jeff the killer + homicidal liu headcanons - prologue
Life was heaven when Liu was home, because Jeff felt like an actual human being with a decent enough life that didn’t make him feel like the black sheep. Even the bullying was something he could healthily endure in the sense that he knew how to put a stop to it when his brother was here because the boy had someone to talk to whenever he came home with cuts and bruises.
He wasn’t keeping any of his feelings in; he wasn’t letting them fester and putrify and warp the small idea of good people he tried so fiercely to protect. It was something Liu constantly encouraged his little brother to protect too.
‘It’s shit right now, and people fucking suck, but not everything has it out for you. Not everyone is shit.’
‘You’ll know when you find those kinds of people, fella.’
But then they moved to a new town a bit too far from anywhere to feel like a town and not an isolated village with a population of under a thousand, but the bullying from his previous home followed all the same.
Like the shadow on his back that never fully went away, or like the ever-present black of the moon.
Even when she showed all of her face she was hiding something.
The Woods brothers, who had dark hair and malevolent eyes, so that obviously meant they were evildoers sent to carry out the Devil’s will. The Woods brothers, who liked the peaceful quiet of nature and spent their days in the forest instead of the loud playgrounds or gaudy theme parks overpopulated with shrieking children.
The forest is where they did their devilwork, you see. Liking nature was just a cover story. They made blood sacrifces and casted wicked spells on the innocent, unsuspecting townspeople. Honest they did.
Liu Woods, who loved his little brother like nothing else, who raised him when their parents wouldn’t and saw him through his overbearing school life. Liu Woods, who’d kill for his brother, Liu Woods, who’d die for his brother; Liu Woods, who’d live for his brother.
For his rosy cheeks and baby’s grin (the same grin the younger Woods had worn since he first learnt how to grin). Only differnce was he had a mouth of teeth instead of pink, tiny, baby gums that latched onto anything they were exposed to.
Now, with teeth, Jeffrey had taken to biting things, to soothe the discomfort in his uniquely shaped mind, which was dangerous when he had forgotten his silicone pendants and redirected his teeth in the direction of his hands and fingers.
Liu Woods, who was mean and scary when he was getting rid of the snotty gits picking on his brother. Liu Woods, whom the bullies called “Homicidal Liu”, because when he stared you down with eyes painted with the very same, very black of the moon, the fleeting thought of “he looks like he could kill someone right now” danced across your brain.
Liu Woods, who worked an okay job that wasn’t exactly everything he ever wanted because he ran with a bad crowd when he was younger and squandered a good academic opportunity. Liu Woods, who returned home with broken dreams and transformed those fragmented shards into a work of art by taking charge of his little brother (because neither of their parents could be bothered to).
Their first son had become a failure, so why should they waste their time on their second one?
They threw themselves into their work, their depressing, sorry work they truly had no more joy in than coming home every day to see their youngest son, grimacing at him like they were scorning the fact he was alive.
As though they had really, sincerely, put Jeffrey to the back of their minds and forgotten about him like they did Liu the day he came home by the scruff of his own neck—self-adfacing, as he always was.
Jeffrey Woods, who was small at thirteen years old, unimpressionable and not much outwardly changéd during the first stages of pubescence as a thirteen-year-old would typically be. Jeffrey Woods, who wore his long hair curtained over his eyes, so pale a blue they were white unlike his brother’s obsidian marbles.
Jeffrey Woods who was quiet and undiagnosed because why would his parents care as much to understand their young son’s lack of audible communication, or his aversion to lights and sound or his love for his hooded cardigan, an item of clothing he had in abundance (because Liu, who understood, had bought them for his little brother).
Jeffrey Woods, whose only true friend was his older brother. Jeffrey Woods, who rocked when he was content.
Liu Woods, who understood why.
Jeffrey Woods, who picked at his skin when he was unsettled. Liu Woods, who gently took the nervous boy’s hand in his overworked, calloused ones to coax him to stop.
Jeffrey Woods, who slept so poorly because the curtains were white and let all the daylight in, his mattress was too soft, so he sunk down in the middle over time, and his bedframe creaked something awful because it was an ageing thing with loose planks. Liu Woods, who used the bulk of his wages for his brother’s complex needs and whatever was left for himself.
Liu Woods, who made it his mission to buy the darkest curtains he could afford with his not-everything-he-wanted salary. Liu Woods, who saved up for weeks to buy a new mattress that was agreeable for Jeffrey. Liu Woods, who with his numerous trade skills acquired during the time he spent in different professions, reinforced the rickety bedframe himself and replaced every plank of old timber.
Jeffrey Woods, who was picked on on his first day at his new school and bullied every day following. Jeffrey Woods, who was made fun of for his shaggy, naturally untameable hair and plain clothes, constantly called dirty when in truth the child physically could not stand any sort of grime that the thought of not showering made him throw up.
Jeffrey Woods, who was called boring and poor because he wore the same clothes every day, when it was just that they were his comfort clothes. The cotton of his cardigan didn’t scratch, his brother’s jeans didn’t make his legs feel as though they were bound.
Jeffrey Woods, whom all the beastly boys laughed at because his big brother was his only friend and he hid his “creepy eyes” behind his hair or under his hood to avoid detection, but that made them pick on him more. Jeffrey Woods, who was a living ghost because he was pale all year round and couldn’t take in sunlight no matter how he tried.
Jeffrey Woods, who lashed out wildly when the accosting grew too much, but even then all the other children did was laugh and bully him even more, because he, who was unanimously categorised as stiff and emotionless, was suddenly exploding with manic rage.
Jeffrey Woods, who had been called “Jeff the Killer” way before he had ever cast his eyes on a blade because the children in his class thought him as odd as the serial murderers from the news stories their parents recited to them.
‘He shows all the signs,’ they’d say. ‘Jeff the Killer.’
‘Never be alone with him or he’ll get you.’
Jeffrey Woods was never a lonely child while at school.
‘He’ll get you, I bet he will.’
‘Just look at him.’
…He had his bullies to thank for that.
Jeffrey Woods, Jeffrey Woods. He’s as unmoving as the trees; he’d be one if he could.
Jeffrey Woods, Jeffrey Woods… Let’s stand him in the forest and leave him there alone—his mad hair like black rotten leaves, his white cardi like the body of a birch tree.
He’d blend right in.
Would he burn just as quick too?