Chapter Text
Part I — Fated
In his dreams, he's still a child. He's trapped. He can't move his arms or hands without meeting restrictions from the fraying leather straps locked around his wrists. His head is clear and his thoughts sharp, untainted by ‘insanity’.
Summoning every ounce of strength he possesses, he strains against skin-warmed leather to no avail. His back hurts, his coccyx rubbed raw from the friction of his squirming hips against starched polyester. Saliva pools at the back of his mouth, flooding the backs of her teeth until it spills over, leaking down his chin in long, sticky rivulets of spit.
He's alone. No staff. No sign of life other than the erratic pounding of his overworked heart. His eyes scan left to right, greeted by faded green curtains hung limp on chrome rings flaking burgundy and through the gap, he can see that those passing by pay him no attention at all.
As if he’d somehow ceased to exist.
The bleach-tinctured ward fades and the dream intensifies to the next level. The doors no longer open. There's no bright artificial light bleeding in from the hall. There's no handle and no way out. Four, asylum white padded walls and a grubby cushioned floor beneath his feet. Constrained in a jacket that smells like stale sweat, vomit and someone else's shit.
Michael's eyes slowly fluttered open, chasing away the last lingering memories of the dream that was seemingly impossible to shake. He was dimly aware of a dull ache in his bones and a slight throb behind his eyes as the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling slowly came into focus.
He rolled onto his side and the hard mattress bit into his hip but he'd become numb to the discomfort. He couldn't remember the last time he felt anything… there was only numbness and black-out rage.
Heavy eyes settled on the door to the room where he'd been imprisoned for as long as he could remember. Listened to the sounds of Smith's Grove Sanitarium drowsily rising as the sun peeked above the horizon, painting the sky in dawns pastel palette.
Sanitarium… that's what everyone liked to call this circle of hell. Asylum, that's what others less worried about offending would say.
Micheal inwardly scoffed.
Sanitarium or asylum, neither institution was befitting of the true meaning of the word. Michael didn't equate himself to someone philosophical in the slightest but Smith's Grove should have been a place of refuge, a safe, comforting port to weather the storm plaguing ailing minds.
It should have been a place of love and sanctuary. A place that welcomed you into arms that would hold you until your being was soothed, content to dwell in those frightening moments and be your anchor —the pillar holding you steadfast during your hurricane.
In reality, Smith's Grove was more of a house of torture that removed all hope of real love and nurture. The bare white-washed walls and faded linoleum were a reflection of what it truly was —an empty shell. A soul-sucking institution that took those in need of help and left them braindead drones. Hollow, propped-up pieces of wood with smiles painted with tranquilisers and pills that deadened brain receptors and projected mirages of contentment and happiness.
It was a place where any word spoken would be considered speech of insanity. Every physical action and facial twitch was scrutinised and every display of emotion was taken as a sure sign of imbalance.
The pills came like clockwork, as did the bland, unimaginative food. In this place of locked doors and barred windows time crawled by as the clock ticked out the minutes spent lost, sitting and staring from one peeling poster to another.
Michael no longer had rights. Not that he was under any illusions that he'd be deemed worthy of them after what he'd done. Nevertheless, it enraged him that he couldn't refuse the poison forced on him. Poisons that made his mind sluggish and his limbs heavy.
He felt like he'd been locked away for an eternity. Relating to the echoing sound of hysterical screams from those driven deeper into insanity by decades-long stints in this… man-made hell.
He wanted out. And, as the haze of last nights medications and the final remnants of slumber faded into the ether, he felt his gut clench in determination.
He wanted out.
Now.
Michael didn't know how he'd ended up back in Haddonfield. Everything was one big, crimson misty blur.
He remembered a sense of raging determination to break free of the cage he'd been imprisoned in. He remembered acknowledging that it was time for him to haul himself out of the drug-induced stupor and seek long-anticipated retribution.
He stared down at his hands, hands that he no longer recognised. His pale skin was stained ruby red. Beneath his nails and the creases of his palm painted black. His clothes were covered in patches of sticky black, dirt and vomit.
He wasn't even sure if the vomit was his.
He pulled his focus back to a police cruiser parked by the curb, it's brake lights glowing in the slow descending darkness like devil's eyes. He could feel the rage simmering in his gut, dark and twisted. The beast inside him wasn't sated yet.
It wanted more.
"Betrayal must be punished Michael..."
The voice inside him purred in his mind like an old friend, like it had always been there. Stroking his ego and bolstering his confidence.
He watched a young woman emerge from the back of the cruiser, her face blotchy. The car pulled away from the curb, rolling down the street with a lack of urgency.
"They desecrated the house Michael —your house!"
The beast growled and Michael felt the simmering rage within him bubble over.
The lights of the cruiser faded into the distance and Michael stepped out of the shadows.
The young woman froze, sensing the dark presence looming behind her. She spun on her heel to face him and her eyes widened in horror as she took in the blood matting his hair and staining his skin and clothes.
The woman screamed as he reached into the pocket of his coveralls to produce a blood crusted knife. He wasn't sure where or when he'd procured it, only that it was there now and it felt right in his hand.
Like it was meant to be there.
Another scream pierced his ears and the woman turned to flee down the street.
Michael cocked his head, studying her panicked escape with silent contemplation.
He liked the chase.
Her breath hitched around a sob. Her legs and lungs were burning from exertion, unused to working so hard for so long. The streets were deserted. There was no one around to hear her pleas for help and even if they did hear her, they wouldn't listen.
The residents of Haddonfield were used to teenagers running wild and faking murders on the run up to Halloween. And it was now that she was being hunted down by a very real threat that she realised how stupid it was.
She looked back over her shoulder, choking on a strangled scream when she found the knife-wielding stranger hot on her heels and gaining ground. The blank expression on his face chilled her to the bone while a mixture of fear and adrenaline had her legs pumping harder.
With her vision blurred by her tears, she soon found herself disorientated, her bearings completely off-kilter. Unable to stop to recanter, she found herself barrelling into the cemetery, zig-zagging through weather worn headstones and tripping on unearthed roots.
It had grown dark, the sky an inky black canvas dotted with glittering stars. There were no lights in the cemetery and she was pretty much running blind with only the silvery light of the moon to guide her through the maze of silent graves.
She kept her misty vision focused on the dirt path stretched out in front of her, not daring to look back again. She rounded a bend and saw the gates to the rear entrance of the cemetery in the near distance. However, her plan to bust out of the eerie grounds and back onto residential areas was thwarted when she found the gates locked.
The panicked teen shook the wrought iron with all her strength but of course it refused to budge. "Fuck!" She sobbed, whipping around to face the man striding towards her at inhuman speed.
Her fight or flight instincts went into overdrive and this time, rather than flight, it was fight that kicked in and she charged at him.
However, she was no match for the imposing wall of muscle and he simply tilted his head and threw her to the ground as if she weighed nothing, crying out in pain when she hit the rough gravel.
Stunned, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the man with nothing but dead rage in his eyes. She slowly sat up, her head spinning as the man stared down at her. She could have sworn she heard him emit a quiet scoff.
He beckoned to her, goading her to come after him again, staring down at her with those cold, dead eyes.
She shakily rose to her feet. Her palms stung from striking the gravel but it didn't stop her from scooping up the nearest rock to launch it at him. With little to no effort, he caught the rock in his free hand and she was forced to watch in abject horror as he pulverised it with his bare hand. Crushing it into nothing but a small pile of rubble that he tossed to the ground by his feet.
The man's strength was inhuman. She quickly realised that if he could do that to a rock, then he was wholly capable of doing the exact same thing to her bones. "Please don't hurt me…" she sobbed, breathing heavily.
The man kicked at the pile of stones with the toe of his boots, sending them flying toward her, each mini missile heading straight for her face. She avoided the onslaught of crushed stone by turning heel and fleeing back into the depths of the cemetery.
Nevertheless, she didn't get very far this time before she felt a heavy weight slam into her from behind, the impact knocking them both to the ground.
She screamed into the ether, flailing her arms and legs in a bid to slow down the inevitable when the man flipped her onto her back. "Please… you don't have to do this… Please… please don't—" she was silenced by the butt of his knife against her temple, the white-hot pain stealing her breath.
He straddled her sternum, the blade of his knife pressed against the thick, throbbing vein in her neck. Everything hurt. Her head was throbbing. Her muscles were cramping and aching from the buildup of lactic acid. "Plea—"
His hand clamped over her mouth as his head lowered. His breath was hot and heavy against her ear as he chuckled at the same time a sharp burst of pain lit her nerves on fire, her screams muffled by his palm.
She watched in wide-eyed horror when he raised his hand, the blade of his knife glinting in the moonlight —the knife now stained with her blood. The blood that she could feel seep and spurt from the gaping wound in her neck. The blood that she could taste. The blood that she choked on, gurgles and splutters of red in place of screams.
Michael stared down at his victim, watching the blood ooze in foamy, croaking bursts from the corner of her mouth.
A rush of white hot rage blossomed in his chest and he raised his hand to drive the blade of his knife into her sluggish heart without mercy… over and over again.