@incinerateds
“Hi, Michael.”
It’s not just Loomis—fucking Loomis—who treats Michael Myers’ room like a lion’s den. The staff don’t want to approach the door if they don’t have to, casting nervous glances inside, whispering.
Alana’s read his file cover to cover, three times. She still sees a big, awkward eight year old, fidgeting with his hands and staring, unfocused, into middle distance. She’s been promised, with no shortage of fearmongering about it, that he should be “lucid”, but that doesn’t change the fact that this little boy’s spent the last two years on a dose of chlorpromazine so excessive in a pediatric case that she’d thought it was a typo when she’d first read the numbers. She offers a friendly smile.
“I’m Dr. Alana Bloom.” All the furniture in his room is bolted to the floor. She sits down in the small chair, pulling a pad of paper and a 16-color box of crayons out of her bag and holding them out to Michael. He’d been reading and writing relatively well in first grade, so given that no one has attempted any alternative form of communication with him, this is the best thing she could think of. “I know you don’t like to talk, but if there’s anything you want to say, do you think you could write it down? Drawing pictures is fine, too. Whichever you like.”
