Cultivation of Evil | Hannibal Films X Halloween

Therapy

"Michael. . .?"

Peter Myers lifted the clown mask from his sons face, not entirely able to process what he's seeing.

His wife, Edith Myers takes a step back with her hands in her pockets.

Before the couple was their six year old son, Michael Myers, brandishing a bloody knife with a far away look in his eyes.

* 5 Years Later *

"I really don't know what else to say, michael. Christ, you haven't said a word for five years."

Michael Myers sat in a white room. Empty aside from the table and chairs in the centre. He was restrained to his own chair.

"That's almost as long as...my first marriage. Its strange, you've almost become like, my best friend."

Across from him sat one doctor Samuel Loomis. A psychiatrist who worked at Smith's Grove Sanitorium.

"Huh, just shows you how fucked up my life is."

As always, the eleven year old boy was mute and blank. His hair overgrown over his face, though you could still see his blank, far away eyes. Looking right through you.

You had to stand where his eyes looked as they would not follow you. At least not during conversation or in proximity.

"I've done all I possibly can for you. So, I'm sorry to tell you that, this is going to be my last day. Michael, I have to move on."

Loomis paused to see if this could bring a reaction out of Michael. He waited. And waited.

"I'm sorry."

With that, he stood to his feet and walked away, the guard at the door unlocking it for Loomis to leave.

He stopped in the doorway.

"Take care, Michael. Take care."

Michael turned his head to watch him, his eyes remained distant.

He watched from a window as Loomis retreated from hospital grounds.

* 1 Year Later *

"These eyes will decieve you. They will destroy you. They will take from you, your innocence. Your pride and eventually your soul."

Michael Myers, now twelve years old sat across from his new therapist. This man read from a book. He had a sly, knowing smile and sat relaxed opposite Michael, one leg crossed over the other.

On the cover was an image of a ten year old Michael, staring at the camera.

"Behind these eyes one finds only blackness. The absence of light. These are the eyes..."

The man paused and looked up from the book at Michael, making eye contact.

"Of a psychopath."

He put the book down, intentionally leaving it face up for Michael to see the image on the cover. He stood and began to slowly walk around the room,

"Michael, how did hearing that make you feel? Did it ignite your thirst for blood? Did it make you want to tear him limb from limb? Tear me limb from limb?"

"Still quiet. That's okay, Michael. Some people just need to listen."

The guard by the door shifted uncomfortably. He didn't understand this doctor.

It was as if he was fearless. Both doctor Lecter and Michael Myers had a certain air about them. Different yet the same.

"I'd like to know how you feel when you kill. What went through your mind and body as you killed your sister while she was all but naked? The smell of sex lingering in the air."

He was painting a surreal picture. The guard was beginning to feel nauseous.

"You don't have to answer me, Michael. Your eyes are more honest than the words spoken by even the most truthfull amongst us."

He had been walking around the table, he stood behind Michael as he asked his question and had now made his way to the starting point. He leaned over his chair, his palms flat on the table.

Once more he made eye contact.

"Did it feel good to take her life? It must feel good to God, he does it all the time. Why, just two weeks ago in Texas, he dropped a church roof on thirty four of his worshippers while they sang a hymm."

"How do you think he felt, Michael? Satisfied? Vindicated? Powerful?"

He must have seen something in Michael's eyes as he smiled deeper and his eyes narrowed.

"Yes, Michael. Powerful. That's how you felt isn't it? And why shouldn't you, Michael? For are we not created in his image?"