and i'm still not fully satisfied

Bring me a hero, and I will show you 
a damned angel:
Lucifer turned not monstrous but pitiful:
     a seraph robbed of their wings
     a demigod deprived of ambrosia
     a favoured son cast aside and exiled.
The world is so quick to turn its back upon those that saved it
     but your saviour is still handcuffed to the sword and the shield.
Bring me a hero, and I will show you
a tired soldier:
the prodigal son who wasted a fortune he didn’t know he had
   the splendor of innocence, the invulnerability of youth,
and no longer knows how to walk back across burned bridges
to greener pastures where respite awaits with beckoning arms.
Bring me a hero, and I will show you
a frightened child:
a boy dragged from back alley fistfights into battlefields, 
a girl who had to learn to wear blood like lipstick and nail polish.
a lost soul, no more than ten or twenty,
     a sweet little thing, still recoiling yet from the horror of it all
     a pleading child, still screaming with terror and desperation
a mere kid who was never granted the time to grow up.
—  there are no heroes in a world where heroes can’t die ( j.p. ) || insp. 

lastofherkind00  asked:

Can you do a one-shot in which Michael finds out his s/o has been doing research about the eventuall illness Michael's suffering from? ( *fingerguns* because I saw you're also not really digginh that 'pure evil' shit! )

*falls off of chair because senpai noticed me* O-of course! *tries to play it cool but failing miserably* (Eventual?? Not sure what you mean exactly…)

He was looking at the scenery of the autumn leaves falling from one of the many dusty and cracked windows of his domain. He likes looking out from the window. It allows him to feel a sort of comfort to look out and see life play out before him, but most importantly to think. When he was first admitted to Smith’s Grove, his six-year old self passed the hours in front of the clean and crisp window of his room consumed in thought about everything. His parents, Judith, his baby sister, and memories of his brief life beyond the white prison cell. By the time he was ten, he remembered nothing of the life he once had. All he knew was emptiness. White. The doctors, the nurses, the lies they fed him, and the room. Still, he continued to look out from that window and think. Planning. Until one day, Loomis came in and told him that he’s going to be moved into a different room. A better room he said. Michael noticed the lack of a window in this “better” room.

There he stayed until the day he broke out.

The staff at Smith’s Grove had long given up on Michael. Loomis took the longest for the fire within him to die, but like a candle it did. Eight years of trying to reach Michael had lost its purpose. When Loomis first received Michael as his patient, he was beyond astonished that such a young child would commit a heinous crime like murder. Nonetheless, Loomis was hopeful that he would be able to understand and help this young boy. Weeks turned into months and Loomis had made no progress. Michael was unresponsive, barely moved or even blinked no matter what Loomis said, did, or show. Still, Loomis did not back down. Soon those months became years. In those years, Loomis’ motivation had began to slowly weaken, but one thing had kept him going.

The realization that Michael is simply evil.

From the countless hours spent with him, it was the only reason Loomis found that answered the question of why a six-year old boy would kill his older sister for no explanation.

He had spoken to Michael’s parents a few times before their deaths to gain insight on Michael’s home life. Any sort of clue that can help him understand the enigma that was Michael Audrey Myers. From what the parents told him, Michael didn’t have any problems at home beyond the typical sibling-rivalry between him and his older sister, Judith. They even went to say that he was a cheerful, normal boy at home. Instead of getting answers, this just made more questions. How would a normal, happy child suddenly have the urge to commit murder? Was Michael playing a façade in front of his family to hide his true urges? Did something cause a trigger within Michael for him to kill? Endless streams of questions that will never have a definitive answer.

It was when he gotten a good look into those eyes did he realize that there was nothing inside, but evil. He tried to tell the other doctors to the court that there is something more within Michael, but they completely disregarded him. Saying that Michael was a catatonic.

Loomis knew better.

He knew Michael was playing an act to let everyone keep their guards down before it’s too late. Loomis let this idea of evil taking on a human form convince him that it’s the only answer. From that moment onwards, Loomis began to refer to Michael as an ‘It’, had the guards strap him down to his bed, and had the Thorazine provided daily in larger doses. He wanted to make sure that nothing will ever happen. For a while, everything seemed fine. Until that one day. The day that changed everything.

He remembers how exhilarating it was when he got up to his feet and moved around. His muscles stiff and sore from years of barely moving an inch. The rage that has burned for years consumed him like a hellish pit. He took his anger out on the room.

The so called better room.

The bed was flung across the room, the blankets and pillows scattered and torn apart, the wall bared a deep gash, and the dresser that was once next to his bed was now mere chunks of wood on the floor. He took a chunk of wood and carved upon his door. ‘Sister’ was written crudely upon it, like a child’s. He broke the doorknob and walked calmly down the hall, releasing the other patients as means of distraction and to waste time for the staff. That was the day. The day he planned for years. The day he goes home. But most importantly, the day to relive that night from years ago.

Michael turned his attention away from the window and onto the mostly empty living room. Most of the furniture in the house has either been stolen or aged poorly. All that remained of the living room were some old paintings upon the walls, a worn out lamp, the fireplace, and a wooden rocking chair in the corner. Michael made his way towards the stairs, each step letting out a small scream under his weight. He continued through the claustrophobic hallway until he reached the door to where you dwelled. With absolute silence, he opened the door to find you seated at your desk with eyes buried onto the pages of a book in your grasp. He saw more books piled onto the desk and papers scattered on top of them. Like a shadow, he drifted behind you and watched with intrigue.

Your eyes were starting to get heavy from the lack of blinking. You didn’t notice the looming shape behind you as you turned the page of the book in your hand. You’ve been with Michael for a couple of months now with just the two of you in his old childhood home. At first, you were simply just another body to him and you wouldn’t lie if you said that you were absolutely terrified of him at that moment. Somehow, you managed to talk your way out of getting a knife to any part of your body and for whatever reason he just left you.

That didn’t mean you’ve seen the last of him.

After that, you noticed him from the corner of your eyes or even in full front view from you walking from the store to your own house. One day you came home to find him there, seemingly waiting for you. He wasted no time to grab you and put his knife against your throat. You tried to speak to him once more. Your voice gentle and calm as it can be with a knife about to slit your throat. You didn’t know exactly what made him pull the knife away. Your voice? The words you said? Speaking to him like a person? Whatever it was you were eternally grateful.

Ever since then, there’s not a single moment without him in your view. Slowly you built an attraction to him and he seemed to as well with you. That’s not to say that it wasn’t awkward or confusing. Michael’s lack of social skills or understanding certainly made things more complicated than it already was. Eventually, it seemed that Michael wanted it to be more convenient and less risk of him getting caught by the both of you by moving in to his old home. Naturally, you weren’t so keen about living in a decrepit house with the possibility of roaches and rats everywhere, but you didn’t have much of a choice. Though as time went on you’ve gotten pretty used to the house, including the occasional rat or roach.

You felt a hand rest upon shoulder and knew exactly who it was. You turn around to meet his gaze “Oh hello Michael.” you gave a warm smile to him as you wait for a response. He looked at the book in your hand then to the mess on the desk and tilted his head in questioning. “Oh all this? I’m just…doing some research…” You didn’t know how to tell Michael that your doing research on mental illnesses. Specifically, to better understand him and to possibly find out what he is suffering from.

A couple of days ago, You went out and bought plenty of books about Psychology and mental illnesses since there’s no computer or Internet at the house. You didn’t like Samuel Loomis. You wouldn’t dare call him a doctor for what he had done to Michael. Instead of actually helping him, he just let him rot away for fithteen years and treated him like he was some demon, all the while claiming that Michael was “pure evil”. So, your taking it upon yourself to try to give Michael the help that he needs.

He didn’t seem to be satisfied with the answer and kept his focus on the books and papers, wanting more information. You sighed as you gave in. “Ok I’m doing some research on mental illnesses…so that I can understand you and give you the help you need.” A small bit of anger grew within you at the mere thought of Loomis. “Loomis certainly didn’t give you that help did he?” You look to him for his response on this whole thing. You aren’t sure what to expect. Nothing? Anger? Confusion?

You truly don’t know with Michael Myers.

He just stood there, but you noticed his fist clenching tightly. Was he thinking about Loomis? His time at the Sanitarium? Honestly, you wish that he could speak so much so that you didn’t have to make crude guesses on what his thoughts consisted of. You were about to explain and show him your papers when he pulled you up from your seat to his tall frame and tilted your head to meet his gaze. Most of the time you can barely see his eyes from the mask, but now you have a good view of them. A dark deep brown, almost black they were. You saw something within his eyes, something you’ve never seen before.


He placed his calloused hand upon your cheek and continued to stare into your soul. You didn’t know how you feel. A strange combination of happiness and shock. You touched the hand on your cheek like a feather and then brought yourself closer to his body with a hug. “Your welcome Michael…” You said though a bit muffled from your face buried into his chest. You felt his arms wrap around you and pulled you even closer.

It was just the two of you alone in your own world.