…
…
“Both of my arms have large gashes, blood shading in the paleness of my flesh. Is this all I am anymore? A fleshy canvas, recycled time and time again for the Vincent Van Gogh that lives in my head? Can I be the artist for once?”
…
Crazed, hopeless thoughts roared inside the head of Jeffrey Hopkins as the strong liquor poured down his esophagus. The twenty-five year old was on his third glass of bourbon in the span of one hour. Or was it at the hour and a half mark now? Sal hadn't been doing a good job at checking the clock whenever Jeffrey asked for the time. All the bastard would do was shrug and grunt something along the lines of “Not closing time, yet.”
Oh boy, another introduction. And this one's a drunk slob. Awesome.
Now, it wasn't that Jeffrey was ungrateful to Sal or anything. The guy was a great bartender; he always got Jeffrey exactly what he asked for and never once told him to chill out on the booze. It just sometimes irked him how lazy he was. Sal knew that Jeffrey couldn't read very well whenever he was hitting the bottle, so why not be a pal and help a guy out when his eyes weren't working right?
Oh no, Sal's got the right idea. He knows your stupid ass won't listen to him, so he's tryin' to wean you off the piss-water another way; by forcin' you to sober up so you can tell time like an actual adult again.
Of course, it didn't really matter how many glasses of bourbon Jeffrey had downed that night; not truly. Booze or no booze, the fact remained that he was having these horrifying thoughts in his head regardless. One could ask him why he felt the way he did, but what difference would that make? If a man is walking down Clifton Avenue one night and suddenly gets shot by a stranger, nearby witnesses won't be screaming “Why did this happen?!” while running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. Instead, they'll be screaming, “Help! This man just got shot! Call 911!” People don't care about the whys or hows of situations; only the whats.
The same applied to the wild clutter inside Jeffrey Hopkins' head. All that mattered to the young man was that these thoughts were, in fact, there. And quite frankly, there was no hope of them ever escaping from the complex bear-trap known as his mind. Though, one had to wonder if they could really blame Jeffrey for feeling the way he felt. After all, he wasn't spouting any lies nor was he seeing things that weren't there.
The gashes in his arms.
The blood shading in his flesh.
They were all there, present as the glass in his trembling hand.
And so long as the blood didn't leak from the sleeves of his denim jacket, his secret was safe.
Um.
True, an outsider would primarily care about the very much concrete injuries the young man had sustained. However, what the garbage man failed to realize was that there actually was a why and how waiting to be addressed...and neither of them involved his rambling thoughts regarding a metaphorical Vincent Van Gogh. The big why was, “Why aren't you telling somebody about these cuts?” And, of course, the more burning how was, “How did you get these cuts in the first place?”
Yeah, exactly!
In the case that somebody had discovered his secret and proceeded to ask these questions, Jeffrey mentally prepared some cop-outs. For the first question, he could say something like, “I got bandages at home. If worse comes to worst, I'll go get stitches.” For all it was worth, this answer was perfectly reasonable in the economic sense. Ohio hospitals—or really any American hospital, for that matter—had the tendency to overcharge patients for even the quickest services. And while Jeffrey made decent enough money, his insurance could only help so much when dealing not only with the doctors, but also the blood-sucking ticks known as the pharmaceutical company. So really, what was another scar or two for the twenty-five year old? They weren't the first scars he ever got and they certainly wouldn't be the last.
As for the second question, he could look at his interrogator and say one of two things. One thing could be, “Oh, you know. Some entitled asshole threw away this gigantic mirror today—threw it right into this empty dumpster reflection first! And since it's my job to collect everybody's unwanted shit, I tried to lift this heavy sonuvabitch and ended up slicing my arms on the broken shards that came off it. People, man; they'll throw away just about anything!” The other, shorter answer was simply, “I don't know, man. Just one of those knicks and scratches that happen out of nowhere!”
As one might suspect, one answer was completely false while the other was only partially true.
And judging by the particular thoughts roaming inside Jeffrey Hopkins' head, it didn't take much digging to figure out which answer was which.
Lemme guess, you're one of those black-out drunks who does alotta stupid shit and can't remember any of it when you wake up?
When Jeffrey walked into Sal's bar that night, the bartender had looked at his most loyal customer and snickered. “You look like hammered shit, Jeffy. I dunno if I should even bother servin' you any of my delicious liver-killers tonight!” The garbage man just flicked some of his black, shoulder-length hair away from his face and ordered a tall glass of bourbon. Sal, never able to say no to an extra buck or two, nodded and served the drink without any arguments.
Once the young man focused all of his attention onto his first drink of the night, the bartender watched him while pretending to be busy cleaning some empty glasses. He never said anything, but Sal did care about the well-being of his patrons—well, the ones that were good about paying him, anyway. And while Sal's jab was presented in a playful tone of voice, there was certainly truth to his words.
Most twenty-somethings that stumbled into his bar were either irresponsible college brats who were dodging their studies in order to have some fun, or were just young blood out with a date or colleague. Jeffrey Hopkins, on the other hand, always came in alone. Never once in the four years he'd been frequenting this dive had he ever brought a friend, a co-worker, or a girl with him. And every time Jeffrey came in, he always had a glum look on his heavily scarred face; telling the middle-aged Argentinian that he wasn't there to do anything remotely related to partying.
And guess what? Sal was right. Jeffrey Hopkins was never in a partying mood nor did he know anybody that he wished to spend extra time with after work; platonic or otherwise. Yes, the bartender had known many men like him over the years. Each patron that entered his bar all came with their own life stories. After doing the same job for as many years as he had, one typically learns the many subtle things people do that unintentionally reveal things about themselves. However, there were two things Sal wasn't aware of regarding his scruffy, battle-scarred regular.
The only thing Jeffrey remembered from the day was receiving a transmission from dispatch while he was on his usual route. That was at 11:25 A.M. Next thing the garbage man knew, he was waking up next to a dumpster at half past seven. He'd lost an entire shift. Jeffrey had only been awake for five minutes before he took a step into Sal's bar.
And that, along with the wounds under his sleeves, was going to remain Jeffery’s little secret. In all honesty, the young man felt that he and everybody around him was better off that way. When he was alone, nobody could look down on him or fail to understand the woes he was dealing with. And with each drink he ingested, all Jeffrey could do in the silence of his drunken stupor was reflect on just how his life had become this messed up.
Well, somebody obviously wants me to know all about it; otherwise I wouldn't of been dragged here in the first place.
…
Up until he was eight years old, Jeffrey Hopkins had been a fairly normal child. He hated going to school, but loved horsing around with his buddies during recess. Like most rambunctious children, Jeffrey often found himself getting scolded by his teacher for either talking without raising his hand first, or interrupting her while she was giving her lesson. And, also like most children, he always got huffy about it and swore up and down his teacher was personally singling him out. Did he ever have proof to back up his accusations? No...but he certainly felt like his suspicions were correct and that's all that really mattered, right?
Facts. Ain't nothin' wrong with followin' your gut every now and then. It's called intuition.
During his free time, Little Jeffrey and his pals played lots and lots of baseball together. While he was never the best batter, he did prove to be quite the gifted pitcher. Any time Jeffrey's turn to pitch came up, his friends would all panic. “He throws way too fast!” they'd all bitterly proclaim each time he effortlessly struck them out. Sure, they sometimes got lucky and managed to hit a ball he tossed, but they were never able to get an actual home run on him.
The boy often bragged to his dad about his victories, saying that he'd one day be just as good as Gary Nolan of the Cincinnati Reds. His father would always smile and pat his son on the shoulder. “I don't doubt that for a second, champ. You keep it up and you may be better than Gary Nolan ever was!” Mister Hopkins was a good man. He never once discouraged Jeffrey from doing something he wanted to do. He was his son's number one fan and the boy felt like he could conquer the world with all of the support his father gave him.
But on one chilly September evening, all of that hope, support, and normalcy was snatched away from Jeffrey Hopkins in a cruel twist of fate.
Call it a hunch, but I'm guessin' he died?
What started out as a fun night watching The Aristocats somehow turned into him sitting in a dark closet while a group of thugs brutally murdered his mother and father.
Yerp, I knew it.
The grisly encounter began with a strange noise Mister Hopkins had heard coming from outside the house. The thirty-one year old man paused the movie so that he could possibly make heads or tails of what he was hearing. Little Jeffrey attempted to protest the sudden interruption in his film, but was quickly silenced by his mother pressing her index finger against his lips. After listening for a moment, Mister Hopkins eventually heard the tell-tale sound of somebody jiggling the knob on the backdoor. “Rita, grab Jeffrey and hide!” he commanded while hurrying to grab his old Smith & Wesson Model 52. Doing as her husband said, the boy's mother took him to the master bedroom and instructed him to hide in the closet. “Be very quiet and do not come out until we say it's okay. Do you understand?” Jeffrey nodded and the door was closed, leaving him all alone in the dark.
A few seconds became a few minutes. A few minutes became several minutes. And several minutes soon became irrelevant once the sound of gunfire echoed throughout the Hopkins household. “Motherfucker!” an unknown voice bellowed, followed by another gunshot. Immediately afterward was a minute or two of crashing around and incoherent yelling.
Just as Jeffrey began to assume that his dad was winning the fight, his mom let out a blood-curdling scream. The little boy began to let out a scream of his own, but stopped himself by slapping his palms against his mouth. It was one thing to disobey his teacher whenever she told him to be quiet, but his mother was another story entirely. When his teacher punished him, all he got was a stern talking to. When Mama Bear punished him, however, he lost his TV privileges for a solid week. And seeing how bad things were looking for him right now, he knew he had to keep quiet lest he get himself hurt by these thugs...or he face extreme boredom without his cartoons; whichever came first.
That statement is only half true, kiddo. You see, you can't lose your cartoons when you doan got a mom to take them away from you. If you ask me, I'd say you got a pretty sweet deal here.
“Shut up, bitch!” shouted another voice that was immediately followed by a loud slapping noise as well as a loud yelp from Missus Hopkins. Tears ran down Little Jeffrey's cheeks. What was going on? His dad was armed. Two gunshots were fired already. Shouldn't the bad guys be dead by now?
But then, just as the child was ready to give up hope, a voice spoke to him. He didn't know who the voice belonged to or where it was coming from, but he did as it asked and closed his eyes. “Do you trust me, Jeffrey Hopkins?” The boy swallowed hard, not entirely sure how to respond to the strange entity. “A-Are...are you God?” the child finally managed to whisper quietly.
“No,” responded the voice, “but I do his work. I bring justice to evil-doers who reject his word. Like the criminals invading your home.” Jeffrey sniffled, wiping his damp eyes. “Who are you?” The voice chuckled. “My name is of no importance to the innocent, Jeffrey. Only my enemies ever need to know who I am and what I'm all about.”
The child was confused, but something about the entity's words soothed the fear he was feeling. “Can you help me? Can you save Mom and Dad?” The voice was silent for about a minute before he answered the boy's questions. “I cannot promise that your mother and father will be saved, but I can promise that those men will face God's unforgiving wrath for the crimes they've committed. All you have to do is trust me and just keep walking.”
Yeah, let's trust the weird voice that claims to do God's work, yet doesn't wanna lift a finger to save your folks. He really sounds like a trustworthy and reliable dude.
While Jeffrey wasn't completely satisfied with that answer, he knew he had no choice but to agree to the entity's terms. What else could he do? Just sit around and wait for these criminals to find him? The boy had to do something—anything!
Doan do it, kid.
And so Jeffrey Hopkins surrendered himself to this strange servant of God.
You motherfuckers never listen to me, I swear.
“Thank you,” the voice whispered one last time before suddenly sending the child into a deep sleep.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
…
It began with flashbacks from much simpler times.
Times Jeffrey played with his friends.
Times he blew out the candles on his birthday cake.
Times he begged his mom and dad for a little brother.
The memories played in front of him like an old film that had recently been colorized.
The child smiled wide, anxious to break through the imaginary barrier between him and the happy days.
The movie ended once Jeffrey made the mistake of blinking.
Then he found himself standing on an evenly paved street.
Though, he couldn't see anything else due to the fog covering the sidewalks.
“Hello? Is anybody out there?”
Only his echo responded to his call.
After a quick look around, the child realized that he was completely alone.
No cars threatening to mow him down.
No adults to tell him to get off the road.
Nothing but heavy fog and a clear path.
“All you have to do is trust me and just keep walking.”
With no other options, Jeffrey proceeded forward.
He didn't know where he was or where he was going, but he hoped he'd find something—or someone.
And so he walked.
And walked.
And walked.
“Just keep walking.”
Jeffrey felt like he'd walked for days, but the light around him never changed—not once.
Had time stopped?
The child knew he could be impatient at times, but this?
This was something else!
This road never ended!
The Ohio native was so close to giving up, but he knew he couldn't.
He needed to find his way to the happy days; find his way back home to his loving parents.
He couldn't stop now!
So he continued.
Onward and onward.
Right foot, left foot.
Right foot, left foot.
Eventually, Jeffrey began developing a rather painful, non-ethereal feeling in his legs.
Why did his body choose now to start feeling the effects of this outrageous stroll down Nowhere Lane?
As desperate as he was to continue onward, his legs could no longer support him.
And so the child fell face first onto the road.
…
You think people will ever stop takin' offers from demons? No? Me neither.
…
“Kmengobrosa kraok laeng! Phnheak pi keng!”
Whether it was the heat, the sharp rocks, or the sweaty palms grasping his shoulders that woke him up, Jeffrey Hopkins wasn't entirely sure. The young boy's mind felt like mush after walking in an empty void for what easily felt like thousands of miles. And after hearing the strange language being shouted at him, Jeffrey half-suspected that he was still dreaming. That, or he'd been abducted by aliens—who really knew? Once he gathered enough energy to open his eyes and observe his surroundings, however, one thing did become abundantly clear.
Night had become day.
Indoors had become outdoors.
Cincinnati suddenly had more woodlands.
A stone temple had been built off in the distance seemingly overnight.
And English had been replaced with something else.
In conclusion, either the end of the world had happened while he was asleep, or he was somewhere he shouldn't of been.
No. Shit.
“La, anak phnheak!” The little boy looked up at the individual who had found him. It was an older boy, probably the same age as the high schoolers in his neighborhood who spent most of the day either smoking or bullying younger kids out of their lunch money. He had short black hair, tan skin, and brown slanted eyes.
“Tae anak batbng?” Jeffrey tilted his head in confusion. “I'm sorry. What?” The stranger just made a noise like he didn't understand. “I...I don't know what you're saying.” The older boy raised an eyebrow and repeated himself a bit more slowly. “Tae...anak...batbng?” Of course, Jeffrey still had no clue as to what he was saying.
The Ohio native swallowed hard and held his arms out. “Look, where am I?” Jeffrey asked, gesturing towards the trees around them. “I-I don't know how I got here. Can you hel—” Before he could finish his sentence, the stranger suddenly grabbed his right hand and gasped loudly. “Chheam! Anak kampoung haurchham!”
Reasonably startled, the younger boy's eyes widened and his breath shortened. “H-Hey! Lego of me!” Jeffrey tried to pull away from the older boy's grip, but was unsuccessful. “Kom tsaou! Anak trauvkar kroupety!” “Let go!” the child screamed as he began kicking at the stranger's gut.
After a moment of struggling, Jeffrey finally managed to yank his hand away...and almost immediately spotted what had the older boy so concerned. His forearm was covered in black and blue and scattered skin tears occupied his knuckle bones, covered with old blood. After turning his hand over, he saw more dried maroon caked onto his palm. “Wh-Why is this here?” But he didn't need his new friend's answer, for the realization soon dawned on him once he lifted his other hand.
Trapped in a closet.
Strange men attacked his family.
A mysterious voice called out to him.
“I cannot promise that your mother and father will be saved, but I can promise that those men will face God's unforgiving wrath for the crimes they've committed. All you have to do is trust me and just keep walking.”
Blood.
He was all alone in this strange place.
No Mom.
No Dad.
Just blood.
Dry blood.
Little Jeffrey Hopkins produced the loudest scream to ever escape from his small body.
…
After a hard shiver brought on from the rough memory, Jeffrey took another swig of bourbon. His glass banged against the counter loudly. “Sal! 'Nuther one—now!” Without a single word, the bartender poured another drink and slid it over to the tormented orphan. Honestly, he felt like he should've asked Sal for another two glasses. Sure, thinking about the vast majority of his past made him ache something awful...but something about waking up in a Cambodian forest right after losing his parents—and more than likely killing their murderers—just made him have the urge to jump off a bridge.
I agree. You should've killed the bastards without the sneaky demon's intervention.
Everything about his unintentional overseas escapade triggered unwanted emotions within him. He felt depressed that his family and friends were gone. He felt regretful that he'd trusted this...thing to protect him and his family; only to learn that he did anything but that. He felt livid that he'd ended up in a foreign country, unable to make anybody understand his situation. And worst of all, he felt mortified that his hair-trigger response to seeing blood had been “Why is this here?” Seriously? How stupid could he have been? If you see blood, there's very few ways it could've gotten there. Jeffrey might've been a staggering drunk nowadays, but he liked to think he was at least a little wiser.
That remains to be seen, my guy.
It was obvious to Jeffrey why this particular memory was the worst. And, believe it or not, it had nothing to do with the deaths of his mother and father. It was because it was the first time he'd lost control; the first time he ceased to be Jeffrey Hopkins. Who he became...he shuttered to think. The entity had never revealed his name to him, nor did he go into too much detail as to what he did while he was in control of Jeffrey's body. However, there had been many years between him waking up in Cambodia and him sitting in Sal's bar remembering it all; which meant there had been plenty of time to suffer through the aftermath of the entity's wrath each time he awoke from another long, agonizing slumber.
Not long after being discovered, Jeffrey had been brought before the local doctor so his injuries could be treated. After a few days of rest, two immigration officers came by to interview him. Their English wasn't the best, but they were remarkably gentle when speaking to his younger self. They eventually concluded that the child must've been kidnapped and smuggled into the country illegally. They fed the boy one last meal just before putting him on the first plane home.
Unfortunately, that was around the time the unnamed entity decided to continue his wicked reign on Earth.
Not too long after returning to the United States, Jeffrey had been placed in foster care. He was taken in by a newlywed couple in Davenport, Iowa; Brian and Michelle Hanson. They considered having children of their own, but wanted to test the waters first; see if they were parent-material. Jeffrey liked Brian and Michelle much more than he thought he would. They were patient with him, supportive of his hobbies, and very much invested in his studies. But as much as they loved Jeffrey Hopkins, letting him into their home was one of the worst mistakes they ever made.
The target of the unnamed entity's wrath was Michelle's mother, Bertha Hemingway. Unlike her daughter, Bertha was a hateful hag. If Michelle ever made the mistake of complaining about bills, her mother would sneer and tell her that she shouldn't of married a car salesman. Whenever Brian came home with a hefty paycheck after making a big sale at work, Bertha would simply turn her nose up at him and bitterly tell him that he needed to get a “real” job.
I can think of two words that your folks coulda told 'er. Get. Laid.
Jeffrey hated the woman and always hid in his room every time she came by to visit. Though, this unspoken peace eventually ended one day when the boy woke up to a giant slap in the face by the hag herself. “Stop screaming in your sleep, boy! Your mom and dad are dead; get over it!” Jeffrey didn't even have time to get angry before he fell back asleep. The dream had been the same as it was before; lots of endless walking in the middle of nowhere. And upon waking up, he'd been hit with the news that Bertha Hemingway was in the hospital. He never learned what he did nor did he figure out if she lived or not, but Brian and Michelle decided that Jeffrey wasn't a good fit for their home.
So then he went to a new home...only to be thrown out later.
And then he found another home.
And then another.
And another.
Utah.
Arizona.
Kentucky.
California.
Jeffrey had been all over the United States with a horribly violent streak forever bled onto his record. And the worst part of it all was that he couldn’t even remember hurting anyone. He couldn't remember beating anyone up. He couldn't remember injuring anyone. And he certainly couldn't remember killing anyone. That wasn't who Jeffrey Hopkins was—he wasn't a violent kid. He knew he wasn't!
Yeah, yeah—that's what they all say.
Social services had honestly tried their best to make Little Jeffrey Hopkins' life easier after the tragic death of his parents. But even they had to draw the line after the eighth consecutive family complained about the boy's violent tendencies. And so the system finally gave up on the boy and sent him away to spend the rest of his adolescence in an asylum in Santa Clara. Amazingly, the staff didn't treat him like a hardened criminal like Social Services had after losing his fourth home. Jeffrey finally found a home amongst his fellow patients...though he only remembered half of his time there. The treatment didn't stop the dissociative episodes from happening, but the unnamed entity did calm down his actions for a couple of years.
Once Jeffrey was of age, they released him back into the world.
With no other place he'd rather be, the young man headed back home for Cincinnati, Ohio.
Unfortunately, the world still wasn't ready for the unnamed entity's return.
Shockin'.
For three straight years after his release, Jeffrey struggled to maintain a job. If the young man wasn't being fired, he was being given extremely one-sided ultimatums; usually of the “quit or I'll sue” variety. It wasn't that he was a bad worker or anything—he tried his absolute best. Unfortunately, his best wasn't good enough whenever the beast in his head came out at random moments and wreaked havoc on anybody that looked at his host in a slightly threatening manner.
Around Jeffrey's twenty-first birthday, his apartment had been broken into. The intruder didn't appear to have violent intentions in his crime—he only seemed to care about stealing the television set. The man had even waited for Jeffrey to be asleep as to not cause a fight. Sadly, his plan failed and he was discovered. In hindsight, Jeffrey could've easily convinced this man to leave without any bloodshed or law enforcement called. Nevertheless, the sheer fact that a strange man was entering a home that he hadn't been invited into brought back way too many memories...thus triggering the Hyde to Jeffrey's Jekyll.
Upon waking up, Jeffrey had found his reflection staring at him in his bathroom mirror. Well, what kind of looked like his reflection, anyway. The entirety of his face looked like somebody had taken a knife and attempted to carve it like a pumpkin on Halloween. And, in typical Jeffrey Hopkins fashion, he refused to go to a hospital to get stitches. Luckily, the gashes eventually healed on their own and became scars. The big downside, however, was that while none of them developed infections of any kind, they certainly kept women away like the plague. That's around the time Jeffrey started frequenting Sal's bar and, thankfully, he'd gotten himself his current job about six months after that.
And now here he was, years later.
Still emptying dumpsters.
Still drinking.
Still bleeding.
…
But there was one thing Jeffrey Hopkins didn't realize.
The unnamed entity—the being that's been delivering God's divine fury for years now—knew exactly what Jeffrey thought of him.
He knew his host regretted ever agreeing to his offer all those years ago.
He was fully aware that he'd made his life a living nightmare.
The being truly felt guilty for all of this trouble, but he wasn't willing to give up just yet.
Jeffrey thinks his life isn't worth living anymore?
He'd fix that!
He knew a place that he could take his host—somewhere where he could start over!
Once this was as all said and done, Jeffrey Hopkins would thank him for everything!
He'd see!
And after one last chug of his drink, Jeffrey's eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slid off his bar-stool, landing hard onto the ground.
Sal and everybody else's reactions meant nothing to the unnamed entity.
Their faces simply didn't exist where Jeffrey was going.
…
…
So...what was the point of that show?
Tellin' me that this freak of nature is probably somewhere in Casa do Diaño?
Well, you know what I say to that?
Bring it on, motherfucker.
I've taken out zombies.
Not to mention that there's a fuckin' werewolf wanderin' around this island somewhere.
A demon ain't gonna scare me.
Nothin' scares Genghis Dillinger Boy—nothin'!
So I say again; bring it on.
Bring it on.