His Rose
folder
1 through F › Friday the 13th (All)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
8
Views:
7,793
Reviews:
21
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
1 through F › Friday the 13th (All)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
8
Views:
7,793
Reviews:
21
Recommended:
1
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I don't own Friday the 13th, Jason, or Crystal Lake. I don't make any money from writing this.
Chapter 4
A/N: Wowzers, thanks for the reviews, guys. You're all amazing, so here's a new chapter for you.
Rose woke up slowly. First she noticed the sunlight against her eyes, then the fact that she was lying on something that was soft but uncomfortable. She cracked one eyelid open, and saw the white ceiling of her cabin above her. Turning her head slightly, she saw the television and realized that she was lying on the couch. Why on earth was she there?
The memory of what happened just before she passed out slammed into her full force, and she bolted off the couch into a standing position. Her eyes darted around, half fearful, half hopeful. Maybe it had just been a really vivid dream.
But no. Lying at her feet was the item that had been covering her as she slept. She pinched it between two fingers and lifted it up - a dirty old canvas jacket, smeared with what looked suspiciously like old blood. Rose let it drop.
“Hello?” she called cautiously.
Jason had been waiting outside, sharpening his machete as the girl slept. He had already hauled the bodies of the two men to the fire pit - they had been surprisingly near it when he killed them. The moment he heard the yellow-haired girl’s voice, however, he shoved his weapon into the sheath on his leg and went inside.
She heard three heavy footsteps cross the porch outside. Cringing slightly, she turned towards the door leading to the kitchen.
When Jason entered, she couldn’t help but gape. Without his jacket on, it was quite clear that he was solid muscle. The dirty t-shirt obviously was not his size - it was strained to the limit. It was ripped in a few places as well, revealing the muscles beneath.
“H-hi,” Rose said nervously, dropping her eyes to the ground. She spotted his jacket lying on the floor and picked it up, holding it out to him at arm’s length. “Thank you for giving me your jacket.”
Jason crossed the small room in a single stride. He took the jacket from her and retreated back to the doorway before putting it on.
Rose waited awkwardly for him to say something. She tried not to look at him too directly, in case it might provoke him somehow. Several minutes passed in silence as she observed him. She noticed he was still wearing the beat up old hockey mask.
“You can take the mask off, if - if you want,” she mumbled finally.
Jason shook his head once.
“Oh.” Rose looked at the floor, taking in for the first time her sand and dirt-coated jeans. She brushed absently at them, scattering dried sand on the floor. After several more minutes of silence, Rose looked up at him.
“Look, are you going to kill me?” she said, licking her lips nervously.
Jason shook his head again.
“Why not?” Rose asked, morbidly curious. He certainly hadn’t paused when killing the two men. She swallowed hard - she didn’t want to think about that.
He didn’t respond.
“Can you talk?”
A shake of the head. No.
“Can you write?”
Another shake of the head.
Rose crossed her arms, thinking hard. If he couldn’t talk, and he couldn’t write, how was she supposed to communicate with him? It didn’t really cross her mind to wonder why she wanted to communicate with a murderer at all, except to note that he had saved her (even if by accident), and he didn’t seem to want to kill her too.
“What about your name?” Rose asked. “Have you ever seen it written anywhere?”
He nodded.
Rose crossed quickly to the desk against the wall and pulled out a notebook and pen. She suspected he might just crack a pencil in half.
“Can you write it for me?”
Jason crossed the room and took the items from her. She noticed that his one eye visible through the mask furrowed in concentration as he wrote. When he was done, he handed it back.
Rose looked at it. His writing was little different from a preschooler copying down letters for the first time. There were clearly five letters, however, and she sat down on the couch to puzzle over them, barely noticing when he sat down next to her. The first one was a fairly clear J. The second was an upside down V - meant to be an A, perhaps, Rose thought. The third was an indecipherable squiggle, the fourth clearly an O. The fifth was either an N or an M, it was difficult to tell.
“Jason?” Rose asked finally. “Is your name Jason?”
Jason nodded once, his visible eye pleased.
Rose smiled, the death of the two men shoved to the back of her mind. Other than his large, muscled frame, bloodstained clothes, and the machete strapped to his thigh, Jason seemed fairly harmless. He had saved her, and made it clear that he had no intention of hurting her. Her smile broadened.
“Nice to meet you, Jason. My name is Rose.”
Rose woke up slowly. First she noticed the sunlight against her eyes, then the fact that she was lying on something that was soft but uncomfortable. She cracked one eyelid open, and saw the white ceiling of her cabin above her. Turning her head slightly, she saw the television and realized that she was lying on the couch. Why on earth was she there?
The memory of what happened just before she passed out slammed into her full force, and she bolted off the couch into a standing position. Her eyes darted around, half fearful, half hopeful. Maybe it had just been a really vivid dream.
But no. Lying at her feet was the item that had been covering her as she slept. She pinched it between two fingers and lifted it up - a dirty old canvas jacket, smeared with what looked suspiciously like old blood. Rose let it drop.
“Hello?” she called cautiously.
Jason had been waiting outside, sharpening his machete as the girl slept. He had already hauled the bodies of the two men to the fire pit - they had been surprisingly near it when he killed them. The moment he heard the yellow-haired girl’s voice, however, he shoved his weapon into the sheath on his leg and went inside.
She heard three heavy footsteps cross the porch outside. Cringing slightly, she turned towards the door leading to the kitchen.
When Jason entered, she couldn’t help but gape. Without his jacket on, it was quite clear that he was solid muscle. The dirty t-shirt obviously was not his size - it was strained to the limit. It was ripped in a few places as well, revealing the muscles beneath.
“H-hi,” Rose said nervously, dropping her eyes to the ground. She spotted his jacket lying on the floor and picked it up, holding it out to him at arm’s length. “Thank you for giving me your jacket.”
Jason crossed the small room in a single stride. He took the jacket from her and retreated back to the doorway before putting it on.
Rose waited awkwardly for him to say something. She tried not to look at him too directly, in case it might provoke him somehow. Several minutes passed in silence as she observed him. She noticed he was still wearing the beat up old hockey mask.
“You can take the mask off, if - if you want,” she mumbled finally.
Jason shook his head once.
“Oh.” Rose looked at the floor, taking in for the first time her sand and dirt-coated jeans. She brushed absently at them, scattering dried sand on the floor. After several more minutes of silence, Rose looked up at him.
“Look, are you going to kill me?” she said, licking her lips nervously.
Jason shook his head again.
“Why not?” Rose asked, morbidly curious. He certainly hadn’t paused when killing the two men. She swallowed hard - she didn’t want to think about that.
He didn’t respond.
“Can you talk?”
A shake of the head. No.
“Can you write?”
Another shake of the head.
Rose crossed her arms, thinking hard. If he couldn’t talk, and he couldn’t write, how was she supposed to communicate with him? It didn’t really cross her mind to wonder why she wanted to communicate with a murderer at all, except to note that he had saved her (even if by accident), and he didn’t seem to want to kill her too.
“What about your name?” Rose asked. “Have you ever seen it written anywhere?”
He nodded.
Rose crossed quickly to the desk against the wall and pulled out a notebook and pen. She suspected he might just crack a pencil in half.
“Can you write it for me?”
Jason crossed the room and took the items from her. She noticed that his one eye visible through the mask furrowed in concentration as he wrote. When he was done, he handed it back.
Rose looked at it. His writing was little different from a preschooler copying down letters for the first time. There were clearly five letters, however, and she sat down on the couch to puzzle over them, barely noticing when he sat down next to her. The first one was a fairly clear J. The second was an upside down V - meant to be an A, perhaps, Rose thought. The third was an indecipherable squiggle, the fourth clearly an O. The fifth was either an N or an M, it was difficult to tell.
“Jason?” Rose asked finally. “Is your name Jason?”
Jason nodded once, his visible eye pleased.
Rose smiled, the death of the two men shoved to the back of her mind. Other than his large, muscled frame, bloodstained clothes, and the machete strapped to his thigh, Jason seemed fairly harmless. He had saved her, and made it clear that he had no intention of hurting her. Her smile broadened.
“Nice to meet you, Jason. My name is Rose.”