For allbingo
Sep. 10th, 2019 09:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyofleithianTitle: The Winter In His Heart
Summary: An icy heart does have its uses, especially for someone who, once, wanted to be enough.
Prompt: Ice
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: Hot take: the 2007 Halloween remake actually had some good ideas that weren’t allowed to flourish because of not knowing how much to stick the source material vs. doing one’s own thing. (And it had some bad ideas. It’s a film that is genuinely lopsided, but not without its better moments) Also, Loomis’ characterization is a tad inconsistent in the remake, so I’m going with what I have.
After he had ultimately retired as Michael’s doctor, it wasn’t like the images of the broken Myers family necessarily left his head.
Even back in his home, looking over his notes, Samuel Loomis knew that he had to write something about this. The public no doubt wanted answers. Not to mention that it was like even though he was away from Michael, away from Smith’s Grove, it didn’t necessarily mean that the boy didn’t still stay with him. There had been ruthlessness and cruelty in him. Loomis would be a fool to deny that. How casually he had lied about murdering his sister, her boyfriend, and Michael’s stepfather, even as the news said otherwise. Killing Nurse Wynn for insulting him. Things like that.
But there had been moments in Michael where he could have been a normal boy. Was he once? Was that boy trapped somewhere, inside masks and lies and a chirpy voice that seemed to bely everything he’d done? Deborah — and it hurt thinking about her — had said that Michael had been a sweet boy, once upon a time. That Judith, even, had been a sweet girl who’d idolized her biological father — before the stepfather had intruded in their lives. Somehow, it was hard to picture. And yet...
Loomis sighed. Honestly, he didn’t know what to write, in a way. He was a writer, yes. But even there, he couldn’t say anything. About how though nothing but Angel Myers lived in Michael’s heart, Michael still lived there, in Loomis’.
My best friend. That was what Loomis had said Michael was like. A surrogate child that you simply weren’t enough for — that was another comparison that came up when Loomis was trying to process all these years that he had failed to talk Michael back, or even get a response out of. I failed you. I wasn’t good enough to help you — I wanted to be.
But there were some things you didn’t talk about. Couldn’t talk about. In a book talking about real life monsters, you didn’t say that one lived in your heart once, and still did. Even that idea was bizarre. Loomis doubted that anyone had loved Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. Michael wasn’t supposed to live in his heart and under his skin. That, simply, wasn’t how anything worked.
You kept certain things close to your heart. And, God, you told no one.
***
Time passed. Loomis still had nightmares — of being there when Deborah Myers shot herself, and failing to talk her down. Waking up, muttering to himself, “I wasn’t enough. I wanted to be.” You didn’t talk about these things. You kept them close, said nothing. Even when you dreamed of strange masks, you didn’t say anything.
You hid the fact something had died in you. You worked — dredging up every detail up to what Judith was wearing when Michael had stabbed her to death, every detail but the fact you had sat with this monster long enough that you’d formed a fucked up bond with him. There were limits to what you could put in print — so Loomis lied in that regard.
He was aware that a certain cold had come over him, regarding Michael. Like ice sealing the water of a frozen pond in winter. It was a relief, in some ways. Maybe the cold sealing over his heart would stop the nightmares.
I wasn’t enough. I wanted to be.
Maybe in time, those words would simply be forgotten too. And Loomis would believe that lie. The idea of being the truth, a failed child psychologist mourning for a little boy he simply hadn’t been enough to save, threatened to thaw the pond — and thawing the pond would hurt too much.
Becoming the lie would almost be merciful.
***
He finished the book. The first draft. All he needed to do was put it aside for a while. Wait, come back, revise. That was the best he could do. In the end, distance was what he needed. He could look at it with an objective eye later — picking apart sentences that could sound stronger, flow better.
And he could continue to freeze the metaphorical pond. Forget about an idealistic middle-aged man named Doctor Loomis, drown him beneath the ice too. And he’d forget that he’d forgotten, all the while.
It was better that way. It wouldn’t hurt as much.
It was easier to simply think of Michael as a monster. Breaking free from the abyss to wreak havoc in the living world. The truth — that Loomis had simply not been enough — wasn’t something you just said.
He sat on the bed, away from his writing space. In public, he would play the part of someone well-versed in the nature of evil. And in private, he would pretend that Doctor Loomis wasn’t buried beneath the ice and trying to break free. And over time, he’d believe it.
Dear God, he hoped he believed it.
Summary: An icy heart does have its uses, especially for someone who, once, wanted to be enough.
Prompt: Ice
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author’s Notes: Hot take: the 2007 Halloween remake actually had some good ideas that weren’t allowed to flourish because of not knowing how much to stick the source material vs. doing one’s own thing. (And it had some bad ideas. It’s a film that is genuinely lopsided, but not without its better moments) Also, Loomis’ characterization is a tad inconsistent in the remake, so I’m going with what I have.
After he had ultimately retired as Michael’s doctor, it wasn’t like the images of the broken Myers family necessarily left his head.
Even back in his home, looking over his notes, Samuel Loomis knew that he had to write something about this. The public no doubt wanted answers. Not to mention that it was like even though he was away from Michael, away from Smith’s Grove, it didn’t necessarily mean that the boy didn’t still stay with him. There had been ruthlessness and cruelty in him. Loomis would be a fool to deny that. How casually he had lied about murdering his sister, her boyfriend, and Michael’s stepfather, even as the news said otherwise. Killing Nurse Wynn for insulting him. Things like that.
But there had been moments in Michael where he could have been a normal boy. Was he once? Was that boy trapped somewhere, inside masks and lies and a chirpy voice that seemed to bely everything he’d done? Deborah — and it hurt thinking about her — had said that Michael had been a sweet boy, once upon a time. That Judith, even, had been a sweet girl who’d idolized her biological father — before the stepfather had intruded in their lives. Somehow, it was hard to picture. And yet...
Loomis sighed. Honestly, he didn’t know what to write, in a way. He was a writer, yes. But even there, he couldn’t say anything. About how though nothing but Angel Myers lived in Michael’s heart, Michael still lived there, in Loomis’.
My best friend. That was what Loomis had said Michael was like. A surrogate child that you simply weren’t enough for — that was another comparison that came up when Loomis was trying to process all these years that he had failed to talk Michael back, or even get a response out of. I failed you. I wasn’t good enough to help you — I wanted to be.
But there were some things you didn’t talk about. Couldn’t talk about. In a book talking about real life monsters, you didn’t say that one lived in your heart once, and still did. Even that idea was bizarre. Loomis doubted that anyone had loved Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy. Michael wasn’t supposed to live in his heart and under his skin. That, simply, wasn’t how anything worked.
You kept certain things close to your heart. And, God, you told no one.
***
Time passed. Loomis still had nightmares — of being there when Deborah Myers shot herself, and failing to talk her down. Waking up, muttering to himself, “I wasn’t enough. I wanted to be.” You didn’t talk about these things. You kept them close, said nothing. Even when you dreamed of strange masks, you didn’t say anything.
You hid the fact something had died in you. You worked — dredging up every detail up to what Judith was wearing when Michael had stabbed her to death, every detail but the fact you had sat with this monster long enough that you’d formed a fucked up bond with him. There were limits to what you could put in print — so Loomis lied in that regard.
He was aware that a certain cold had come over him, regarding Michael. Like ice sealing the water of a frozen pond in winter. It was a relief, in some ways. Maybe the cold sealing over his heart would stop the nightmares.
I wasn’t enough. I wanted to be.
Maybe in time, those words would simply be forgotten too. And Loomis would believe that lie. The idea of being the truth, a failed child psychologist mourning for a little boy he simply hadn’t been enough to save, threatened to thaw the pond — and thawing the pond would hurt too much.
Becoming the lie would almost be merciful.
***
He finished the book. The first draft. All he needed to do was put it aside for a while. Wait, come back, revise. That was the best he could do. In the end, distance was what he needed. He could look at it with an objective eye later — picking apart sentences that could sound stronger, flow better.
And he could continue to freeze the metaphorical pond. Forget about an idealistic middle-aged man named Doctor Loomis, drown him beneath the ice too. And he’d forget that he’d forgotten, all the while.
It was better that way. It wouldn’t hurt as much.
It was easier to simply think of Michael as a monster. Breaking free from the abyss to wreak havoc in the living world. The truth — that Loomis had simply not been enough — wasn’t something you just said.
He sat on the bed, away from his writing space. In public, he would play the part of someone well-versed in the nature of evil. And in private, he would pretend that Doctor Loomis wasn’t buried beneath the ice and trying to break free. And over time, he’d believe it.
Dear God, he hoped he believed it.
