Jason... A Boy Who Just Wanted A Friend

This story deals with the bullying, ridicule, isolation, and the untimely passing of a special needs child.

Of all the short stories I've written here on Reedsy, this one was the most difficult. Trying to convey some of what he went through while maintaining respect to those with special needs.

I hope this story makes you think and makes you feel something.

Though just a fictional character in a successful horror film franchise, Jason Voorhees lost his life at just 7 years of age.

A lot of people don't know his backstory.

Jason wasn't exactly a "normal" child on the outside, though he longed to be and just wanted a friend. He had physical deformities and whether or not he had any mental limitations... is up for constant debate.

I took a few liberties with his origin. For example... adding a camp counselor who befriended him, his physical descrition, his inner thoughts, and the fact Jason loved to draw things in a notebook he carried around.

Regardless, this story is just a snapshot of Jason's short, tragic childhood... the summer of 1957.

The story behind the mask.

*************

The scent of pine needles and damp earth, a fragrance that promised adventure to other children, only whispered of isolation to 7-year-old Jason Voorhees.

His world was a kaleidoscope of muted colors and distorted sounds. His body’s imperfect composition, a collection of flaws, made him a target.

His legs, though capable of movement, were clumsy, his gait a perpetual shuffle. His face, well, it was the kind that made other children point and laugh, made adults whisper and look away.

He sat on the rough-hewn log, a small, hunched figure at the edge of the boisterous camp. The sun, a warm, golden hand on most, felt like a spotlight on him, illuminating every difference, every flaw.

Laughter, bright and carefree, drifted from the lake, where a dozen children splashed and shrieked. Their joy was a sharp contrast to the dull ache in his chest.

They were playing a game, some version of tag, he thought, their bodies lithe and quick, their movements fluid.

He watched, his heart yearning, a silent plea echoing in the cavern of his mind: Let me play. Let me be one of you.

His mother, Pamela, was a constant, formidable presence, a human shield against the cruelties of the world. Her love for him was a fierce, all-consuming flame, burning so brightly it sometimes singed him.

She saw the world as a threat, every raised voice, every averted gaze, every whispered word a potential arrow aimed at her son. She was truly a mama bear, with a guttural growl and claws to match for anyone who dared to wound her cub.

This camp was supposed to be different.

She had been assured it was a place of acceptance, a haven for all children. But even here, in this idyllic setting, the fundamental truth remained: Jason was different.

He shifted on the old log, the splintery wood digging into his small frame.

A red ball, bright as a cardinal’s feather, bounced near his feet. It had escaped the game, a rogue sphere seeking freedom.

His breath hitched.

Then he thought: This was it. This was his chance.

He could pick it up, toss it back, and maybe, just maybe, someone would look at him, truly see him, and say, “Hey, want to play?”

He bent, his movements slow and deliberate, his hands reaching for the vibrant orb. It felt heavy in his grasp, smooth and cool against his rough skin. He straightened, his gaze fixed on the group in the water.

They were still laughing, still playing, oblivious to the small miracle that had just landed at his feet. He took a hesitant step forward, then another, the red ball clutched against his chest like a precious treasure.

“Hey!” he croaked, his voice a reedy whisper, unused to the sound of itself.

No one heard him. Their shouts and splashes drowned him out.

He tried again, a little louder this time, a desperate plea for recognition.

“Hey! Your ball!”

A few heads turned, then a few more.

The laughter died down, replaced by a sudden, jarring silence. Eyes, curious at first, quickly shifted to something else—a flicker of apprehension, a widening of pupils, a subtle tightening of lips.

The silence stretched, an uncomfortable chasm between him and them.

One of the boys, a tall, freckled child with a shock of red hair, pointed.

“Look!” he yelled, his voice carrying clearly across the water. “It’s the freak!”

The word, sharp and cruel, pierced through Jason. He flinched, as if physically struck.

The red ball, once a beacon of hope, now felt like a lead weight. He wanted to drop it, to run, to disappear into the whispering pines. But he couldn’t. He just stood there, frozen, the object of their collective gaze.

“He looks like a monster.” A girl added.

More giggles followed, then a nervous tittering that quickly escalated into outright laughter. It wasn’t the joyous laughter from before, but a harsh, taunting sound that echoed in his ears.

The red ball slipped from his grasp, bouncing once before rolling lazily back towards the water.

Tears, hot and thick, welled in Jason’s eyes. His vision blurred, the children in the water becoming indistinct, swirling blurs of color. He turned, stumbling, the world tilting precariously.

He had only wanted to play—only wanted a friend.

That night, Pamela held him close, stroking his matted hair, her own eyes blazing with a protective fury.

“They don’t understand, Jason. They don’t see what a special boy you are.” But Jason, nestled in the warmth of her embrace, knew better.

They saw him. They saw his differences, his deformities, and they recoiled. His mother’s love, while a comfort, couldn’t erase the sting of their words, couldn’t mend the broken pieces of his shattered heart.

The summer wore on, a slow, agonizing crawl for Jason. The camp, with its promise of fun and camaraderie, became a prison. He spent his days in the shadowed corners, watching the other children, a silent observer of their vibrant lives.

He saw them build sandcastles, chase butterflies, their laughter light and airy as they darted through the meadows. He watched them gathered around the campfire, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames as they shared stories and roasted marshmallows.

Each moment was a fresh wound, a reminder of the life he yearned for but could never touch.

Yet, amidst the loneliness, a sliver of light appeared, a splash of vibrant color in his muted world—Sarah, one of the camp counselors.

She had bright blue eyes, golden blonde hair, often tied in bouncy pigtails that seemed to dance with her every movement. Sarah was bright and cheerful, a quality that, with her, felt different. She had a way of looking at him, not with pity or discomfort, but with genuine warmth.

She made him feel like he belonged. Made him feel like he mattered.

She was his friend.

Sarah would often find him sketching in his worn notebook, his clumsy hands laboring over charcoal lines. She would sit beside him, her voice soft and encouraging.

“That’s wonderful, Jason! Look at the detail in that tree.” She always encouraged him in his drawing, telling him he could be an artist. Her words, so simple, were like a balm to his soul, filling a space he hadn’t even known was empty.

One warm and muggy afternoon, Sarah decided to try something new.

“Come on, Jason,” she’d said, her eyes sparkling with encouragement. “Let’s go down to the lake. I can teach you how to swim.”

Jason’s heart thumped with a mix of excitement and apprehension. His mother’s warnings about the lake, about the unseen dangers, echoed in his mind. But the chance to be with Sarah, to learn something new, to be, for a fleeting moment, like the other children, encouraged him.

He followed her to the shallow end of the lake. Sarah was patient, her hands gentle as she guided his limbs.

“Kick your legs, Jason, like this! And try to blow bubbles when you put your face in.” He tried, he really did.

He swallowed mouthfuls of the clouded lake water, coughing and sputtering, the panic rising in his throat. He thrashed, his efforts more desperate than effective.

Suddenly, his feet slipped. He went under, a cold rush of water engulfing him. He choked, water burning his lungs. He could feel Sarah’s hands, strong and quick, pulling him up, but for a terrifying moment, he was alone in the dark, suffocating embrace of the lake.

Sarah pulled him onto the shore, his small body trembling, soaked and gasping for air. Her face was pale, her usual cheerfulness replaced by a look of profound concern.

Pamela, drawn by the commotion, had seen it all. Her eyes, normally filled with fierce love, narrowed into slits of pure, unadulterated rage. She rushed forward, pulling Jason into her arms, glaring at Sarah.

“What do you think you were doing?!” she shrieked, her voice a guttural growl, echoing across the quiet cove. “He could have drowned! Stay away from my son! Don’t you dare touch him again!”

Sarah tried to explain, to apologize, but Pamela was beyond reason. Her protective instincts, always on a hair trigger, had spiraled out of control.

The scene was ugly, raw with a mother’s fear and anger.

The very next day, Sarah was fired at his mother’s insistence.

Jason saw her packing her car, her bright pigtails subdued, her usually cheerful face streaked with tears.

He watched from behind a large pine tree as she drove away, a cloud of dust trailing behind her.

His only friend—gone.

The camp, once again, felt vast and empty.

Pamela, ever vigilant, tried to create her own activities for him. She read him stories, her voice a soothing balm. She helped him collect interesting rocks, pointing out the subtle beauty in their patterns and colors. She taught him how to identify different birds by their calls.

But even her boundless love couldn’t fill the chasm of his loneliness. He would nod, he would listen, he would even offer a rare, hesitant smile, but his gaze would always drift towards the distant sounds of the other children, a silent longing etched in his eyes.

One sweltering afternoon, the remaining counselors, a group of teenagers more interested in flirting with each other than supervising the children, decided it was time for a swim.

Jason, despite his physical limitations and not knowing how to swim, he loved the water. It was the one place where his clumsy movements felt less pronounced, where the buoyancy offered a fleeting sense of grace.

But his mother, her protectiveness bordering on paranoia, had instilled in him a deep-seated fear of the lake’s deeper water, of the unseen dangers that lurked beneath its clouded surface.

And after the incident with Sarah, that fear had only intensified, a constant knot in his stomach.

“Stay in the shallow end, Jason,” she would always warn, her voice tight with anxiety. “Don’t go out too far.”

Her words, meant to protect him, only amplified his desire to prove he could be like the other children.

The children, shrieking with delight, plunged into the cool water.

Jason, standing at the edge, hesitated.

He watched as they splashed each other, their bodies glistening in the sunlight. He saw a few of the boys daring each other to swim out to the floating dock, their small figures growing smaller and smaller as they propelled themselves through the water. A familiar ache tightened his chest.

He took a tentative step into the water, the cool liquid a shock against his skin. It rose to his knees, then his waist. He could feel the familiar pull, gentle but persistent.

He looked back at the shore, at the handful of counselors chatting near the picnic tables, their backs mostly turned. They weren’t watching.

A group of boys, the same ones who had mocked him all summer, were playing a game of catch with a deflated beach ball. One of them, the freckled boy, threw the ball too hard, and it sailed over the heads of the others, landing with a soft plop near Jason.

“Get it, freak!” the boy shouted, a cruel smile on his face.

Jason’s heart hammered against his ribs. He wanted to refuse, to turn and walk away, but the desire, the desperate, unyielding yearning to be accepted, to be a part of their game, however small, overwhelmed his fear.

He began to wade towards the ball, his movements slow and ungainly. The water grew deeper with each step, the lakebed sloping unexpectedly. The deflated ball bobbed tantalizingly just out of his reach. He stretched out his arm, his fingers brushing against the rough plastic. He took another step, then another.

Suddenly, the ground beneath his feet vanished.

He gasped, a mouthful of cold water filling his lungs. He thrashed, his arms flailing wildly, his legs kicking uselessly against the water’s increasing pressure.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized him.

He remembered his mother’s warnings, her frantic pleas to stay safe, Sarah’s gentle hands, and the terror of almost drowning before.

He broke the surface, coughing and sputtering, his eyes wide with terror. He saw the boys, still watching, their cruel smiles replaced by expressions of dawning alarm.

He tried to call out, to scream for help, but only a gurgle escaped his throat.

His head went under again. The world became a swirling vortex of green and brown, the sunlight a distant, shimmering disc. He opened his eyes, the water burning, and saw the blurry outlines of fish darting past. He kicked, he struggled, but his thrashing pulled him further down, down into the darkened depths.

He heard muffled shouts from above, distant and indistinct, like voices carried on the wind. He felt a fleeting touch, a hand reaching for him, but it slipped away, lost in the chaotic churn of the water. He was alone, utterly and completely alone, in a world that had always rejected him.

Even Sarah, his only friend, was gone.

His lungs burned, a searing pain that consumed him. The urge to breathe, an uncontrollable primal scream, overwhelmed everything else. He choked, water filling his mouth, his nose, his throat. His vision faded, the green and brown swirling into an indistinct black.

The yearning, the desperate, lifelong yearning for acceptance, for friendship, for a simple game of catch, flickered and died. It was replaced by a profound weariness, a surrender to the cold embrace of the lake. He felt himself sinking, a slow, inexorable descent into the silence.

His last thought, a fragile whisper in the vast emptiness, was of Sarah. Her smiling face, her bouncy pigtails, her kind words about his drawings, the way she made him feel like he mattered. He wished she was there.

And then—darkness.

The summer camp, once a place of laughter and innocent joy, became a place of somber silence. The bright colors faded, replaced by muted tones of regret and sorrow. The sounds of children playing were replaced by the hushed whispers of adults, their faces etched with grief and accusation.

The lake, once a sparkling jewel, now felt like a dark, insatiable maw. No one swam in it anymore. No one dared to.

The counselors, those careless teenagers, were gone, their youthful exuberance replaced by the haunted pallor of guilt.

Pamela, her heart shattered into a million pieces, became a wraith, haunting the edges of the camp, her cries echoing through the empty cabins. Her protective fury, once a shield, now turned inward, a self-lacerating agony.

She had failed her precious boy. She had promised him safety, acceptance, and instead, he had found only abandonment and a watery grave.

The memory of Sarah, her dismissal, and the subsequent tragedy, would forever haunt her, a bitter testament to her desperate, misguided attempts to protect him.

The camp shut down, its gates padlocked, its buildings slowly succumbing to the relentless creep of nature. Weeds sprouted through cracks in the asphalt, rust bloomed on the swings, and dust settled thick on the windows of the dining hall.

The air grew heavy with the unspoken story of a boy who yearned for a world that never truly saw him, a world that ultimately consumed him.

And sometimes, on still, moonlit nights, a faint cry could be heard drifting across the silent lake, a mournful whisper carried on the wind, a lonely lament for a child who just wanted to play.

The memory of Jason, the boy who just wanted a friend, lingered like a phantom limb, a perpetual ache in the heart of Crystal Lake, a testament to the tragic cost of loneliness and the chilling silence of dreams drowned.

The red ball, the one that had started it all, and Jason were never found.

Perhaps both still rested at the bottom of the lake.

The camp became a monument to what was lost, not just a boy, but the innocence it promised, a promise that drowned along with Jason.