I see you shackled in the yard of the secure hospital, your head raised, your dead eye staring into the distance. I hear the crows circling overhead, their croaks calling your name, black things wheeling in the sky, heralding death. It’s nearly time, isn’t it? You’ve waited so patiently – so very patiently – and soon the time will be nigh once again. It’s been years since you donned the mask, years since you quenched your indomitable bloodlust. You’ve greyed around the edges but your heart has never changed and now? Now a journalist arrives, your mask clutched in his arrogant hand, thinking he understands anything about your terrible motives.
I see the prison bus on its side, Michael Myers, the driver’s head dashed open against the floor. I see the wheels spinning in the night air, headlights catching the drifts of mist rolling off the damp earth. I see the guard lifted bodily into the air, your shackles wrapped around his throat as he claws at your face.
I see the trail of blood at the gas station, the journalist and his aide beaten to death in the filthy toilet stalls, teeth scattered all over the tiles. I see boot of their car open and I hear you breathing as your hand closes around the rubber of the mask. It’s cracked and faded, Michael Myers, but it’s still an extension of your soul. I see your face plastered all over the news even as you walk unseen among the carnival of the night, your knife glinting under the streetlights. I hear the children laughing as they wheel around you, plastic jack-o-lanterns stuffed with candy swinging. This is your night, isn’t it? There’s only ever one place you’ll go.
I see Laurie Strode barricaded in her fortress, chambering rounds, checking traps. I see her finger trembling over the trigger as she watches the street outside, gasping as you appear, a stoic herald of death. I see her aim, Michael Myers, never quite pulling the trigger.
I see you walk on by, never even looking up, mechanical in movement and as lifeless as your victims. It’s not her, is it? After all these years, it’s not her. Not this Halloween. There is another who was promised.
I see your work boots splashing through puddles on the pavement, your steps picking up speed as the thought of violence sends electricity firing through your nerves. I see the crest of the mudbank up ahead, your breath becoming deeper, anxious for bloodshed. I see your knife glinting as you raise it into the night, stepping up over the dirt to claim your prize.
I see the empty ditch, Michael Myers, the rain pooling in its bottom, not a footprint or blonde hair to be found.
I see your shoulders heaving as you look around, your eyes fixing on a point far away in the distance.
I see the blonde dot of hair bobbing up and down under the streetlights, disappearing into the distance, fading into the gloom of the night.
He promised he’d die here, didn’t he, Michael Myers? He swore he’d die in this ditch. It’s been forty fucking years of extensions to your sentence and now the lying bastard is nowhere to be seen.
Honestly, you just can’t trust anyone these days.
I see you, Michael Myers. I fucking see you.
