These were Jason's woods, his home. All people ever did was make a mess, scream, hurt. They never got the message, he couldn't scare them off, so Jason did the one thing he could: hunt.

Every summer, every year, a new batch would show up for him to slaughter. They would set fires, cut trees, destroy. His mother hated them; they took her from him.

Jason had never learned guilt, nor pity. But when he raised his axe to kill the person in front of him, he hesitated. They were holding something out to him. No screaming, no crying, no fighting. They didn't hurt him.

It smelled good, and it looked good too from what he could see through his mask. He kept his weapon ready and took it.

It was food. Not bloody like he did it, but warm and tasty like his mama's. Nobody had ever offered Jason anything of the sort. It felt like home, like being cared for. He sat down in the mud for a moment to enjoy it. He missed his mother.