Jason Voorhees

Cold air seeped through the cracks in the window, making me wrap my blanket tighter around myself. Jason Voorhees stood frozen in an ominous blue light on the screen, ready for another kill. I shuddered involuntarily.

Next to me on the couch, also wearing a hockey mask, sat he… Jason. The real one. Or, at least, the one who looked and acted like the real Jason Voorhees. How that was possible, I still didn't understand, but it was hard to argue with the fact.

My legs ached and throbbed after a long day, and I groaned softly, rubbing my ankle. Without a word, Jason pulled my leg out from under the covers. His movements were smooth and confident, despite his bulk. The red nail polish glowed on my toes like bright beacons.

I tried to protest, but he just shook his head, indicating that I should relax. And I complied. Oddly enough, I felt safe in his presence.

He took my foot in his huge hands, which bore old scars—evidence of his turbulent past. His touch was strong but gentle, as if he were afraid of hurting me.

Gently kneading each toe, admiring the way the red polish stood out against the rough skin, he slowly moved up my leg, massaging the calf muscles that ached with fatigue. Meanwhile, blood flowed on the screen, and I, as if in another world, felt the tension leave my body.

Yes, he was the real Jason Voorhees, the ruthless killer from the movies. But he was also my Jason, caring and loving, willing to do anything to make me happy.

I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. It was strange, of course, lying on the couch, watching a horror movie, and getting a foot massage from Jason Voorhees himself. But this was my life. And, frankly, I liked it.

Through the mask, I felt his gaze, full of tenderness and love. And in that moment, I knew everything would be okay. Even if a storm raged outside and blood spilled on the screen, I was safe because my Jason was by my side.