love's the death of peace of mind // michael myers×reader

mine, mine.

ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴡɪʟʟ ᴡᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ɢᴏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ?
ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴅ
ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ᴄᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ᴡɪʟʟ ᴡᴇ ʙᴏᴛʜ ʙᴇ ꜱᴀᴛɪꜱꜰɪᴇᴅ?
ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱɴ'ᴛ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ'ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍɪɴᴅ

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You started low - but that's how it always goes.

Freshly finished your university, on top of your class with one of the best reviews written by your professors; they all seemed to like you, adore your empathy and the ability of thinking that so many people lacked in this world. You've always wanted to be a psychologist - there was a fascination in your mind, the need of understanding those twisted minds, helping them untwist, unveil. Since you were a little kid, you dreamt of working in a prison, or an asylum for that matter, just so you could take a closer look at all of those interesting cases. Your parents laughed it off, just some childish dreams - but you managed to turn them into reality.

You got the job you've always wanted - the interview went really well, people interviewing you were apparently entranced by your aura and personality. You smiled at them politely, just nodding along, barely able to sit in one place from all the emotions ripping you apart from the inside.

You started next week on Monday, coming to work with a positive attidute, bringing life into the cold, stone walls of the dull building. The asylum was home - rather, prison - to many dangerous criminals, lunatics and offenders, but to some poor, hurt souls that noone seemed to reach a hand out to as well - and those were your patients.

All of the people you talked with were calm - maybe because of the leather cuffs holding them in place, maybe despite them - and you found yourself so entranced with each unique story, each life they told you about. You listened to those that wanted to talk, and talked to those wanting to listen. It wasn't a hard task, a good icebreaker - and with the amount of recommendations they couldn't have you wash floors.

Or maybe they could, but the chronic understaffment of the facility made it so much easier to just let you take care of some of its patients.

During every single session you had there were people watching out for you, lurking behind the doors or listening in on the cameras - all for your safety, they said earlier, while showing you the place, we can never know what to expect of them. You said something about understanding the situation - still, it was quite an uncanny feeling to have someone somewhat present in the room except from you and the patient.

One time someone really did listen - one time, because you refused to believe anyone would really find you talking with a schizophrenic about their pet goldfish named Randy interesting enough to eavesdrop for such a long time. But doctor Loomis did listen. And as soon as the session ended, he greeted you, introduced himself and told you how impressed he was.

He took a liking to you, taking you under his wings. From what you observed in the enviornment, he was one of the most important figures here - so by extention, you were now much more respected. Some snarky, old nurses stopped their backhanded compliments, guards stopped giving you wry glances, because if doctor Loomis had seen something in you, you really were special.

For the next couple days, weeks you worked peacefully, enjoying each day of work more and more - you prefered it to staying at your home, with only the mirror to talk to. You stayed after hours sometimes, helping with organization, technical issues sometimes - hell, once you stayed to help clean up a puddle of blood blossoming on the floor because some inmate smashed their head into the wall and broke their nose.