way she wasn’t supposed to.
She wanted to be kind to him, to do more than she already was. And it had gotten a reaction, even if something small.
Michael’s face had no expression, not even a flicker through his eyes that could hint at what he was feeling. Was he upset, was he angered that she touched him?
“I-I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have,” She made to pull away, heart thundering from her own stupidity, but her eyes widened in shock when a hand shot up and firmly grasped her wrist. A sound didn’t leave her—why didn’t she scream?
She stared unblinking at the thick, calloused fingers wrapped around her delicate hand, the size of his own dwarfing her wrist and overpowering it without any effort. He could’ve made it hurt, but she somehow knew he was holding back, preventing himself from harming her. It was gentle, even when she could feel the power thrumming right under his skin.
Some part of her thought he’d finally speak, but his lips remained pressed in a firm line, eyes boring into her. Then he tilted his head at her, slowly, reminding her of how a dog would when it was curious.
God, he moved. Moved more than he ever had in front of her.
He initiated touch.
This was a sign he wasn’t hopelessly catatonic. He was aware, very much so—a shiver trickled down her back, cold and hot all the same, knowing he was honed on her. Eating her alive, consuming her with those dark eyes.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, his hand on her tightly, she could feel his pulse thrum in time with hers. She inhaled a shaky breath, her voice coming out far smaller than she imagined, “Michael.”
He released her then, listening to his name weak and fearful out of her mouth, knowing what she wanted. Did he listen or was he merely offering her a sliver of mercy?
“Thank you,” She said, taking a step back, but not letting her gaze leave him for a moment. She jumped when the back of her knees hit something… the bed. She sighed, rubbing a hand on her forehead.
She can’t act like this in front of one of the patients, especially him. If any of the higher-ups knew she was displaying fear like this to him, they would replace her in an instant with a guard who absolutely wouldn’t do the necessary check-ups. Michael wouldn’t be cared for. No one else would do it but her.
So she turned back to her bag, grabbing her small flashlight. Her fingers shook against it, she stood like that for a beat too long, trying to school her face into a facade of calm. The caring, sweet person she tried to be, the act she desperately wanted the patients to see to feel some sort of comfort. Perhaps if she wasn’t so naive, she’d realize she was desperate to be the perfect prey.
She walked back to him, his eyes still trained on her, following her, taking in every step. And when one of her fingers gently went to his chin, pressing against it to have him tilt his head up, his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He did nothing else, just stared in that unnerving way she was somehow the first here to be subjected to.
But she kept her cool, or at least she thought she was even with how the light wasn’t quite as steady as it needed to be when she turned it on and flashed it over his eyes. She needed to do her job, she told herself, examining him. She wasn’t really, far too distracted by his attention.
She was quick, the light clicking off and her hand leaving him just as fast. She mindlessly checked a box off on her clipboard again, sparing another glance at him.
There were questions she was required to ask, but he’d never answer, so she didn’t bother, putting no answer for each one.
Her voice was quiet as she mumbled to herself, “Healthy weight, obviously, good physique. No signs of illness. You’re always quite healthy, Mister Myers.”
She was quick to put everything back into her bag, not keen on lingering like she always did, wanting to give some sort of company. No, she had a feeling it’d be best if she left today.
“Have a good night, Michael,” A whisper that felt laden off her tongue, and she slung her bag over her shoulder, clipboard held firmly in her hand.
She didn’t see as she left in her haste, his eyes followed her the entire way, his body craning silently to watch her until the door locked behind her.
A breath left her, heavy and full of conflicting emotions as she stood outside his room. It was a development Loomis would be thrilled to hear, but with his obsession over Michael, seeing him more like something to pick apart, she decided she’d keep her mouth shut. Even if it would only feed the attention, even if it put her in unknowing danger.