Michael Myers: Final Girl

Stuck In The Middle With You

She was finally looking right at him. Though he knew she could barely see his eyes through the dark holes of the mask, he felt her gaze locked into his. The one word she spoke echoed throughout his mind, making him question if she had indeed spoken at all or if his mind was playing tricks on him. For the first time in his life he, the Shape, felt vulnerable. She was in his home, face to face with him. Years of watching, waiting, trying to forget her only to have her right here. But why was she here?

She looked tired, her eyes were missing that gleam they used to possess. Her face, still beautiful, was somewhat gaunt. She hadn't been cared for properly, that much was clear. Most of all she looked sad. It wasn't apparent at first glance, but when he really focused on her gaze, it was there. Hidden, like so many other things inside her. The way she looked at him unnerved him. She wanted something. Something he wasn't sure he could give her.

She took a few slow steps towards him, causing him to tense up. She took note of his fist clenching tighter around the knife's handle, causing his skin to strain against his knuckles. It didn't scare her, she pressed on. Heat began to radiate between them as she closed the gap. The only thing she could hear aside from his increasingly heavy breathing was her own quickening pulse. The space between them dwindled, she was mere inches away from his towering figure. His head moved slowly, lowering so that his eyes never left her, it was the only movement he made. The rest of his body was deadly still as she craned her neck up to meet his eyes. She could practically feel his breath on her now.

Michael began to feel afraid of himself. He didn't want to harm her, but he had never felt so many different things before and he was scared he might. It was overwhelming to him. And she was so close. He watched her hand glide almost in slow motion to his face.

Her fingertips had barely made contact with the rubber of the mask before one hand grabbed her shoulder and pushed her against the dusty wall. His hand wanted badly to be around her neck but he restrained himself, gluing it to the wooden panels beside her head. She had squeezed her eyes shut, it was always her first reaction before she got hurt, but he didn't move. Her chest heaved up and down as she began to cry.

"Please," she began, "just do it."

Michael tilted his head, genuinely confused at her words. Her eyes began to open and he saw that same wanting look from before. She tilted her head back, exposing her bare neck to him, determined, but unable to keep her breath from shaking. He started to understand her meaning. He began to feel so much anger bubbling inside of him. He quickly brought his blade up to her throat and let it rest against her skin. His eyes lustfully watching as he pressed it tighter against her, just enough to draw a drop of her blood.

Her eyes fluttered up to meet his. She noticed the slightest hint of hesitation in them, it frustrated her.

"Do it!" She yelled, her hand reaching up to force his down more.

But he was unmovable. He yanked the knife away from her and turned his head. He couldn't kill her, no he wouldn't kill her. He refused to.

He could here her sobs as she slid down the wall to rest on the floor. Comfort was something completely out of his element, so all he could do was watch. He felt weaker than ever as he she broke down, unable to offer her some sort of relief.

"I can't do it myself, I'm too afraid," she said through her tears, "but I want this to end. I want my life to end and I don't want him to be the one to end it. Please," she pleaded.

She could see that he knew exactly who she was talking about. The mere mention of him almost made him shake with rage. He knew he was to blame for the tears staining the floor beneath her, for the way she begged for death. No, Michael wouldn't take her life, but neither would he.

It was hard to tell what exactly was going on under his mask, but she could see he was grappling with something. His head was down, he couldn't look at her anymore, and his knuckles still bright white as he gripped his blade. She knew she wasn't going to convince him, though she was baffled as to why. He was clearly covered in what looked to be other people's blood, yet he wouldn't spill her's? She began to wonder who exactly her mysterious stalker was. Or guardian, whatever he fancied calling himself. She started to feel calm again as she watched him. His eyes began to wander back to hers, his grip on his blade loosened. She could just barely see his eyes under the mask, but the way he looked at her seemed pained, like he hated seeing her this way. She didn't know how long he'd been watching her, but he clearly knew enough to know why she was hurting. She saw that whole story in his eyes and she saw the hatred he had not for her, but for him. The reason she longed for death.

"Who are you?" She asked sternly.

Nothing. She began to stand up again, moving closer, but allowing him enough space this time. His body seemed more at ease, but she didn't want to risk touching him again, not too soon. She wasn't afraid of him, but she could feel his hesitation towards her.

"Who are you?" She said again, softer this time.

He stared through the mask, more conflicted with himself than he ever had been. He wanted badly to say something but he hadn't spoken for so long he couldn't will himself to do it. He could physically do it, but after so many years, forming words felt like a daunting task. It was something he had never had the need for. He never wanted to speak to someone like he did at this moment.

He tried to find a way to tell her. His eyes scanned the room until he found an old picture. It was of him and his parents when he was a boy. She followed his gaze and luckily caught what he was looking at. She walked over and picked up the dusty frame to study the faded photo. She gently rubbed her thumb to remove the dust from the boy's face. He had the same eyes as the man behind the mask.

"This is you," she said confidently.

He only looked back at her, feeling afraid she might be scared now that she knew the truth.

All the stories she had heard as a child about the boy, his family and this house came back to her. The Myers. It was him.

"Michael Myers."