When Jeff returned to the world of the living he hurriedly took in his situation. He was in a padded cell, wrapped tightly in a straight jacket. The door was open and two people stood inside the room. They quieted upon noticing him and he simply say there staring at them. One of the men was dressed in white, some kind of doctor maybe? The second was dressed in a nice dress shirt and slacks, glasses perched on his nose.
"The sedative wore off quicker than expected," the one in white said, "we'll have to constantly keep applying the anesthesia to keep him under during the procedure."
'Procedure?' Jeff thought, 'what procedure? What do they think they're gonna do to me.' He stayed silent, watching with his deformed eyes.
"You can fix him?" The man with glasses asked.
"Not his head but that's your job," the man in white joked, "but I can fix the outward..." He glanced over at Jeff, an unsure expression on his face, "problems." Things started to click in his brain. These men were some kind of surgeon, likely a plastic surgeon, and a therapist. He couldn't help the maniacal laugh that exploded from him. The two men stared at him, a shocked and almost concerned look on the surgeon's face. He calmed, demented smile stretched wide.
"That's cute," he said. Both men looked shocked to hear him speak and he cocked his head. "What? Jeff got your tongue?" After a few moments of silence he smirked, boring his gaze into them. "You can't 'fix' me. I like myself this way. I'm not lying to anyone after all. What you see is what you get."
"I'm going to ready the room," the surgeon said softly. Likely he'd been trying to speak without Jeff hearing him. He'd failed quite spectacularly in that aspect.
Once left with the therapist he made his gaze focus solely on the man. The door was still open, the man watching him carefully. Soon he approached, Jeff watching him the whole way. "Jeffery Woods," the man said, sitting before him.
"I don't use that name," Jeff retorted. The man nodded as if understanding before looking at him. Pure blue eyes stared into his own dark orbs.
"What would you like me to call you then?" He asked, "you can call me Dr. Neal." Jeff stared at him, debating. He figured it was better to be called by anything other than his birth name.
"Jeff," he said simply before grinning, "though the papers call me Jeff the Killer." Dr. Neal flipped open a small note pad, a pen suddenly in his deft fingers. He scratched something down before looking back at Jeff.
"Jeff," he said slowly, "I'm aware that certain...events in your past has made you unstable. We can help you."
"Who said I want help," he challenged, "besides, you think I want help from people hired by people who put a bullet in my brain? Cause I'm pretty damn sure I don't." Dr. Neal flinched at that but the expression was gone in an instant, replaced by cool detachment.
"That's another subject all together Jeff," he said, "how could a person take a bullet to the brain and walk away? All you were left with is an hour or so of unconsciousness and a scar where you were shot. Ah, Dr. Russell will be able to fix that as well I assure you." While the bullet wound was something he didn't mind getting rid of he knew other things would change as well.
"I don't want your damn help," he hissed, teeth bared. Dr. Neal remained impassive.
"Jeff you don't have many options," the man stated, "either you cooperate here or you go to prison. If you cooperate we can fix you."
'Lies,' he thought but remained silent. Dr. Neal stood and sighed.
"Your first operation is to fix the minor things," he said, "the scar, the slashes in your face, and your lack of eyelids. Then we'll be trying to see if we can reverse your skin back to its normal state."
'Like hell i'd let them do that,' he mentally seethed, 'my eyes, my smile, I can fix those back. But the skin? I don't relish the idea of burning myself alive again.' He watched the man walk out and the door closed, nearly invisible seams blending into the walls. He would have glared if he were able. As it was he sat there, wide awake, and waited.
When someone returned he was already getting angry. The surgeon, Dr. Russell he assumed, entered, a face mask on. "Just be a good boy Jeff," he said. That was when Jeff noticed the syringe in the man's hand. He let loose a low growl and the man hesitated. Jeff grinned.
"I get it now," he mused.
"Get what?" Dr. Russell asked.
"Why you want to change me," he hissed through his tightly formed smile, "I scare you. You think that by making me look more human you'll be less scared of me." Jeff managed to stand with a bit of difficulty. He wanted his arms free. Then he could slaughter his way out of this hell. "Let me tell you something then," he said, taking a few steps closer. Dr. Russell held his ground. "You should be afraid of me. I could tear you apart, and I'm not even the strongest among those I know. Wait until they find you have me here. There will be a bloodbath." Of course he knew it wasn't true. No one would look for him. He'd left willingly. They'd have no reason to come after him. The thought depressed him but it didn't show on his face.
It was the sudden stabbing feeling in his neck that made him realize he'd let his guard down. Dr. Russell had jabbed the syringe into his neck, injecting whatever drug into his body. Even he wasn't immune to drugs. "You don't worry me Jeff," the man said, "and your friends, whether or not they actually do come, won't even recognize you if they do get here."
His eyes rolled back, his body slumping against the surgeon. The door opened again, other forms coming in. Hands grabbed him, undoing the straight jacket and pulling it from his limp form. He vaguely noted that his hoodie was gone and it angered him. 'How dare they...' His thoughts faded, and blackness consumed him.
<><><><>
Burning. Burning pain across his face. He knew the anesthesia was enough to keep him docile, to keep his eyes rolled back in a semblance of unconsciousness. Yet he was awake. He was fully conscious. He felt every pull of skin, every sharp pierce of a needle on his cheeks. They were ruining him. Changing him back to the human he'd been.
'That isn't me!' He wanted to yell out, to lash at the men defiling him. He hated having to lie there helpless as these pathetic humans distorted him. It wasn't okay. Not at all.
'I should have stayed home.' Home. The word held no meaning for him now. Even if he escaped, where would he go? He couldn't return to the cabin in Slenderman's woods. And it wasn't safe enough to skulk in back alleyways and hope he escaped notice in the darkness. He needed to find somewhere to call his own.
A part of him wanted to cry at the idea that he had nowhere to turn. Another part of him scoffed at his weakness. The last piece just wanted this annoying poking to end. He liked how he looked. It reflected the insanity constantly warring in his brain. They were destroying him, rebuilding him the way he was expected to be. The Creepypasta never cared how he looked, many themselves looking mutilated and disturbed. They were his family in a way.
Family. What did that mean? He'd killed his family. They'd lied to him; hated what he was becoming. The images of his brother shooting him like a sick dog came to mind again. Maybe that was what he needed. An execution. Yet the Creepypasta never made him feel like he needed to be put down. Jack and Masky, the silent watchers. Ben and Hoodie, loud and antagonistic at times. Slender.
Oh god. He'd forgotten about Slenderman.
The elder Creepypasta always looked out for them. He kept them safe even when they didn't want his help. He never patronized unless needed, and even then he wasn't ruthless. It made Jeff yearn to return to the cabin. He knew he couldn't. They had no need for him. He was a burden, and one others saw as uncaring. That was as far from the truth as one could get.
In reality, he cared for all the nuts he lived with. They were like siblings. And Slenderman, well...he was something else. Jeff wanted to be able to just lean against him and feel those muscles he knew lie beneath the man's suit.
'No,' he told himself, 'you can't do that. You can't. Not ever.'
<><><><>
The pain was gone by now. Darkness flooded his eyes in a way he'd never experienced since he stopped being Jeffery Woods and started being Jeff the Killer. It unnerved him the way the darkness persisted despite him moving his eyes. He couldn't move and vaguely wondered if they'd placed him in a dark room or something. Then he heard a voice, Dr. Neal he thought.
"Jeff? Are you awake?" He didn't reply. Couldn't actually. It angered him the way he'd fallen prey to these people. He wanted nothing more than to slaughter the lot of them.
And suddenly he could see. Granted it was only from his right eye but it was something at least. He saw Dr. Russell's hand near his eye. Dr. Neal looked at him worriedly. "See," Dr. Russell said, "he's conscious."
"But are we sure he can function?" Dr. Neal asked, "why wouldn't he have opened them himself.
"He's still drugged," Dr. Russell stated and suddenly he was back in darkness. "He'll figure it out eventually." He was confused as to what he meant until it hit him. The surgeon was to fix him. He knew his worth was no longer sliced open, he could feel it. As for the bullet wound he didn't know. However this darkness could only mean one thing.
Dr. Russell had succeeded in giving him new eyelids.