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hysteriium · 5 years

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Karma’s a Bitch; {1}

// Deal With the Devil //

Steady hands met with the flesh of a tense bicep. An arm you knew by now would never relax despite your genuine reassurances.

With one scarred, blind eye and the other distant, refusing to look at you, it was always difficult to tell if he was in the present moment; aware. Or, if the infamous man was miles away, thinking — perhaps about what he’d do to you now if you messed up.

Though, maybe that was your anxiety talking.

Michael definitely wasn’t the nicest patient, there had been plenty of incidents over the years. Fatal ones. Yet, much to doctor Sartain’s persistence, Michael remained in the facility. It wasn’t ethical, but hey, you needed to get paid and so you tried your best to please everyone. Do your job for your boss, Sartain, and take care of Michael, since you were the only nurse who he allowed near him.

You wouldn’t say Michael trusted you. You figured he was quite unacquainted with the notion, yet you knew that he at least tolerated you. Seeming as you hadn’t been slammed against the wall, your brains splattering and contrasting against the blinding whiteness that coated the entire facility, this was a clear fact. A morbid, gory masterpiece that would almost belong in a museum; its message loud and clear.

With a gentle hum, you wrapped the measuring instrument around his arm. It wasn’t a daily process, but one that had to be performed every so often. It was a strict regulation with patients, especially with precious Michael (as your boss would so kindly emphasise), to ensure each patient was fit and healthy.

As you sat across from him, your gentle humming signified your distance from present-tense, your mind flickering elsewhere — dangerous. As your movements went into automation, you were too dazed to notice Michael slowly moving his head towards you; expression vacant, with no evidence of a human being residing within the flesh. It was only after completing the small task of writing down Michael’s scores when you stopped. Michael’s comparatively larger hand had halted you, your pen falling to the ground in a series of taps. It was a firm grip; you could never envision the man being gentle. It was a hold that signified if you made it difficult, there’d be no hesitation in ending your pathetic, significantly weaker, life.

Steady heartbeats morphed into that of panic, a hammering stampede. Taking in the new bits of information, you looked down at the man sitting before you, his gaze spilling into your own with such intensity it was hard to keep your eyes from saccading away. It had the capacity to turn even the hardest men into stone, like that of the great gorgon, Medusa. A flame lay within those dead eyes, ones that harboured the burning desire to kill.

“M-Michael?” Your voice came out as a pained whimper, and if he hadn’t had any indication you were bat shit terrified before, (which you doubted), he sure as hell knew now.

He could smell fear from a mile away.

His grip tightened at the sound of your small voice, the pullback of his arm forcing you closer to him with your faces mere inches apart. The action forced your eyes shut, and you felt your face involuntarily scrunch up in fear as you waited for impending doom. The atmosphere was suffocating, your body hot and tingling with adrenaline as the laboured breathing of your former patient, and soon to be murderer, triumphed. Its flow tickled the base of your neck, strands of your hair softly swaying against his harsh respire.

When you mustered enough courage to look, with the seconds speedily turning into minutes, you opened one glassy eye, tears pricking at the corners and threatening to spill. You weren’t sure which was more horrifying; getting hurt — and perhaps murdered by Michael — or the absence of pain that virtually seemed impossible to associate with the infamous man.

Then, as unexpected as it was abrupt, his strong hand released you.

Curious beyond articulation as to what the fuck happened, you didn’t need to be assaulted twice to know when to scramble out of there. Speedily you exited. Shaking hands collected your equipment before locking his cell. With no interest to look behind you, into the small window his cell had, you failed to witness his gaze still upon you, remaining that way until you completely vanished from view.

But, although you couldn’t see it, you sure as hell felt it.

——————

It had been days, perhaps a couple of weeks, since the incident and you hadn’t been back to see Michael. Despite your bosses protests and his covert empty threats, he was unable to get you back to your regular routine. Treating regular, less murderous patients was now your daily experience, and to be honest, you were much happier.

Living was currently an attractive state of being to you, so you were trying your best to avoid anything that could potentially endanger that. With Michael being the angel of death, it was obvious you would avoid him at all costs.

As for Michael, ever since the incident, he had been attacking the new nurses sent to him (attacks that hadn’t resulted in deaths, yet), or remained as uncooperative as possible. You’d be on shift, minding your own business until the piercing shrieks and cries of Michael’s next victim filled your ears. After awhile it became routine, and you instantly knew where the source was. You’d often see nurses with bruisings on their body, arms, legs, cuts from where he dug in his nails — and most commonly, bruising around the neck. It was particularly heartbreaking, especially since you had been one of the lucky ones; to put up with Michael for such a long time and to be able to continue on your day without an incident was a luxury. You weren’t entirely sure why that was the case. Either way, it didn’t stop the injured nurses' filthy looks whenever another staff member was assaulted, as if you had something to do with it; as if you had some kind of hold over Michael.

No one could control Michael, he was his own person.

Perhaps the violence was his silent protest to get you to return, you weren’t sure and you didn’t want to know. What you did know, however, was that Michael’s poor behaviour only worked to exacerbate the doctor's desperate pleas to return to Michael. He didn’t want the state to get any ideas, and he wanted to keep Michael in his clutches for as long as he possibly could. It was his primary objective, as he had once so nicely conceptualised. Sartain, someone you’d describe as a borderline madman, was still convinced he’d get groundbreaking research from Michael.

Delusional.

You were in one of the equipment rooms, ready to attend to another patient when Sartain strode in, his long lab coat floating in behind him. He made his way to you in long strides, eyes hard and focused with determination, peering into your own like an owl on cocaine.

Without even hearing him speak, you knew what this was about.

“No—“

“Hear me out, (Y/n)!”

“I’m not doing it—“

“He’s attacked another one miss (L/n). They’re transporting him in a few days and I need to know this won’t end up in failure. I need you there.”

You froze, biting your lip in thought, the bitter, metallic taste of blood only seemed fitting as you crossed your arms, contemplating the pros and cons.

The doctor not receiving an answer, interpreted your silence as a small victory, choosing to elaborate.

“He’ll be incredibly secured, chained up and driven in one of our busses. Nothing will go wrong, I can assure you that.”

You definitely needed a chance to think about it. Were you really going to endanger the lives of others just for your own comfort? It was a difficult decision that needed careful thought.

“I’ll be raising your pay, and it’ll be the last time you get to see Michael.”

Nevermind.

“Resorted to bribing now, sir?” You finally spoke up, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He shot you a playful smile, “so I’ll take that as a yes?”

Releasing a sigh, you slowly nod your head, barely believing what you were agreeing too.

“Okay, yes. Only if you’re certain it’s safe.”

“Utterly, and completely.”

As his smirk widened, happy at his win, you couldn’t help but feel like you were making a deal with the devil. A deal you felt you’d totally, and wholey, regret.

If only you knew how right you were.

Hey guys! This is my first three-shot / miniseries? Idk what to call it lmao. But I hope you enjoy! I'm really happy with how some of it turned out, I hope my characterisation of Michael is somewhat realistic. I don't particularly believe the narrative that he's completely unfeeling and further, incapable of feeling. I certainly do think due to the environment he grew up in (in the sanitarium), he was unable to really express and develop said emotions. With the added mixture of Loomis, and his psychobabble (he really needs his licence revoked), I really don't think that helped him lmao and this obviously added to the myth of 'The Shape'. Although Michael's emotions would be hard to access and even draw out in the first place, I still think it's possible that he'd feel some sort of affections for someone? It'll be very hard though. I also believe if he were to start feeling things for someone, he'd definitely be very confused, and it would lead to a lot of emotional outbursts, particularly anger - rage even - because of how unfamiliar it is; also due to how anger and rage are so "normal" for lack of a better word, he'd try his hardest to regress/revert back to some sense of familiarity. Though like how it is for most, repression of emotions really doesn't work, and this would thereby manifest itself as intense bouts of possessiveness and jealousy. Idk that's just my opinion and my own interpretation, I could be really fucking wrong lmao but I guess that's the beauty of writing. Anyway, Jesus, I'm rambling, I'll be surprised if anyone even reads this lmao. Thank you for reading if you did, I love you and I hope you enjoy!

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