Fateful Legends Book One (Michael Myers x Reader)

Mine

Sometime during the night, you found yourself wide awake. You blinked at the wall, hoping that you could go back to sleep. Several minutes passed, but drowsiness did not come. A familiar itch attacked your arms and you scratched at the fresh bandages. You slid into a sitting position, looking down at the wraps. Not all of your arms were covered, and your fingers slid to the exposed flesh, feeling the scars of older cuts.

You remembered the first time you picked up a razor blade, the edge catching the light. It had taken you a while to gather courage enough to start the first cut, drawing the blade briskly across your arm. The instrument hadn't seemed to catch you for a good few seconds before the deep red welts of blood began to seep forth from the thin cut. It fascinated you, the pain didn't even follow for several minutes after the bleeding.

The endorphins took over, filling your head and sweeping away the misery. You looked back down from the memory, seeing that you had absentmindedly grabbed your switchblade from the bedside table and started slicing through your exposed skin. This was your control; this was all you could do in your life. No friends, no family, no excitement or happiness.... This was all you had. As you carved more lines in your arm, your mind drifted from your sorrows. For this activity was the only one that made you forget. It let you finally forget.

The knife began to carve deeper into your arm. It was no longer just cuts, but gouges and stabs. You were not afraid of pain, the blood, or the consequences. All you desired was the fading past and the rush of hormones that gave you elation. Your breath sped up and your center became warmer, almost a steady burn. The knife went deeper, deeper...

A bang from in front of you caused you to start from your daze, your eyes blearily looking up from the work of your blade and fingers. You heard the breathing before being able to make out the monstrous silhouette that now stood in the dim hallway light flooding into your bedroom. The amount of blood you had lost made you feel a bit woozy and you smirked, the knife still in your arm. The shape strode forward towards you, briskly and stiffly, and roughly grabbed both of your wrists.

You now knew it was Michael, although it was so hard to believe any of this was happening. After all, he had just appeared inside of your apartment earlier this very night, this infamous celebrity. He was close enough now that you could see his dark brown eyes, almost black, blinking underneath the edges of the mask. They were not looking at your face, but your arms, seeming to take in what you had done to yourself. Several moments of just this passed, Michael's breathing seeming to grow louder and louder. Finally, he released one of your arms and grasped the knife from you, yanking it out of your weakened grip with a grunt and throwing it to the floor, making a dull metallic thump.

The tip of the blade had caught you, scattering droplets of blood across you and the sheets. He turned back, dropping your other wrist, but still looking at the wounds. Fascinated, Michael propped one weak arm in his massive hand and used his free fingers to touch the flowing blood and flaps of flesh that remained on your mangled limb. You shook, the pain becoming more prevalent now, especially as the euphoria wore off. It became clear to you that you had been discovered in your greatest moment of weakness, exposed. Your last mode of control now gone.

Your body quivered, more of a shiver than anything else, and you felt warmth dripping from your eyes. You neither sobbed nor cried, but the tears were still there as you just watched Michael. He seemed to be satisfied with what he saw and he released you again, standing up straight to unzip the very top of his coveralls. Still, you observed without comment or reaction, just letting the moments unfold. He withdrew his kitchen knife, slowly, making sure that it reflected the hallway light, then began to stoop towards you again, a different sort of gleam in his eye. His breaths became more labored and ragged, and you could see his shoulders shivering from the force of them. The knife point turned towards you, drawing your eye. Surprisingly, it stopped just above the skin of your cheek, for only a moment. At last the cold, sharp metal made contact with your skin; uncomfortably sharp but not piercing the surface. He knew how to wield his weapon expertly.

The cool touch ran down your cheek, and you trembled, turning away uncomfortably. Michael stomped loudly and put the blade under your chin immediately, pressing and cutting a bit until you once again looked him in the eye. He kept you there, intensely staring into yours, trying to discern what you felt now. The knife moved again, down your neck, making the slightest of incisions in various places. You didn't know what to feel. You felt dead already.

He dropped the heavy piece of kitchenware onto your lap and wrapped one meaty hand about the front of your throat. Giving it a slight squeeze, you could see his eyes narrow in frustration. You now knew what this whole display had been. It had started out as a determination of if you were now worth killing, but then turned into something else. He was letting you know that you were his. Not in a sexual manner, but more like a piece of property. Your life was his to take, not yours, and he would do it when he wanted to; when he would receive pleasure from it. You were only to be hurt by him. The consequences of not following his silent demands would be... something that even you wouldn't find appealing. He would find a way. He would test every little thing that his sickened mind could think of.

His hand squeezed again, and your eyes closed obediently. You hung there like a rag-doll in his vice grip, air coming in ragged breaths. His free hand grabbed the knife from your lap and moved it carefully to the dresser before pushing you back, back down into the pillow. Moving over you, he let you go, coughs and gasps marking the opening of your airway. He stared as you slightly convulsed, but then he moved to the other side of your bed, laying down. Your breathing finally started to come more normally, and you didn't dare protest the man's presence here. Still, you didn't feel fear, merely contempt.

Turning over, you faced away from Michael, not wanting to stare into those dark and soulless eyes anymore. Your body curled into a ball and you finally started to cry, softly and quietly. The man next to you did not react to this, probably just amused that he got any sort of response out of you. Michael was all you had left now. He was in control of you. Your life was effectively out of your hands, misery and all. At least an hour of this passed before you managed any sleep at all.