Michael Myers: Final Girl

Sorry Seems To Be The Hardest Word

The nurse's mouth moved, but to her no sound was coming out. She had heard enough. The baby was gone. She felt such shame thinking back on all her thoughts before, how so few of them were happy. That little soul didn't deserve that. She knew it wasn't her fault, but the guilt she felt tried hard to convince her otherwise. If she had run from him none of this would be happening.

They told her the only explanation they could offer was that she seemed to have an infection, one only a partner could give her. She knew all along he wasn't just fucking her. She knew there were others, but she had never wanted to accept that truth. It was too painful. But hearing this made her blood boil.

"Just say it, please. I need to hear it," she stopped the nurse who was dancing around the cold truth.

"Ma'am, the only way he could have given this kind of infection to you if he slept with someone else who has it. I'm sorry," the nurse said with a look of pity.

She sat there replaying those words in her head, accepting it and the rage that came along. She had been so faithful, even when maybe she shouldn't have been. All those nights alone, all the things he said to her, the lies fell like bricks on her. And she knew it wasn't just the infection that killed her baby, she knew it was his own hands too. All those times he pushed her, threw her, strangled her, using his own drunkenness as an excuse. Or blaming her. It was never her fault. All that blood wasn't on her hands, though she mourned as if it was. There was so much blood.

She took her pills and exited the hospital alone, as always. She just walked and walked. She didn't care how far she went. She kept thinking of all the blood and him. And for the first time, she let herself blame him. There were no excuses this time. She had a clear picture of him in her mind, his smug expression wiped clean. She wanted to see all the fear she had ever felt in his eyes. She wanted him to fear her and he would.

She realized she had stopped walking. She had been standing in place in front of that house again. She must have been there for quite sometime, it was dark outside. She let herself in once again. She could feel he wasn't there, so she sat on the rotting stairs to wait. She wanted to see him. She needed to tell someone everything. And he owed her that. He wouldn't give her what she had asked for, he wouldn't give her death. So he would listen.

Michael came home to find her sitting silently at the bottom of the stairs. She looked worse off than she had weeks ago and he could feel her silent rage. It was something she had never emanated before. There was a long silence between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, but he knew there was something on her mind.

"I was pregnant," she said abruptly.

He winced underneath his mask. The thought of him reproducing was almost a vile as the thought of his body joined with hers, but he could feel her pain nonetheless.

"I was," she repeated.

He hurt for her, he wasn't fully capable of understanding, but he knew there was an unfathomable amount of grief inside this woman. It wasn't just the loss, there was more than that. All the strength it took for her to stay in that house with that man was drained. She had given so much of her life force to a lost cause and this was the result. She was broken. He silently mourned the woman he once knew from afar, her happiness had been stolen from her. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to beg for her forgiveness for not intervening and preventing her from experiencing all this pain. This whole time she hadn't even been afraid of him. He could have protected her.

"It's not your fault," she said, seemingly reading his mind.

"It's mine."

He quickly moved closer to her, she didn't even flinch. As badly as he wanted to touch her, he wouldn't allow himself. The thought of her blaming herself for this troubled him. He wanted to force her to take it back.

"I should have listened. People tried to make me see you know," she said, her lips curving into a small smile as she spoke, but tears were lingering those (e/c) eyes, "I was so sure he loved me. I was so sure. But this isn't love. It can't be, right?"

She looked to him for an answer. His head was screaming at each word.

"It can't be. How do you do that to someone you love? Someone who gave everything for you," she pulled out the pills she had been given.

She pondered all the choices she had made before as she looked at them, "You know, I've only ever been with him. I waited until we were married too. Oh he hated that."

So did Michael. 

Her grip tightened on the little bottle as she remembered her former self. How unfair it was that this was happening. 

"My whole life I played by every rule. I was such a goody-two-shoes," she let out a humorless laugh, "this is what I get. What was the point?"

He lunged forward and grabbed the neck of her shirt, pulling her upwards. He couldn't stand to hear her regret her innocence. It was something he had always cherished about her, and he wouldn't accept that that monster had made her question it. He searched her eyes for it desperately, he needed to see that she was still in there. The thought that the world would tarnish the one thing he cared about was killing him. He released his grip as that last thought sunk in, but stood where he was. This new realization was almost terrifying to him. All those confusing feelings, the pit in his stomach when he watched her cry and the way he couldn't seem to stay away from her, that strange desire he had. It all started to make sense. He cared.

"Michael," she said softly.

The sound of his name dripping from her lips was something he had no idea he craved so badly.

"Show me how to do it."

He tilted his head in question.

"Show me how to kill him."