Rest For the Wicked [Michael Myers x Reader]

Chapter 4

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."