Jason's Childhood
Aug 22, 2004 0:43:29 GMT -8
Post by Jason on Aug 22, 2004 0:43:29 GMT -8
Jason Voorhees had never been completely normal. Strange forces had been at work in his life from the very moment of his conception.
From his premature birth, at the stroke of midnight one Friday The 13th, there had been something different about him. It was not only that he had been an unusually large infant, with striking, pronounced features that gave him an almost adult expression, but there was something ominous about him that filled all those who came near him with a profound sense of unease—all except his mother. A mother loves her child.
Pamela Voorhees never had a chance to make it to the hospital. Her labor had been unnaturally short, as if the child within her were trying to claw its way out of her womb. The doctor had arrived just in time to deliver Jason in the bedroom. Even from birth, Jason was curiously silent. When the doctor held him up and slapped him, Jason didn’t make a sound. For a moment, the doctor was alarmed, thinking that the child might have been stillborn. He slapped Jason once again, a little harder this time, again with no response, and then he noticed that the child’s eyes were open and staring straight at him with an astonishing expression—one that almost seemed like cold, venomous fury. It staggered him to see such searing hatred in the gaze of a newborn child. But that surely would have been impossible and he decided that it must have been only his imagination. Yet, for months thereafter, he dreamed of those loathsome, hate-filled infant eyes.
Even as a child, Jason was unusual. No one ever saw him smile. He never gurgled with delight at the brightly colored mobile that was hung above his crib or at the toys that he was given. He never screamed when he needed to be changed and he displayed no reaction whatsoever when his first teeth came in. He acted as though he didn’t feel the pain.
He never woke his mother in the middle of the night with crying. Sometimes, feeling the anxiety that every mother of a newborn child feels, Pamela Voorhees would awaken at night and tiptoe to the baby’s room just to reassure herself that there was nothing wrong. She would look down into the crib and see her infant Jason laying on his bed, his eyes wide open, staring at her. He never made a sound.
For a while, she was afraid that there might be something wrong with him, and that perhaps he was autistic, one of those tragic children who were withdrawn into their own secret, silent world. But Jason was not withdrawn. He noticed everything. His reactions were unusually quick and sharp. He was incredibly alert and his senses were remarkably acute. He grew strong quickly, and he never became ill.
He had no playmates because the other children avoided him. They seemed to be afraid of him. They ran away from him and complained about his “creepy eyes.” In truth, there was nothing at all unusual about his eyes, except for the fact that, like a cobra, he never seemed to blink. The neighbors could never really explain why, when they were walking back from the train station after riding home from work, they always crossed to the opposite side of the street whenever Jason was outside playing. It was as if some involuntary reaction had taken hold of them, some primal instinct warning them away.
As commuters who worked in the city, they understood the subtle instincts that were at work. In a city full of predators, you learned to trust your feelings. And they had some very strong feelings about the little Voorhees boy. He made their skin crawl. It wasn’t something they openly admitted to themselves, because it would have sounded silly and it made no sense, but irrationally, it was there. It felt profoundly disturbing to be near him.
He baffled all his teachers, although he affected a few of them much more strongly. One of them abruptly quit her job and moved away from town. His third-grade teacher, a shy young woman, offered her body to the principal if he would only move the boy out of her class. And a school psychologist who had tried to reach him wound up being “reached” himself and had a breakdown. The poor man was put into a straightjacket and taken to an institution.
It seemed that something strange happened to everyone who came near Jason Voorhees. All except his mother. A mother lovers her child. She was always hovering near him protectively, always ready to defend him. She had wanted her son to experience the pleasures of a summer in the woods and so she had taken the job as cook at Camp Crystal Lake just so she could stay near him. Only as it turned out, she wasn’t able to stay near enough.
She was beside herself with worry the night he disappeared, and when his clothes were found by the lake, Pamela Voorhees went berserk. It had been necessary to restrain her and take her to the county hospital, where she was sedated. Although they never found the body of the boy, the official verdict was that it was death by drowning. Pamela Voorhees never recovered from the shock.
Jason’s memories of what happened on the night he drowned were very dim. He remembered being frightened as his legs cramped up and he started to slip beneath the surface of the lake. He had a vague memory of struggling to stay afloat, of water rushing down his throat and filling up his lungs; he could recall the terrifying sensation of sinking down into the murky lake, the fading light, the roaring in his ears. . . and then nothing.
At some point, consciousness returned, but he had no way of telling how much time had passed. He came to the shore, covered from head to toe with slime, apparently having dragged himself out of the lake somehow. He coughed up water for a very long time. He remembered lying in the bushes and retching, vomiting up slimy worms and maggots as his body fought its way back to life.
It never occurred to him to wonder what it was that made him different from the others—why they shrank from him as rabbits shrank from snakes. He never asked himself why he was always healthy, why the slight injuries of childhood had always healed so quickly. He had never broken any bones, so no one ever had the opportunity to notice the supernatural way his body could repair itself. Pamela Voorhees never questioned it, just as she never questioned his peculiar silence. A mother lovers her child. She was simply grateful for having been blessed with a healthy little boy. Like father, like son.
It did not occur to Jason Voorhees to winder just how long he had been underwater. He merely dragged himself deeper into the woods, some primitive urge driving him to find a hole somewhere that he could crawl into, a dark place where he could rest, and heal, and wait until he could think of what to do.
After a while, he returned back to the camp, his simple mind telling him that perhaps it was what he was supposed to do. Only there was no longer anybody there.
You cant have more than 10000 characters in one posts so i had to make two posts for Jason's Childhood.
From his premature birth, at the stroke of midnight one Friday The 13th, there had been something different about him. It was not only that he had been an unusually large infant, with striking, pronounced features that gave him an almost adult expression, but there was something ominous about him that filled all those who came near him with a profound sense of unease—all except his mother. A mother loves her child.
Pamela Voorhees never had a chance to make it to the hospital. Her labor had been unnaturally short, as if the child within her were trying to claw its way out of her womb. The doctor had arrived just in time to deliver Jason in the bedroom. Even from birth, Jason was curiously silent. When the doctor held him up and slapped him, Jason didn’t make a sound. For a moment, the doctor was alarmed, thinking that the child might have been stillborn. He slapped Jason once again, a little harder this time, again with no response, and then he noticed that the child’s eyes were open and staring straight at him with an astonishing expression—one that almost seemed like cold, venomous fury. It staggered him to see such searing hatred in the gaze of a newborn child. But that surely would have been impossible and he decided that it must have been only his imagination. Yet, for months thereafter, he dreamed of those loathsome, hate-filled infant eyes.
Even as a child, Jason was unusual. No one ever saw him smile. He never gurgled with delight at the brightly colored mobile that was hung above his crib or at the toys that he was given. He never screamed when he needed to be changed and he displayed no reaction whatsoever when his first teeth came in. He acted as though he didn’t feel the pain.
He never woke his mother in the middle of the night with crying. Sometimes, feeling the anxiety that every mother of a newborn child feels, Pamela Voorhees would awaken at night and tiptoe to the baby’s room just to reassure herself that there was nothing wrong. She would look down into the crib and see her infant Jason laying on his bed, his eyes wide open, staring at her. He never made a sound.
For a while, she was afraid that there might be something wrong with him, and that perhaps he was autistic, one of those tragic children who were withdrawn into their own secret, silent world. But Jason was not withdrawn. He noticed everything. His reactions were unusually quick and sharp. He was incredibly alert and his senses were remarkably acute. He grew strong quickly, and he never became ill.
He had no playmates because the other children avoided him. They seemed to be afraid of him. They ran away from him and complained about his “creepy eyes.” In truth, there was nothing at all unusual about his eyes, except for the fact that, like a cobra, he never seemed to blink. The neighbors could never really explain why, when they were walking back from the train station after riding home from work, they always crossed to the opposite side of the street whenever Jason was outside playing. It was as if some involuntary reaction had taken hold of them, some primal instinct warning them away.
As commuters who worked in the city, they understood the subtle instincts that were at work. In a city full of predators, you learned to trust your feelings. And they had some very strong feelings about the little Voorhees boy. He made their skin crawl. It wasn’t something they openly admitted to themselves, because it would have sounded silly and it made no sense, but irrationally, it was there. It felt profoundly disturbing to be near him.
He baffled all his teachers, although he affected a few of them much more strongly. One of them abruptly quit her job and moved away from town. His third-grade teacher, a shy young woman, offered her body to the principal if he would only move the boy out of her class. And a school psychologist who had tried to reach him wound up being “reached” himself and had a breakdown. The poor man was put into a straightjacket and taken to an institution.
It seemed that something strange happened to everyone who came near Jason Voorhees. All except his mother. A mother lovers her child. She was always hovering near him protectively, always ready to defend him. She had wanted her son to experience the pleasures of a summer in the woods and so she had taken the job as cook at Camp Crystal Lake just so she could stay near him. Only as it turned out, she wasn’t able to stay near enough.
She was beside herself with worry the night he disappeared, and when his clothes were found by the lake, Pamela Voorhees went berserk. It had been necessary to restrain her and take her to the county hospital, where she was sedated. Although they never found the body of the boy, the official verdict was that it was death by drowning. Pamela Voorhees never recovered from the shock.
Jason’s memories of what happened on the night he drowned were very dim. He remembered being frightened as his legs cramped up and he started to slip beneath the surface of the lake. He had a vague memory of struggling to stay afloat, of water rushing down his throat and filling up his lungs; he could recall the terrifying sensation of sinking down into the murky lake, the fading light, the roaring in his ears. . . and then nothing.
At some point, consciousness returned, but he had no way of telling how much time had passed. He came to the shore, covered from head to toe with slime, apparently having dragged himself out of the lake somehow. He coughed up water for a very long time. He remembered lying in the bushes and retching, vomiting up slimy worms and maggots as his body fought its way back to life.
It never occurred to him to wonder what it was that made him different from the others—why they shrank from him as rabbits shrank from snakes. He never asked himself why he was always healthy, why the slight injuries of childhood had always healed so quickly. He had never broken any bones, so no one ever had the opportunity to notice the supernatural way his body could repair itself. Pamela Voorhees never questioned it, just as she never questioned his peculiar silence. A mother lovers her child. She was simply grateful for having been blessed with a healthy little boy. Like father, like son.
It did not occur to Jason Voorhees to winder just how long he had been underwater. He merely dragged himself deeper into the woods, some primitive urge driving him to find a hole somewhere that he could crawl into, a dark place where he could rest, and heal, and wait until he could think of what to do.
After a while, he returned back to the camp, his simple mind telling him that perhaps it was what he was supposed to do. Only there was no longer anybody there.
You cant have more than 10000 characters in one posts so i had to make two posts for Jason's Childhood.
