Michael (devil_eyes) wrote in parabolical, @ 2008-04-22 19:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | michael myers, open, ryan anderson |
Who: Michael and OPEN to anybody who can deal with him.
What: Somebody doesn’t seem very friendly…
When: Sunset
Where: A random street, outside of a random building.
Rating: PG-13 for now
Birthdays… What were birthdays anyway? The day that you were born, a stupid reminder of nothing that you could remember: That’s what they were. They’d taken him to that familiar white room, had sat him down, had been kind enough to take the handcuffs off of him before stepping cautiously away, like he was a tiger that they had just let lose in the zoo, hoping with everything that they had that he would play nice and not bite. Deep down, they knew that he wouldn’t. They knew that he’d sit there like a good little prisoner and stare off into the distance, a comatose patient who had pulled back into himself years ago.
The hard backed chair was pulled out from the table for him and with the animation that one would expect from a zombie, he lowered himself and sat. A soft collision of shoes against the floor, and the air was stiff and stale, filled with the overbearing stench of lost hope and… nothing at all. He stared and they watched him over and over again, beckoning him with words, trying to get him to do something, anything, a tantrum would be most welcome. It would be loved. They would rejoice if he showed his rage, if he knocked over the table and snarled or attacked with fingers turned into claws.
They would rejoice because it would be something. It would be a feeling. And they wanted that most of all. They wanted him to feel.
Colorful wrapped presents were sat in front of him. He’d made no move to tear the paper away, no move to reach out and touch. Instead, he’d looked at the wall furthest away and when he glanced back for only a second, he saw something within his doctor’s eyes die, again. He did that. He was responsible and he didn’t care.
It had all happened yesterday. He was here now, on the streets of Los Angeles, in a place where he didn’t belong.
Something’s wrong with him.
He’s mad, don’t go near him.
What’s that on him? Is it…?
Blood. He was the lunatic of a boy with the ripped jeans and the white t-shirt splattered with the remains of dried blood, no longer the bright red that it had once been. The blood frightened them most of all, for it was a mystery. They didn’t know where it came from, who it had belonged to or if it was even human, if it was even blood at all. His disarrayed state made them wary and wide-eyed and when he looked them straight in the eye, he could nearly feel them shiver. They backed away from him, thinking it wise to give him room and not intrude onto his personal space.
And besides, he had a weapon. It wasn’t smart to approach a crazy person with a carving knife…
He needed to move. He couldn’t stand on that sidewalk forever.