Chapter Text
Wednesday.
Now what is he to do with his miserable life?
He left the asylum recently. He’s bought his own house (small, but quite nice for its cheap price) with half of the money left from his parents’ inheritance, along with selling their belongings that included the car and house. The last one was sold quite cheaply; nobody likes a murder scene for a home.
At least he has some spare savings. He only prays that he’ll find a decent job to carry him through soon enough. But with this face, who will be willing to hire him?
He kicks an empty carton box out of his way in frustration, the sound of it clashing against the wall reverberating in the silent and spacious house with a short-lasting echo. He rubs his lower face with a hand, dragging his fingers over old mementos, then down along his jaw. He doesn’t feel like organizing his belongings anymore; he feels like crying, like punching the few things he owns until his knuckles are raw and undressed of skin.
He feels like getting back in front of a mirror and repeating the carnage he bestowed upon himself, once in a psychotic breakdown, just to relieve the pent up frustration.
Instead, he makes his way to the front porch and takes a smoke whilst sitting on the stairs.
The neighborhood of Oakside is isolated, surrounded as it mostly is by a dense forest, far from the city center. There’s few shops to buy at, and little establishments with entertainment purposes; it’s mostly a vacation site, emptying itself as the cold months creep upon. He does have neighbors, but all houses are a decent distance from each other. All in all, a pretty quiet and calm place.
All the better for him; cheap, surrounded by nature, and far away from people who charge at him with their invasive questions and condescending looks. He hopes neither of them will be able to find him here; his heart aches with regrets. But nothing can be done about it now.
His eyes gloss over as he remembers his years in that place they call a mental institution. Mental, indeed. Too many who couldn’t make coherent sentences despite either knowing what they wanted to convey or not, kids who’d spend their days staring into a wall with a soulless gaze, people with all kinds of disorders that made them unfit to live ordinary lives in a society that shuns them, like dirt swept under the rug.
Many of them were there because of a sentencing, just like him. None of them had parents, nor anybody who would visit them regularly, for that matter. The few visitors some of them would sometimes have just came to to calm their own remorse for abandoning their young relatives, but without enough guilt or sense of responsibility to attend to them like they should.
Not the most apt environment for improving one’s sanity, to be honest, but he still thinks it hilarious how his stay there was much more bearable than his ‘family’. The nurses were great company, once he got used to them. Those who didn’t come into work with a stick up their ass, at least.
He belonged to the group who had no visitors; not because nobody tried, but because he denied them their wish, whoever they were and whatever their reasons to visit were. It didn’t matter.
He puffs the smoke out of his lungs. How easy it had been to smuggle things in and out of that place. Cigarettes, or any other kind of drug. But he stuck to cigarettes; he had enough problems as it was.
Evening is settling in already, painting the sky orange. He hovers his eyes over the expanse of terrain occupied by his own house, the roads, the other houses on sight, and the big grass areas and foliage. He might explore the vast woods, now that the weather is still warm. Hell, he might even get a dog; it’ll be lonely here.
He drops the cigarette butt and quickly stomps on it, feeling anxious just by imagining igniting a fire. At least he can now turn on a lighter without having a panic attack.
He gets back into the house, not bothering to tidy up anymore; he’ll finish tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. He makes his way to the bedroom, flops down on his bed and looks up more job offers on his phone, careful not to raise his hopes up in any way. Even if he were to be accepted for an interview, again, his face.
He goes on and on until night falls and everything is bathed in gloom. Only then does he get up to wash his teeth, uninterested in having dinner; his somber thoughts have made sure to close his stomach.
Now in front of the sink, he doesn’t want to look. But it has been so long since he stared into a mirror, that the self-image in his mind probably doesn’t correspond to what he might see in the reflection. So, reluctantly, he looks.
Alcohol and bleach feeding the fire. The smell of burnt skin and keratin twisting to a crisp. The later slicing of flesh.
Catharsis.
He quickly opens the mirror cabinet and takes one of his lorazepam pills, putting it into his mouth and swallowing it down while drinking from the faucet directly. He looks up again, gripping the sink edge, and taking deep breaths to prevent that flammable tar from sticking to his psyche anew.
His black hair has gotten very long. He should be the one to cut it, since he doesn’t want to face the scrutiny of hairdressers and the other clients, along with the people he’ll find on the way. He doesn’t even know where he might find a hairdresser nearby. He might have to look up tutorials to not mess up his DIY work. He could buy an electric razor and shave it all off, but then he wouldn’t have a curtain to hide himself with, and the severe burn scarring on the right side of his head would be visible.
He closes his eyes for a moment, and breathes in the courage to face himself properly; he opens them, peeling the organs to behold old horrors.
He had used part of his money for burn-scarring laser treatment, which had done wonders, but couldn’t hope to give him his old face back. He was given all of the money gained from selling his parent’s car, a nice car that it was, to afford this.
And yet, he didn’t have the balls to face him. Hasn’t had the balls to receive him all these years, despite what he has done and the most basic apologies that are due.
He’s pale, as he's always been; some scars look pink, others look a ghostly white. The dark circles under his eyes only make his inky irises look more severe, and he has no eyebrows to give him a softer look; the fire took them, along with his nasal tip.
But the worst part, without a doubt, is his mouth. He’s the perpetrator of that wound, long closed and dulled with the laser treatment, advised skincare and the passing of the years. He has not lost nerve function, and it was a miracle in the form of his neighbor that prevented him from dying from blood loss.
But the faint, pink Glasgow smile is a reminder of his encysted regrets.
He looks down into the sinkhole and brushes his teeth without sparing his reflection another glance. He returns to his bedroom with the intention of sleeping, but he doesn’t rest for the entirety of the night.
Saturday.
Delivery man: better than nothing. At least he’s been lent a motorbike to make the deliveries with, and he doesn’t have to take the helmet off while he works. He’ll make do, and with enough to adopt and care for a dog.
And so, a little bit more high-spirited, he’s visiting the shelter. His face is hidden under a black hygienic mask, as he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself for more than absolutely necessary. “What kind of dog are you looking for, Mr. Woods?” An employee asks him as they guide him in.
He shrugs. “No particular preference. I have a nice yard and a forest near my house. Ample space for them.” The rest of the usual questions, he already answered through the online form.
“Well, we can meet some of them right now, and see if anybody tugs at your heart?” They offer in a friendly way.
‘At least I’m not being attended to by a rude fucker.’ He nods, following them through the corridor.
Indeed, all kinds of dogs. Big, small. Cute, intimidating. Some more disheveled than others. Some more roughed up than others. Some more traumatized-looking than others.
The employee catches his attention with a sad tone. “Ah, this poor boy has been here for a while.”
He looks at the dog they’re speaking about, and he does feel his numb heart tugged. It lays over a few blankets, looking at them pitifully, with its ears down and posture tense. The chart beside the cage classifies it a husky, but it looks nothing like a husky is supposed to look like. The sight of this dog could easily make children cry in terror, parents drag their kids away as they cover their eyes, and many others cringe and tense up with nightmare fuel.
Whatever this dog has been through, it has been worse than hell and back: while the rest of the dog’s fur is white, gray and black, its face is burnt red and lacks lips. It’s miraculously not blind.
Just like him.
He hears the employee take a deep breath. “His previous owner was an abuser; acid was poured over his face when he was a puppy, hence why he looks like that.” They turn their body to him, still looking at the cage door. “Nobody has wanted to adopt him because of his looks.”
“I’ll take him with me.” He declares with decisive tranquility.
The employee snaps his head at him, not having expected that. “Are you sure, Mr. Woods? It’ll take some time for him to get accustomed to you, the house, and over most of his traumatic experiences, if he ever recovers completely from some.”
He doesn’t stare back. He frowns. “I have all the time necessary.” He tightens his fists inside his hoodie pocket, staring back at the dog.
The employee hushes for a moment, then nods. “Very well. You may approach him gently; he might get aggressive if you make sudden movements.” They open the cage, and the dog twists its ears and widens its eyes, doubtful of their intentions.
He simply sits in front of it on the floor, legs criss-crossed, keeping some distance. “Hello, handsome.” He coos gently and joyfully, despite the sad emotion his eyes convey, and the dog tilts its head at him. He sees it wag its tail for a second, but it stills quickly. “Does it have a name?” He asks the employee without turning his head.
“It does, but you may change it. With the many animals we have, it’s impossible to interact with all of them and give them individual attention, so the name hasn’t been used much, if at all.” They explain.
He considers. Then, he keeps talking to the dog with a baby voice. “You are so cute, yes you are! What a pretty smile you have, all teeth!” And the dog knows it’s being babied, for it wags its tail left and right, even if it makes no move to approach.
He hears the employee shuffle behind him. “Here, give it a treat. See if it warms up to you a little bit. It’s responding quite well as it is.” He’s handed a little cookie treat.
He shows it to the dog, whose ears perk up at his gesture and sniffs the air. “I might be ugly, but I’m nice, I assure you!” He jokes self-deprecatingly. The dog wags its tail once more, moving its head this way and that, trying to get a more pungent waft of the treat. “Does he have permanent damage from the burns?” He inquires.
“His skin is sensitive, mostly around the eyes and nose. Eyesight wasn't damaged, thankfully. He did lose his lips, and gums were exposed, but he didn't ingest any acid.” The employee answers back.
Suddenly, the dog stands up sheepishly.
He remains still. “Come take your cookie. It’s for you!” He stretches his hand out just barely, to make emphasis but not scare it away. “I know you want it.” He makes smooching noises, and the dog tilts its head, ears flapping in the direction of the movement.
It takes a hesitant step forward, not breaking eye contact with him. Then it takes another, and another, and another, slow and wary but surely, until its muzzle is close to his hand. It eyes the owner of the hand one more time, expecting undeserved punishment, but it just doesn’t occur.
Instead, only sweet-sounding words keep falling from the man’s scarred mouth. “You almost have it.” He makes no attempt to move.
The dog’s mouth hovers over his hand, and gently takes the treat. It doesn’t chew the cookie yet; he keeps it between its teeth, just in case it's doing something bad. But since demise doesn’t befall upon it, it quickly works its jaw, then swallows, licking at its exposed teeth.
And it stays there, not daring to move, in case this was all a ruse.
The man’s eyes crinkle with glee. “Well done, sweet boy.” He doesn’t pull his hand away.
The dog stares at him some more, evidently confused, wobbling its eyebrows this way and that in consideration, and it stretches its neck to sniff his hand.
He hears shuffling behind him again, and he’s given another treat by the employee, which the dog notices. “Try to make him approach you.”
He does as he’s told, keeping the cookie closer to himself this time. The dog blinks at it, clearly interested. “Come closer. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” He speaks softly, as if the dog could understand what he means with those words.
But it’s almost as if it had, for it gets even closer to him. Right in front of him now, it hesitates to get any closer, and he lifts his hand for it to take the treat, not wanting to pressure it too much too soon. “Here you go.” The dog takes it, and chews it sooner this time. Then, they stare at each other, and feeling safe to do so with the employee behind him, he lowers his mask. “There’s nothing to fear.” He whispers, making himself smaller.
The dog decides to circle him, and when it comes around his left, it sniffs at his face. He lifts a hand, steady and with no hesitation, but letting the dog see the gesture. The dog seems to buffer, but lets him touch, having decided that he can be trusted for now. He makes no abrupt movements, and keeps petting the same area on its back over and over.
The dog smells him again, and wagging its tail once more, gives him a few tentative licks in the face. It’s eager to experience love, and it might find it with this man. Or so it hopes.
He grins. “I’m proud of you.” He whispers, as if he were speaking to his son, already attached to the dog. He leans in, giving a tentative kiss to the dog’s cheek where the exposed skin is thicker, and the dog stays still.
As he pulls away, the dog observes him with puzzlement, then hangs its tongue as it breathes through its mouth, more at ease.
“You are a good man, Mr. Woods.” He hears the employee say, having observed his exchange with the dog, apparently satisfied with what they’ve seen so far.
He smiles, strained. “I don’t deem myself good for giving this dog an opportunity to live happily.” He turns around, and watches the employee’s face turn politely blank when taking a good look at him. “I simply understand him better than most.”
⦻
He had gone to buy the necessary things: kibble, bowls, a bed, leash and harness, toys and treats, blankets, shampoo and a hair brush. He also made sure to get an antibacterial toothpaste to prevent any infections due to the dryness of the exposed gums. Then, he went back for the dog and brought it home with him.
Smile.
To anybody else, the name might sound mocking, darkly humorous. But he thinks it appropriate and fitting, not only because of the scars that prove his survival, but because of the happy days that are to come. If he’s not happy, he’ll make damn sure the dog is.
He decided to give him a bath, which had startled Smile at first, but he knew to be kind and patient.
This man, Jeff, doesn’t feel wrong to Smile, unlike his first human companion. After he suffered from their sadistic games, the idiot confused the bottle of acid for the drink they had been enjoying. They didn’t have as much luck as he did, and he only began to bark for help once he was sure they were dead.
He knows that this human is not despicable, and that he only means to clean him. So, even though he yelps first at the contact with water, he sits down in the shower and keeps babbling away, unhappy and shaking his body to rid himself of the offending soapy liquid, and soaking what he considers his new friend in the process.
Jeff just laughs, glad that Smile is not distressed, although he keeps protesting like huskies do, loud and unapologetic. He dries him up, then lets the boy roam free wherever he pleases; the dog follows him to the backyard.
He watches Smile as he sniffs around curiously, focusing on certain smells that his human self cannot detect. But Smile’s perusing is interrupted by a monarch butterfly that had the audacity to try and rest on his nose. Now he’s being entertained by the dog’s attempts to catch the insect with his mouth; he chuckles at his cute little jumps and the sound of his teeth chomping on air while the butterfly flies around him delicately.
Jeff will have to buy sunscreen for Smile’s face, and cream to keep his skin healthy and hydrated. He’ll wash his face with lukewarm water at the end of every day.
He takes a cigarette out of the box in his pocket, and lights it up. As he rests the spare lighter down beside him next to the ashtray, he hears footsteps; he looks down at Smile, who is no longer being harassed by the butterfly and has gotten bored of inhaling his entire house. The dog is staring up at him with wide, curious eyes.
“What? You want some?” Jeff jokingly offers his cigarette, and Smile turns his face with a wrinkled nose, in disagreement with the terrible smell the nicotine stick emits; he laughs, finding Smile’s cheeky expressiveness hilarious. The dog chooses to lay at his feet, trustful enough to give him his back. He scratches him behind his ears, and the dog tilts his head to provide better access. As he keeps on petting his hairy new friend, he looks around distractedly.
On the other side of his fence, far enough and with the forest behind it, is a house. It’s bigger than the rest of the properties in the vicinity, and more polished, elegant and sophisticated; no doubt a reflection of its owner’s tastes. The most noticeable difference in comparison to the rest of the houses nearby, though, is the ample amount of terrain, with a looming oak tree.
Under it, who he supposes must be the owner lies. The man, who’s pale face he cannot analyze due to the great distance, seems to be scribbling away in a notebook. It’s comical that he’s laying there, on the grass of his terrain, when he has a comfortable-looking house, for a simple reason; he’s doing so, dressed formally in a bespoke black suit and red tie along with expensive-looking shoes, seemingly oblivious to all that surrounds him at this moment.
It’s funnily discordant.
His observations are caught short, for he hears the doorbell ring.
He widens his eyes, to the point that he can feel them dry up in his freezed state. “...Fuuuuuck.” He says, immediately jumping to the worst possible scenario. Smile looks at him innocently, still not having made the connection between doorbell-equals-visitors, but having sensed his nervousness.
He gets up and puts the cigarette out in the ashtray beside him, leaving the dog to relax under the shadow of the fence and the backyard door open. He goes to the door, dread rock-heavy in his stomach. He looks through the peephole.
The dread is gone in an instant. In its place stands confusion. ‘Huh? Who could that be?’ He opens the door and greets the stranger. “Uh, hello…?” He speaks as he analyzes the figure in front of him, and any fear that he’ll be recognized for his appearance vanishes.
He’s a dark-skinned asian man, with black hair peeking from under his blue hoodie hat. Judging by the long white cane he carries with him, and since his eyes are closed, he must be completely blind. “Hello! I heard there was a new tenant around my age in this place, and wanted to at least greet you.” The man smiles, friendly. “Not many people around here, as you’ve probably noticed.”
In other circumstances, his hand would be flying to grab the doorknob and slam the door to shutting himself in, protected from any social contact that is not absolutely necessary. He does currently feel the compulsion to do exactly that. And yet, this dude has weird but good vibes, as if he could verbalize the darkest corners of his mind to him and the man wouldn’t even budge. Friend material, scarce as they come, and he’s admittedly quite lonely. “I did notice.” He responds. “...Would you like to come in?” He inquires. ‘That’s the polite thing to do, right?’ He thinks, doubting his manners.
The other man leans forward, friendly grin not gone. “Only if you promise not to gut me.” He jokes darkly.
He laughs, taking the joke for what it is, although feeling guilty in memory. “That depends on whether you’re the kind of guy that will drive me up the wall. But I promise I’ll be nice if you don’t poke me too much.” He retorts, following the jest, and opens the door all the way to let the man in.
The visitor makes use of his cane, and the host keeps an eye close for any obstacle in his way. He guides him to the sofa in the living room. ‘He moves around with surprising agility despite his disability. Wait…is that an ableist thought? I’m not sure.’ He shakes his head, thankful for the lack of scrutiny. “Would you like anything to drink? I have beer and, uh…water, I guess.” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly.
But the visitor puffs the awkwardness away. “Beer is fine. It’s been long since I had one with somebody.” He comments merrily, resting his cane on the floor.
“Alright.” He goes into the small kitchen, retrieves two cans from the fridge, then returns. “So…what’s your name?” He hands the other man his can, awkward again, feeling like the conversation has gone backwards from its supposed natural order: first should have been the name, then inviting him in, then the jokes.
If the man notices his social anxiety, he doesn’t comment on it. “Jack Nichols. And who do I have the pleasure to visit?” He asks with an overly polite tone.
He takes a deep breath, silently, so as not to let the other man know of his agitation. He feels regret for not hiding away like a cockroach when he had the chance. “...Jeff. Jeffrey Woods.” He answers, tone of voice humorless.
Jack hums, pondering. “Your name does ring a bell. Your tone tells me you don’t want to be recognized, but I sure as hell have never met a Jeff.” He opens the can with a pop, and sips. “What have you come here for? What are you running from, Jeff?”
Jeff blinks, not expecting such questions from the get-go. “Am I that obvious?” He asks, frowning.
“Nah, it’s just that people often come here for that. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and there’s places with far more opportunities out there. If you’ve moved here, it’s because you want to either cancel out the noise, disappear from the radar, or both.” Jack gesticulates with a hand. “But now that you’ve pretty much given yourself away…” He expects an explanation.
Jeff huffs; very well, then, he shall have it. If he’ll face judgment, might as well move it along and get rid of this visitor by being blunt. “Go back ten years. Does ‘kid kills his parents and neighbors, brother is left in a grave state’ ring a bell? The kid would be me.” He points out sullenly as he takes a swig from his beer.
Jack tilts his head. “It does. And ‘kid is brutally bullied, emotionally neglected by his parents and finally snaps, police was negligent in its initial investigation’ also rings a bell.” He retorts nonchalantly, making Jeff pause. “You sound like you expect judgment from me. But I don’t know you, so you won’t get it.” He leans back to rest his head on the headrest.
Jeff has been caught off guard again. ‘Right. I gave a statement back then, and that’s what was disclosed to the public, since I wasn’t found guilty due to mental illness. And damn, this fucker has good memory.’ He almost chuckles. “But the average Joe would run for the hills if they learnt they’re in my house. My person doesn’t smell safe and reliable.”
“You say that as if you knew for a fact that I’m safe and reliable myself.” Jack tilts his head and breathes in. “I’ve met disgusting pieces of shit who act and look like angels. The last, as I’ve been told, since—” He gestures to his eyes. “—anophthalmia: born without eyes.”
Jeff was unready for Jack’s answer once more, and because he didn’t ever imagine the existence of such a condition.
“But don’t let me deviate from the point.” Jack gesticulates, shrugging that matter aside. “The thing is, appearances are tricky, and I don’t care about taboos. If I have to hear the retelling of events, I’d like to hear it from your mouth if you ever feel like telling me, not a million dollar television business who likes to twist words for profit.”
Jeff stares at him with his mouth slightly agape; he closes it, shaking his head softly. “Why are you being so nice to me? We just met. You don’t know me.” He wants to feel suspicious, but can’t bring himself to feel that way; his instincts don’t warn him.
“And why would I be an ass?” Jack dabs his forefinger on the can. “It’s basic manners to not make assumptions. A thirteen-year-old doesn’t go berserk just because, and considering what happened beforehand, which you didn’t deny, it smells like you’ve suffered neglect and abuse, and that there’s more to your story.” He quickly lifts a finger. “I don’t pity you, if that’s what you're thinking: I abhor pity. I’ve been pitied many times throughout my life, and each time I just wanted to knock their teeth out.” He confesses calmly.
Jeff chuckles in sympathy; he has been pitied a few times, mostly when he was younger, but now people mostly have a shocked reaction and avoid him as if he were an offensive sight. Neither reactions are welcome, but the first is irking as well.
“I just want to get to know you, but I can only do that if you tell me about yourself; jumping to conclusions without hearing your side of the story would be unfair. There’s very few people around, barely any opportunities to make new friends. I could use new friends, and perhaps you do too.” Jack shrugs. “Perhaps you don’t.”
The offer is tempting for sure. Jeff rubs his temples with one hand, ready to make a friend for the first time in almost a decade, other than his newly adopted companion. “Fuck. Okay, I accept your offer. Just—” He huffs and drops his hand. “—keep being this honest if you can help it. That, I could use some of.”
Jack lifts his can. “I’ll be as honest as I can possibly be. This is just the default settings.” He jokes, and Jeff chuckles. “If you’re up for it at a later time, I have two other idiots to introduce you to. We could do group therapy together!”
Jeff snorts, spitting the beer through his nose (or rather, the remnants of his nose). He cackles, grasping at it in itching pain; once the bothersome sensation is gone, he wipes at his nose. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough therapy for a lifetime.” He decides to open up without getting into morbidly unnecessary details.
Jack listens intently, his face never judging, only curious. Once Jeff is done, he makes his expected input. “So I was right. Shitty parents, environment and circumstances.” He moves the can around, feeling the small amount of beer left.
“Don’t you think I'm deranged for what I’ve done?” Jeff asks him, still expecting judgment.
Jack shakes his head. “You did it while having a psychotic breakdown, and already atoned for what you did as much as you could.” He downs the last of his beer. “This really is a place where people come to forget. I think you’ll like it around here.” They stay in comfortable silence for a moment, then he breaks it. “May I touch your face? No pressure.”
Jeff concedes, a bit queasy. He gets closer to Jack, taking his hands and putting them on his face.
Jack drags the pads of his fingers through the expanse of his visage, creating a mental map of his image. He starts from the forehead and goes down, noting every nook and cranny, every scar and healthy patch of skin. Once he’s done, he grins. “Dude, you’re ugly as fuck!”
“Well, fuck you too!” Jeff cuts him in a returned jest, strangely not feeling offended at all; he realizes that he’s actually grinning. Perhaps this is just what he needed: to be able to open up and joke with someone, knowing that he’s not being evaluated.
They suddenly hear gentle footsteps.
Jack tilts his head, having perceived the noise quickly, while Jeff looks to his left behind the sofa; he sees Smile step into the living room. “That’s my dog. I just adopted him today, actually.” Jeff explains, turning to Jack again.
Jack does look judgemental now. “You got a dog and didn't introduce us right away? I should leave right now; you really are a bad person. But I’ll stay because I’m nice.” He jokes again.
Jeff gives Jack an unfazed look. “You’ll call my dog ugly too.” He turns his head at Smile, who is shyly approaching. “Smile! Come here, handsome!”
“Why did you call him, she— whatever the fuck it is, Smile?” Jack asks.
“Him…although does it really matter? And you’ll see. I mean, feel.” Jeff calls Smile again with smooching sounds, encouraging him to get closer.
Smile comes around the corner and eyes Jeff with hesitation when he sees the unknown human. But Jeff can be trusted, so he will trust this other guy. He comes to sniff Jack with timid steps, radiating warmth from sunbathing and feeling like a bun fresh out of the oven.
As Smile rolls his tongue out of his mouth, Jack pets him excitedly. He feels his face delicately per Jeff’s request. Then, he goes at it again. “You were right, this dog is uglier than reverse shitting.”
Jeff wacks him in the head gently, making him flinch. “I don’t care if you call me uglier than a fridge’s behind, but my dog you’ll respect.” He says, jokingly serious. “He looks like that because he was burned with acid.” He drinks from his can.
“...You hit me, a blind man. I bet you fantasize about kidnapping grannies and making them listen to autotuned songs.” Jack keeps scratching Smile behind his ears, and the dog is quickly warming up to him. “Well, he deserves all the pets.”
Jeff watches as Jack keeps pampering Smile, until a question comes to mind. “Hey, Jack. Do you know who’s house is behind mine? The one that is big and close to the woods?”
Jack lifts his head. “That would be Mr. Holzer. Toby works for him, and Jack says he’s pretty tall. He does sound pretty tall.” He explains.
Jeff becomes puzzled. “Wait, ’Jack’? Are you talking about yourself in third person right now, or…?” He questions, amused.
“Ha! No. He’s one of my other friends; we're namesakes.” He lets Smile go as the dog approaches Jeff for more pets. Jeff indulges as Jack continues. “A weird guy, but everybody here is weird as fuck.”
Jeff makes a quick mental map of the relationships. “I see.”
“Stop rubbing it on my face!” Jack jokes again, and Jeff chortles.
Saturday.
This is a far more interesting place than Jeff could have ever imagined.
Following EJ’s (Eyeless Jack; all in jest and good nature, since it was him who insisted: “It sounds badass, Jeff; you can’t deny it!”) offer two weeks ago, they meet his two other friends at the park, near the lake. He's currently sitting on the floor to EJ’s right, with Toby in front of him on a bench, and the other Jack still standing with a foot propped on the bench in front of EJ. First impressions:
Jack Lawrence is EJ’s namesake. The other two call him LJ, short for Laughing Jack; apart from it being his stage name (he works as a performer), the nickname prevents confusions, and suits him very well for his proclivity to do what it indicates. He’s a redhead dyed to black, hair reaching his shoulders, gangly-looking and a head taller than them all. He likes to dress as a creepy-ass-clown from the aesthetic of who-knows-when, wearing a full face of black and white makeup. He has azure blue eyes and a raspy voice.
He has both a jolly and depressing aura at once. Kind, but menacing if he wants to be.
Then, there’s Tobias Rogers. Normal looking guy at first glance, if fit, with dark circles under his brown eyes. His chocolate hair refuses to be tamed, sticking in weird angles in some places, and his short beard gives him a more put together, tough appearance. He has his septum pierced and adorned with a horseshoe silver piece, as well as snake-bite piercings adorned with rings.
The reason he doesn't look as normal at second glance is because he’s chewed through his left cheek, which has left him with quite the scar and his teeth exposed. He’s also wearing a black turtleneck thermal shirt and gloves despite the warm weather. The reason for both things: he suffers Congenital Insensitivity to Pain and Anhidrosis. He can’t feel pain, is unable to detect temperature, and won’t sweat. Furthermore, he has two other diagnosed disorders: Tourette’s Syndrome became obvious to Jeff in a very short amount of time, and the remaining is Bipolar Personality Disorder.
Rough and gentle looking at the same time, dichotomically. Keeps to himself, but will speak up if teased.
“That hunk of a man is even taller than me. What am I? Six-foot-two. He’s almost six-foot-seven!” LJ exclaims with wide eyes, having been reminded by EJ about Mr. Holzer. “If he didn’t shut himself in there so much, suitors would rain on him. He pierces your soul with those eyes. Not like any of you foul bitches have one, myself included!” He points at them all and breaks into a chortle, waving his strawberry lollipop around.
Toby trembles, but not because of his tics this time. “What feels foul is you talking about him like that. He’s like a father to me, for fucks sake!” He cringes, looking to the front to avoid LJ's provoking gaze.
“A father? More like a daddy.” LJ makes a perverted face, and Toby ‘ew’s. “And what a waist!” He gestures the silhouette of a waist with both of his hands, long nails painted with black matte polish. Toby seems ready to convulse in disgust, and LJ guffaws at him.
Jeff observes them from his spot on the floor all the while, amused at their interaction. As disgusted as Toby seems to be, Jeff knows their friendship is strong.
“Anybody would kill to either be dominated by him, or make him submit!” LJ continues torturing Toby, who is now protesting loudly to stop listening to his nonsense. “And he doesn’t even look forty. Bet he uses his facial muscles less than Kirsten Stewart—”
“Aaaaaah, shut the fuck up!” Toby covers his face, mortified. “We meet someone new, and this is what you talk about nonstop!” He uncovers his face, and looks at LJ with a scowl, left eye twitching.
“Then why don’t you entertain us, Waffle-boy?” LJ mocks Toby with a sneer. The other rolls his eyes to the side and sighs in annoyance.
“Why does he call you that?” Jeff asks with a grin, curious at the specific nickname, while petting Smile’s fur as he lies in front of them.
Toby gesticulates lazily. “My mother made us some waffles when she came over to visit. I was crazy about them just to appease her, and he thought it was hilarious…now he calls me that.”
“Very endearing, appeasing momma Connie. Always a green flag to look for in a man…if your momma is not an abuser, that is.” LJ leans down and pets Jeff’s head, and the other chuckles, surprisingly comfortable with these two crackheads.
“Ah. Yeah.” Toby shrugs in a tic. He’s looking at Jeff sympathetically. “Kinda relate, although I didn’t have the opportunity to kill my sperm donor. He fled after I beat him up, dragged him outside and threatened to kill him for abusing me, my mother and...” His brown eyes turn distant and somber.
They all know comforting words and gestures will not work with him, including the newbie but ever perceptive Jeff. Toby’s too emotionally detached, too apathetic to feel the warmth of their support.
LJ takes the spotlight, letting Toby forget for another while. “I grew up in foster care, so I can’t relate on that front. I befriended a guy in school, but his mother sent him away to boarding school in London. I haven't seen him since.” He tells Jeff with a nonchalant smile.
‘Whoever that was, they must have been close for him to mention it.’ Jeff notes with ease, soaking up the details.
“Good for him, though. Father was a scumbag who would beat his mother up and assault her, while she would take it out on him.” LJ continues with a slight grimace on his mouth.
Jeff considers his words carefully. That doesn’t sound like something a child should have been aware of, especially at that age. But then again, it seems like they all experienced disturbing situations, even if at different stages, but all of them while underage. He focuses on something else, instead; digging on that won’t bear any fruit. “He told you he would come back, and he hasn’t. Right?” He deduces by LJ’s disappointed tone.
For a moment, a box opens, and Jeff sees a lonely man who spends his life caring for others. He sees simmering rage for being abandoned for so long by who he considered a dear and close friend, hope decaying like leaves in autumn.
But hope is still there, even if it’s moribund: it’s azure blue. There might be a day when that man returns, freeing him from that eternal wait that has drained him of color, of vibrancy. He shall no longer be forlorn.
The box’s lid comes back down just as fast. “You’re very perceptive!” LJ exclaims, jolly. “He did tell me that, and it was an empty promise. But oh, well…we were children, and people grow apart as time goes by and have no means of contact. It was expected.” He shrugs it off, sitting and crossing his legs one over the other with a nonchalant air.
EJ returns LJ the favor the latter did Toby. “I don’t have any trauma, and I believe I’m neurotypical. I’m just a blind and dark-skinned asian.” He deadpans, and everybody laughs with different varieties of volume: LJ cackles, Jeff chortles and Toby chuckles. “Kind of a bother in this ableist and racist world. But other than that, everything is fine.”
They stay silent for a moment. Toby breaks it. “We really are—” He cuts off in an involuntary whimper. “—a bunch of freaks, aren't we?”
“At least we’re hot.” LJ wiggles his eyebrows, putting his lollipop back in his mouth. Toby glances at him from the corner of his eye with doubt.
“EJ disagrees with that statement; he called me ugly when we first met two weeks ago. Me and my dog.” Jeff comments while side-eyeing EJ, and petting Smile’s head, almost as if saying: “Don’t listen to this idiot, my baby!”
Toby and LJ look down at the dog with wide eyes, blink a few times, then rest their eyes on EJ, who is showing no signs of being ashamed. LJ takes the lollipop out of his mouth to speak. “You, Mr. Nichols, are a savage.” He looks back at Jeff, pointing at EJ with the candy. “His favorite food is pig kidneys: a carnivore in all his splendor. I’d prefer Toby-Teddy-Bear’s mommy’s waffles any day!”
EJ glows under what he considers praise, while Toby (who was busy biting his lower lip absentmindedly) lids his eyes and turns to LJ. “You know I can take your nose, right?” He grabs his conical, stripped clown nose and tugs, letting the rubber band do the rest of the work as he releases it, hitting LJ’s face with a snap.
“OWIE! Toby, you meanie!” LJ grasps at the fake nose. He lowers his voice into a grave growl. “I'll use glue next time. And I’ll tell your daddy about this for sure—!”
With a disgusted face, and the tic in his eye having returned, Toby takes one of his gloves off and smacks LJ’s face with it whilst, to Jeff’s notice, hiding the exposed hand in his pocket. “If I had to describe physical pain without having ever felt it, I would describe you!”
Jeff breaks their bickering. “Say, Rogers, aren’t you running hot in that?” He has come with a black tank top and short jeans, EJ with a short-sleeved gray T-Shirt and short jeans too, and LJ has his fringed hair in a cute low tail and a summer clown attire, with a striped tank top and striped socks. Toby has to be running hot in that attire.
“He’s right, you should be more mindful. The idea is that you live longer than twenty-five; you’ll die from literal hotness at this rate!” LJ chastises him, raising a hand to touch Toby’s forehead. The other flinches in surprise. “You’re scalding. Get that off.” He no longer sounds like he’s joking.
Toby frowns at him. “We’re under a shadow. I’ll be fine—”
“He’s right, Toby. You underestimate the danger.” EJ interjects, calmly logical.
Toby gets exasperated. “Fine!” He relents through gritted teeth. He takes the remaining glove and his turtleneck off, leaving him with just a gray shirt of long sleeves, and he sets them all beside him without much care. “Are you all happy now?” He scowls at nobody in particular.
Jeff cannot help but hover his eyes over Toby’s hands before he hides them between his knees again. The knuckles are scarred, and even raw in some areas, probably from biting himself. And his hair looks even messier than before, of course.
“Very! Although it’s a pity you won’t let me ogle you properly in this weather.” LJ is back to his giddy self. “Still, momma Connie would be so proud—!” He’s hit with a glove again.
⦻
He takes the leash off of Smile, letting him go into the house. As he hangs it on the wall, over where the shoes are placed, he can hear him go to the kitchen and drink from his bowl; he smiles, feeling quite content for once in so long.
Well, life doesn’t seem so gloomy anymore; he has his own house, has adopted Smile, and has made a few friends in a short amount of time. Sure, it could be better, but he’s not about to complain.
He goes to the kitchen. Jeff is not the best of cooks, but he can at least fry and boil things without knocking the contents over himself, and he knows how to use an oven (although that one took some time to understand; so many options in the wheels).
Before doing his own dinner, though, he makes sure to prepare something for Smile; kibble is good, obviously, but he likes to give him at least one homemade meal each day. Nothing extraordinary, mostly rice and a bit of chicken, along with some veggies. Having boiled the rice and the chicken before getting out, he starts by chopping the meat and vegetables.
He feels something graze his leg from behind, and he grins. “You know what time it is, don't you?”
Smile goes around the corner and stretches his neck, trying to peek over the counter to see what Jeff is cooking; he knows by now that it’s nothing different from what he always gets for dinner, but he still does that.
Seeing the fluffy boy get so excited over such a simple thing is heart-warming. ‘I could change the chicken for turkey sometimes, and use other vegetables.’ Other variants will make Smile wonder. He doesn’t want him to get bored by having the same thing over and over, and adding other ingredients will result in getting different nutrients.
He crouches down with the plate once he’s done, and Smile tries to reach it quickly. Jeff corrects him with a quick ‘hey’ and a lifted finger, and Smile sits down patiently, polite. He puts it down on the floor, and once he’s satisfied with his dog’s proper behavior, he lets him eat.
He finishes making his own dinner (instant noodles, a turkey sandwich and a beer; he cares more about Smile’s health than his own) and takes the plates to the living room. He puts them on the low coffee table and sits himself on the sofa, Smile close on his tail. He has a cheap Smart TV to entertain himself with, at least.
He eats under the watchful eye of Smile, who acts like a roaming vacuum as soon as something, the smallest piece, falls to the floor. He carries the plates to the sink once he’s done, puts his hair in a low tail, and does the dishes.
Just as he’s finished drying his hands, the doorbell rings.
As he becomes tense, knowing that it’s not EJ or any of the other two, Smile woofs softly (as best as he can with no lips to vocalize). With a déjà vu feeling paired with anxiety, Jeff cannot appreciate the adorable sound his friend just made.
He goes to answer the door, and for the second time now, his dread is replaced by puzzlement: another person he doesn’t know. He opens the door to greet the strange individual. Not strange in the same way as EJ or his other new friends, no; it’s a different kind of strange.
The man in front of him is a tad smaller than him, just the littlest bit shorter. He has blonde hair and sky blue eyes; the appearance of an elf, although good-looking by society’s standards. He’s wearing a wool jacket and a shirt with a triangle symbol (he swears he knows it from somewhere) from which collar silver glasses hang.
Jeff doesn’t need to be a genius to know this man is a geek of some sort. The kind of poor soul the bullies back in his hometown would’ve glomped down without much effort. But he was not a geek, and he got chomped thoroughly and parts of him were spit, nonetheless.
And in case the shirt is not enough of a clue of his geekiness, here’s another one: the man carries a suitcase with him, and seems timid. If he has to make a guess, it’s because of having to socialize in any way.
The man flinches when he sees Jeff, but quickly composes himself. “Um…h-hello.” The stranger does not only seem nervous, he also sounds nervous; Jeff is pretty sure he’s nervous. “I-I know this is going to be a strange request, especially this late, but…c-could I please use your computer, if you have one?” The guy gives him a timid smile.
Jeff doesn’t know if it’s because of the influence this place has on him, or the impression he’s gotten of him, or what the fuck it is. But against his better judgment, which would have told him that blondie just wants to sell him something or steal, or another shady business altogether, and despite the man’s initial reaction to his own person, he lets him in. “Sure, come in.” He steps aside and turns around only to find Smile sitting in the hallway, eyeing the guy with curiosity. He looks back at the stranger. “Don’t worry, the dog doesn’t bite.”
The blond man gets in, not worried about the dog, although Jeff can see his thought process upon seeing Smile’s face. He almost laughs, thinking of the man going ‘These two match faces!’ in his head.
“You can sit here if you want to.” Jeff gestures to the sofa. “Will a laptop do?” He sincerely hopes so; it would be embarrassing to have let him in for nothing.
The stranger gives him an expectedly nervous, but sincere smile. “Yes, thank you. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” He quickly sits, and once Jeff approaches him with the laptop, he turns on the device.
“No problem.” Jeff doesn’t show any semblance of annoyance, for he’s not annoyed in the slightest; a bit nervous due to the unexpected visit, but nothing unmanageable. He sits on the left side, beside the visitor, flopping his right arm on the armrest.
Once the man begins working, having put his glasses on, Jeff lowers his eyes to the keyboard, who the man starts manipulating like a cheap kazoo. He seems to be doing something quite hard; the kind of thing a hacker would do, with lots of codes and numbers. He feels the need to tell the man that he better not do something illegal, having enough knowledge himself to understand that whatever blondie does can be tracked down.
But the man beats him to it. “Don’t worry, I’m not doing anything illegal.” He chuckles awkwardly. At least he’s somewhat preceptive, Jeff must give him that. “In any case, I won’t be tracked down, I assure you.”
Before Jeff can feel the puzzlement born from that statement set in, the stranger leans over the armrest, and takes something else out. ‘Is that a Nintendo 64 console?’ He opens his eyes wide, nonplussed. ‘I should really beat this runt up if he’s come here just to play. But then again, why would he be so anxious if that were the case? Unless he’s the kind of addicted dude that cannot go without playing for at least twenty hours out of twenty-four in the day. But a laptop is not needed to play that console…’ He tries to make sense of the situation.
For more befuddlement, see what he does next: he takes out a 4MB Expansion Pak, and an old-looking cartridge. As the stranger installs both and connects the console to the laptop, Jeff can see the sticker on the cartridge. It reads: ‘The Legend of Zelda: Majora’s Mask’. Right beside the sticker, in vertical letters, he can also read something else written in permanent red marker: ‘B.E.N.’
‘Is that his name?’ Jeff doesn’t understand what's going on. “Um…” He doesn’t even know how to begin. “...what’s your name?”
The stranger, who was absorbed in his task with a very somber, concentrated look, suddenly lifts his eyebrows and seems to remember where he is. “O-oh, yeah, sorry, where are my manners!” He coughs, more a nervous gesture than an actual necessity to clear his throat. “I’m Benjamin. Again, I’m very sorry for intruding on you like this, it’s just—” He tenses up for a moment, looking down and around, then smiles wearily again. “—I just moved, and I work in I.T. I didn’t get to buy a computer just yet and I need one to work, and with a tight schedule and all…” His words wear off as he finishes his rambling. He scratches at his nape, clearly uncomfortable.
Something tells Jeff that Benjamin is not being entirely honest. ‘You work in I.T. and don’t have a device to work with?’ But at least he doesn’t seem to have a malicious bone in his body, to Jeff’s perception. “Don’t worry, I understand.” No, he does not, but the last thing he wants is an uncomfortable visitor that will, in turn, make him uncomfortable. He prepares himself for a possible recognition, cringing internally. “My name is Jeff, by the way. Would you like something to drink?”
“Um…no, but thank you anyway.” Benjamin taps the keyboard repeatedly, once more becoming concentrated. And, to Jeff’s relief, he makes no sign of remotely knowing who he is.
Just as Jeff is lamenting this strange situation, his lightbulb turns on. “That’s it!” He exclaims in a whisper and with light snapping of his fingers, but not low enough that Benjamin won’t notice; he has, in fact, noticed, and is glancing at him with bewilderment. He turns to look him in the eye. “Your shirt, it’s the Triforce!”
And that does the trick.
Benjamin turns around and beams at him with the wonder of a child, forgetting his task for a moment. “You’ve played Zelda games before?” His change in expression is astronomical: he had been looking tired, jumpy and reserved, but now he’s glowing.
‘Is it your obsession with the franchise, or is it because you’ve met someone that also likes it?’ Jeff wonders inwardly, not finding the idea of Benjamin being a lonely man implausible. “Yup, but it’s been a long time, hence why it didn’t come to me right away. Didn’t they launch a new game recently for the Nintendo Switch?” He inquires, hoping to fish more conversation out of the reserved creature that’s invaded his living room.
“Yes! ‘Tears of the Kingdom’!” Benjamin is quick to answer. But he quickly remembers what he came for, and returns his gaze and fingers to the laptop, glow diminishing to almost nothing.
“And what exactly are you doing? Isn’t that an old game?” Jeff doesn’t give up, and still tries to converse with the blond. He prefers that cheerier facet of his to this one.
“Uhm…” Benjamin seems anxious again for some reason. “...it’s a defective cartridge. I’m trying to restore it, because, you know, it’s a rare item to come by. Quite valuable amongst vintage game collectors.”
Again, Jeff feels that Benjamin is not being completely truthful, but he doesn’t push it. “I see.” He tries to change the subject. “Did you move here recently?”
“Yup! I’m actually close to you. Houses around here are pretty cheap and of great quality.” Benjamin inputs something that makes absolutely no sense to Jeff into a tab. “I haven’t had the time to explore the neighborhood, though, but it looks promising—”
Suddenly, something red and black pops up on the screen: a silent screamer.
But Jeff realizes that Benjamin has quite the quick reflexes, because before he’s able to discern what it is that has popped up, the blonde snaps the laptop closed, forcefully and loudly.
They both stay still and quiet for a moment. Jeff simply looks at Benjamin in stupefaction. Benjamin stares to the front, nowhere in particular, with a mix of vacancy and disconcertment.
Slowly, Benjamin turns to look at Jeff, not entirely present. “I’m sorry…you must think I’m a lunatic. I shouldn’t have treated your possessions like this, that was very rude of me.” He smiles, not nervous this time; he looks frustrated. “I think it’s best if I leave, I’ve bothered you enough already. I’ll pay for any damage your laptop suffered.”
As Benjamin leans forward to disconnect all machinery, Jeff just can’t help it; he grasps his arm, not tight but firm, making the other halt his movements. Surprised, and looking a bit rattled, Benjamin looks at him, who has a serious look on his face. “Is everything alright?” He asks without thinking.
The blond blinks at him, and Jeff can see a flash in his eyes: the desire to let the flood escape, to stop drowning in anxiety. To let another presence his anguish and lift some pressure off of him, to make his lungs stop burning. The same moon that knows his distress, that has looked through his crumbling semblance, mocks him cruelly. But, of course, Benjamin won’t give into his desires that easily. “Of course. Everything’s fine, Jeff.” He wears a friendly little smile.
Jeff’s face doesn’t relax. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, as if changing the angle would help him get a better look at Benjamin’s psyche. “May I ask why you’ve moved here?”
Benjamin frowns a little, his smile still not vanishing. “I already told you, didn’t I? The houses were cheap—”
“No.” Jeff shakes his head. “I know that is not why you came. And I know you didn’t come here to use my laptop just because you have to fix a game.” He stares severely at the other man. “You don’t have to tell me, obviously. We just met, it would be imprudent and I’m not entitled to know. But…” He looks to the side, sighing. He looks at the blond again. “...don’t lie, okay? Keep it to yourself as much as you want, tell me that you don’t want to share it, whatever it is. But don’t lie to me.”
Benjamin just stares at him, now completely stoic.
They’re distracted by a whine.
They both look in the direction of the desk at the same time, and find Smile, chin resting on the low coffee table, looking in between them with wariness.
It is by Smile’s distraction that Jeff realizes he’s acted impulsively. He turns his head to stare at his hand, which is still holding onto Benjamin’s arm. He releases him, regretful. “I’m sorry, I’m no one to demand anything from you. And don’t worry about the laptop, it’s old, cheap second-hand trash anyway.”
Benjamin doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t even look uncomfortable anymore, just confused. And a bit impressed, perhaps.
“Do you plan on staying here for long?” Jeff asks, trying to bring back the conversation; some semblance of normalcy to the situation.
Benjamin lowers his gaze, looking at the laptop. “I do.” He’s hesitant for a moment. “...Jeff?”
“Hm?” Jeff eyes Smile, who is still focused on them, analyzing their movements. The poor dog must’ve gotten anxious because of his antics.
Benjamin bites at his lower lip. “Whatever that was…thank you. I’ll buy the laptop from you, just name a price.” He offers eagerly.
Jeff frowns; looks like he didn’t miscalculate, after all. And for some reason, he believes Benjamin’s offer is not just out of extreme politeness, but also necessity and practicality. Declining his offer might do more harm than good, or that’s how it feels like to him, at least. “As you wish.” He responds.
He watches as Benjamin starts packing, laptop and all. Jeff stands up after the blonde does to accompany him to the door. As he opens it and Benjamin steps out, Jeff asks him one more question. “Could you use any friends, Benjamin?”
For the first time, Benjamin chuckles. “Please, just Ben. I feel like an old, wrinkled and wise man if you call me that.” He jokes lightly, and Jeff nods with a smile. “I guess I could use one.”
“I’ll be meeting mine again tomorrow. I’ve just met two of them today, and they’re a nice trio. Just saying.” Jeff leans forward, letting the offer sit in the air. “At five. Just saying.” He chortles.
Ben smiles back. “I’ll consider it.” They exchange numbers, and once they’re done he goes down the porch steps, but turns around one last time. “Thank you, Jeff.”
They wave at each other, and Jeff watches Ben turn left and begin his way home. He can actually see his house on the other sidewalk, to the far left. Strange encounter, but not unwelcome.
He tries to take a step back into the house, only to collide with a fluffy obstacle. He looks down behind him, and finds Smile staring at him with a suspicious expression. He gets back in and closes the door, crouching down at eye level with the dog. “Nothing’s wrong! Why the long face?” He asks with his baby voice, and Smile tilts his head at him adorably. “Did I scare you? I’m sowwy!” He blabbers some more, and Smile lifts his front paws to play with him.