#michael. ic

[archivedrpblog1234]

Starter for @brothersgrim

Laurie twisted the key in the lock, wedged her shoulder against the front door, and stumbled as the latch gave in. She emerged inside the house and a swipe of chilled air cooled her heated neck. The 'living room' – and Laurie meant that in the loosest sense of the word due to the complete absence of furniture – was empty. No large, still body, standing in the corner, to greet her.

“Michael?” Laurie called to her own echo. "I'm home."

The plastic bags, hung around her wrist, jostled and crinkled as she carried them into the kitchen. She unloaded her burden on the counter. A couple boxes of pulled pork and potato salad. Leftovers from her shift at the diner.

“I got dinner!” Laurie said. She imagined herself as a crazy cat lady, rattling the bowl of kibbel on the back porch. 'Here kitty, kitty, kitty.'

There was no response, not that she really expected one. Laurie left the kitchen and walked over to Michael's bedroom door. She nudged it open. Nothing, except for the odd things he accrued. The sleeping bag on the floor, the library books marked with scraps of newspaper, a weird number of origami creation, and a pile of what had to be the bones of some small critter. Damnit, she told him nothing dead in the house.

Laurie took a settling breath. 

It wasn’t like Michael had to stay inside all day. Quite the opposite, he wandered, a lot (she couldn't stop him). It was just that he was always home when she got home. His absence made the house feel empty, too quiet even though never made a noise. Michael wasn't her cat but when he didn't show up for dinner time, she still panicked a bit. Still felt her chest close up and her breath get caught in her lungs. 

Maybe she should do a better job of keeping track of the man who killed her older sister. Maybe she shouldn’t keep kitchen knives in the house when a nurse warned her that was the murder weapon. Maybe, if she found Michael crouched over the dead body of a teenage girl who looked like a sister she couldn’t remember, it would be Laurie’s fault. The only problem was that she was already way past the ‘warning sign’ for crazy. 

That mile marker was about a year ago, before she freed the convicted murderer of her sister from the looney bin. 

To keep her hand steady, she stayed moving. Washed her hands, undid the apron from around her waist, and changed into fresh clothes. She left the house ten minutes later, marching down the front walk and coming to a stop on the sidewalk. There was no telling where Michael wandered off to. Except, North, towards that graveyard. It made sense he’d been lingering out there all week. Laurie had just assumed it was a morbid fascination.

She walked up the road to the edge of a long, twisted dirt driveway. The one that led to the Funeral Home. Bernice had teased her, saying that the massive dark-haired man who lived up there had all sorts of strange, psychic powers like talking to the dead. Laurie returned that he tipped well and so that was none of her business. 

Laurie traversed up the driveway. Thinking about how this was Texas, and it was probably legal to shoot someone when they trespassed. Well, she got to the front yard and hadn’t heard a single gunshot. So, she walked around the back, to the open gates of the graveyard. Which was as creepy as she expected: iron wrought, twisted open to reveal the ancient graves of the long dead, a few dead trees. 

And of course, it was in this graveyard, a long way down path that she found Michael. Standing in the middle of some stone and granite graves. The shadows settled on his shoulder like a mantle. A lamp post lit the lingering and dying light of the setting sun. His hat tucked over his eyes; the surgical mask pulled tight over his face. She needed to cut his hair again.

“Michael,” Laurie said, and her hand rested on his arm. He tore his gaze from the depth of the graveyard and down to her. His stare was blank but spoke volumes more than he would ever vocalize. “Hey, you weren’t there when I got home. You scared me.”

He placed his large hand on top of her head. Another form of Michael’s weird affection. Then his eyes (did Judith have blue eyes?), hidden by the edge of his bangs, darted up. She turned just as Michael stepped forward. Laurie’s gaze caught on the Undertaker’s large form as her arm shot out, blocking Michael's path. He paused, his chest pressed into her shoulder.

“Oh, we're sorry!" Laurie exclaimed, "We didn't mean to cause a problem. We'll get out of your hair."

[perditos]

i'll see you at sunrise. - taker to michael, he passed the job interview (he killed a zombie real good)

Michael w/ 'Taker @brothersgrim

There were lots of ways to kill a zombie.

Michael could: bash its head in with a shovel into the skull exploded and leaked gooey, rotted grey matter; rip its throat out with his hands and pull limbs from the body like the overcooked joints of a chicken wing; twist a knife through its spinal column to sever the twisted, decayed nerves; slam the broken pieces of a tombstone into its torso, shattering it rib cage; hack into it with a machete until it resembled mince meat. He could use: a hammer, a shovel, a garden trowel, a rock, a length of rope. Bash and mash and mince and slam and cut. He could use all the force and any method he desired. By the end of the day, when he'd killed and destroyed dozens, even he had to stretch the limits of his imaginations to think of a new one to kill zombies. He had a lot to think on tonight: like new ways to kill zombies.

Covered in blood, brain goo and rot, the decayed bits of flesh and skin, his coveralls brown and grey, rusted red, splotchy with sweat, beneath his mask, Michael didn't smile but his hands twitched at his sides and his frame, the bulk of him, settled. The Undertaker stood at the entrance of the yard, arms crossed.

He wasn't sentimental, he was big and strong, and Michael liked him. A man who understood the artistry of blood. He was like them. He took care of Cynthia. And he let Michael kill lots, and lots, of zombies. It was like The Undertaker had finally handed Michael a tool to scratch an itch that had been torturing him for years and for the first time in Michael's life he was satisfied.

This was a good day.

Tomorrow was going to be a better day.

Michael nodded once, a silent acknowledgement. A thousand words in a single gesture.

The Undertaker told him to use the hose on himself before he went inside.

[perditos]

📐holds all 6'6" of tarhos up next to michael

Send 📐 + your character's height to compare with one or more of mine!

(Remember to specify which character/s.)

With Little Sister as a buffer so they don't fight like cats.

[archivedrpblog1234]

Send from @hauntologics

[ 𝐓𝐑𝐘 ] ― sender gives receiver a taste of what they’re cooking / baking for their opinion ― from liz to laurie & micheal

Michael is eight years old, and he sits on the living room rug watching Cynthia color. She lays on her stomach, legs kicking, and little hands clenched in tiny fists, manipulating the stubby, waxy crayons to masterfully create her picture. She's drawn a tree with green leaves and red apples, and a bit yellow dot for a sun. In the past year her art had changed from random scrawls and squiggles to the creative, colorful ideas of a child. She speaks in full sentences now and reads small books. Next year she'll go with Michael to school.

Under the tree she's drawn some people in pink and red. There's three little people, two with hay colored hair and a third with red. Two big people stand by them, one with really big with black hair and long scratches for a coat, and one a bit smaller with brown. They're primitive humans with blocky bodies but colorful clothes. Even with the crude skills of a four-year-old, Michael can tell what Cynthia is trying to depict. Their 'family.'

The Undertaker and his wife, and the kids: Michael, Cynthia, and Jon. Except, this wasn't right at all. It should be their parents and Michael, Cynthia, and — it's interesting how blood is the same color as the apples on the page. The same crimson hue, dyed, and smeared across his skin. Everything is all broken and screwed-up. Cynthia doesn't know that these people aren't their family. She doesn't know that this isn't their home. Michael doesn't know how to tell her.

There's a clatter in the kitchen. The Undertaker isn't home. He left earlier that morning after ruffling Michael's hair and telling him to, 'be good.' That meant Liz was around instead. She had kept an eye on them as she shuffled through papers at the kitchen table or read a book on the couch. Now, as the afternoon arrived, and the sky had clouded over, threatening rain, she was in the kitchen.

Michael stands, leaving Cynthia to her art, and walks over to the doorway. Liz has set up a stand mixer and arranged various bowls of ingredients on the counter. He's not tall enough to see what's in the bowls but he recognizes the yellow Tollhouse bag of chocolate chips. As Michael watches, she dumps sticks of butters into the running mixer, followed by sugar, and eggs. It's only as she's preparing to add in the flour that notices Michael.

"Hey, bud!" She greets, grinning at him.

Michael stands there and stares.

Unperturbed, Liz kept working. Sifting flour into the mixer bowl so that puffs escape from the whirling whisk. The sound of the mixer scratching along the sides of the metal bowl sounds good. Michael liked how rhythmic and predictable it was. He wanted to scrape his nails on the metal. He wondered what would happen if Liz got her hand stuck in the whisk.

Red. It's okay, the therapist told him, to have thoughts like that. It's okay to be wonder about pain, and injury, and hurt, and death. People do that. Michael is people.

Sometimes, Michael didn't feel like people. Except when he watchs Cynthia color, or she wraps her hand around his while she sleeps. Most of the time though he was pretty sure he was something else. Something not people.

He walks over and Liz presses a teaspoon filled with vanilla into his palm. He's just big enough to reach up and dump the teaspoon into the bowl. 'The fun part,' was next Liz declared. She hooks an arm around his waist, lifts him up, and let him turn the bag of chocolate into the bowl as the mixer whirled on the slowest setting. The chocolate chips studded the brown, sticky dough. Liz let Michael sit on the counter as she turns off the mixer and pulled the whisk out of the bowl.

She runs her finger through the dough stuck to the metal tines of the whisk. Sticks it in her mouth and groans, stamping her foot with joy. "You shouldn't have raw egg but, what's the point of life without uncooked cookie dough?" She says as she hands Michael the whisk.

If Michael loves one think it was sugar. He cleans up the whisk, working his fingers through the tines. The dough is rich and eggy, with sugar and chocolate. It tastes perfect. Liz scoops the cookie dough on to a sheet and put it into the oven to bake. She cleans up, Michael returns to Cynthia in the living room. She's putting her finishing touches on the crayon family: a big house that looks a lot like the funeral home.

This isn't their home and it isn't their family, but it's what they have, Michael realizes. It's what Cynthia knows. And if she's okay with it here, then, he guesses he is too.

[archivedrpblog1234]

Sent from @teardownheaven

Has Laurie ever killed Michael with a clothes iron? Perhaps an ironing board?

She found the body in the laundry room.

A basket of dirty clothes on one hip, a cigarette between her lips, and her hand on the doorknob, Laurie cussed. "Ah, c'mon, Michael, he was nice."

The poor smuck went by Arnold. He worked in housekeeping for the motel Laurie was staying at. A sweet guy, maybe a couple years older than her, he offered to help carry her luggage from her car to her room. Even asked her out to dinner which she politely declined on grounds of her, 'being tired.'

Truthfully, she just didn't want her deranged brother to murder him.

So much for that. The dryer propped up Arnold's limp body. His chest oozed dark blood from the numerous stab wounds that lacerated his rib cage and stomach. His head resembled meat loaf, smashed and bashed against the side of the machine until his skull left a dent. His mouth hung open, a few teeth missing, and the room smelled of iron and decay. He'd probably been dead only ten or twenty minutes. If Laurie was five years younger and seventeen again, she'd be nauseated. In this case her stomach didn't even flip. Honestly, this killing was pretty sedate by Michael standards. Like a good 3-4 on a scale of ten.

She stepped over one of his sprawled legs and shoved her clothes into the washing machine. Murder didn't mean she didn't have laundry to do. She tossed some detergent in and ran the machine. Laurie closed the door to the laundry room as she left.

She emerged into the warm, heated night of a summer in Oklahoma. Cars flew by on the highway, headlights cutting patches out of the dark, black landscape which rolled on flat, and unremarkable for miles. They were almost in the middle of nowhere, the edge of nowhere. Which was why Laurie had trusted that she could at least get a shower before he caught up to her. No such luck.

Laurie walked along the sidewalk to her motel room. She passed a couple vending and ice machines, an ajar motel room door. Laurie paused, nudged that door open. Peered in on the young couple naked, and very dead, on the bed inside. They were a couple hours dead based on the smell. Laurie also closed that door.

She took a steadying breath and walked the rest of the way to her room. Which was mercifully on the end. Laurie unlocked the door and went inside. The room was simple and bare. Two queen size beds, a carpet the ugliest shade of green she'd ever seen, and wallpaper with azaleas. There was a small alcove by the door for hanging up coats and an en-suite bathroom. In the closet on the other side of the entry space was an ironing board and iron. The room smelled of cleaning fluids and cigarette smoke. Laurie smothered her cigarette in the ash tray. Her hand moved to lock the door.

She hesitated.

instead, she turned out the lights, walked across the room, and opened the window.

Laurie returned to the alcove by the door, pushing her body into the space. She reached behind her, beneath the fold of her shirt, and wrapped her hand around the handle of her pistol. A truck rolled by on the road, the engine bellowing and groaning. The air conditioning flicked on and off. Her heartbeat against her rib cage like a frightened bird. Because no matter how many times she did this, it still scared the living shit out of her. Her eyes were going cross she was so scared. Breath shuddering, praying to a God that didn't care, wishing for someone to save her.

The doorknob turned, a slow slide of the latch. At the furthest point of the mechanism, he stopped. She could almost feel him processing on the other side of the door. She didn't lock it. Why. She wouldn't forget. Paranoid, ever prepared, as she was, always waiting for him. He committed though, shouldering open the door. The door swung towards her, obscuring her in the alcove. Laurie pressed into the corner, listened to his heavy footsteps, the cadence of his breathing. In, out, she could breathe with him.

Between the wall and the door, she caught sight of him. Of his broad back, the dark gray coveralls stained with blood, and his hair, curling off his shoulders. He crossed the room, towards the window, took in the hot breeze that tumbled in. Made the calculation that she had slipped out. The hunt continued.

And Laurie nudged the door closed again. A natural swing from his peripheral, nothing sudden. Until she stood in the shadow of the doorway, pistol raised. He jerked, head and body turning to face her. Laurie pulled the trigger. Two shots rang out in quick succession. The echo of ignited black powder echoing off the walls and bouncing in her ears. The bullets slammed into Michael's chest and his shoulders rocked with each hit.

He stumbled, shuddering on his heels, and he stepped forward. Laurie shot him, three, four times, but he cleared the distance between them in a lunge. He seized her arm, lifting the gun above her head as he shoved her back into the door. The wood cracked under their combined weights. She gagged, lungs and diaphragm spasming. Laurie barely caught the knife Michael brandished by his wrist. They strained, the gun skittered along the surface of the door, her arm twisting towards her own head. Laurie bared her teeth; the knife scrapped her shoulder. Michael breathed; his eyes narrowed behind the mask.

"Stop playing with me you piece of shit!" Laurie screamed.

His hand crawled up the gun, towards the trigger. She dropped it and it fell to the ground. Laurie slunk her free hand into her jean pocket, ripped out her knife, released the catch on it, and buried it in Michael's chest. She got her foot up, between them, and wedged against the wall, shoved him off. He stumbled, she rushed in.

Laurie snatched the iron off the board, swinging around it so she could smash Michael in the head with it. He crumbled from the blow, collapsing to the ground. Laurie was on him in an instant, smashing the iron into his face, again, and again, and again, and again, until blood coated her hands and stained the floor, as she screamed and screamed.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!" She wailed. The iron loose in her grip, she perched on top his sprawled body. She could still feel the heat pouring off his skin. Laurie sobbed, gasping for breath, wheezing, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Why do you always have to ruin my life?!"

Because God damnit she wanted to go on a date with the cute boy at the motel and put her name on her books. And see her parents for the first time in five years and not make cryptic calls over the telephone. What did she do to deserve this? What had she done wrong? Why did God hate her? Why couldn't he let her be happy? Why couldn't he love her?

Michael's face and mask were goo like Arnold's head. She was never going to look at uncooked hamburger the same ever again. Laurie buried her hands in the collar of his coverall. She was shaking, trembling, gasping for air. This was her brother. This was her brother. When he took off the mask, he looked just like her.

His hand twitched, lifting, pulling from the blood puddled floor and that hideous green carpet. A final reflex, a twitch, grip extending towards her. Even in death, his body working on leftover electrical impulses, he reached to kill her. Abel had it easy.

"You're so predictable," she whispered. Laurie knocked his hand down and pulled the knife from his chest. She placed the blade against his throat. He was dead, he probably couldn't hear her, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was still hanging around. "I'll see you next time, Michael."

And she drew the edge along thin skin, so blood leaked forth, and spilled all over her hands.