![ " \"JeffreyJamesRoberts.webp\""](https://images.hive.blog/DQmUJQmpjPW54zQSZ1jDHpmuGSBSRh9TC5tFFeZ4oppy32d/JeffreyJamesRoberts.webp) “It is a joy to be hidden, and disaster not to be found.” - D.W. Winnicott ♫♫“Sunshine on my Shoulders” by John Denver ♫♫ March 21st, 1997 A record spins, the needle of the Fidelity Music Master providing a familiar static hiss as the soothing melody plays. A young boy, five years old, sits cross-legged on the floor nearby, black horn-rimmed glasses on his face, leafing through a comic book. The room is decorated like a scene out of some 1970s crime drama despite being some twenty years later. Brown and yellow striped wallpaper covers the walls, there is a picture tube television on the floor by the wall, an orange plush sofa, and green shag carpeting. “JEFF, TURN THAT MUSIC OFF!!!” The boy doesn’t respond. He just smiles, still lost in the vivid imagery on the pages, a world held in his hands and head, something better than what lies outside them, a possibility to replace the endless parade of meaninglessness. He flips the page, and starts softly singing along. “If I had a tale that I could tell you, I’d tell a tale sure to make you smile…” Page turn. “If I had a wish that I could wish for you, I’d make a wish for sunshine all the while.” Jeff turns his head and looks at a wooden door with a brass doorknob. He hears the sound of his mother’s shoes on the steps outside. The room is in the attic of the house, with a landing at the top of the stairs just in front of little Jeff’s door. The door swings open, and a very stern woman in her mid-thirties is standing there, a sneer of judgment on her face and a demeanor that contains absolutely no warmth. Her very conservative attire shows a similar lost-in-the-past sensibility which matches her decorating style. “JEFFREY, I SAID TURN THAT GODDAMN MUSIC OFF.” The boy still smiles down at his pages. Growing impatient, the woman crosses the room, grunting as she does, and roughly swipes the needle away from the vinyl. The boy stops smiling now, and looks up. “Why are you so mad, mommy?” She looks down at him, then points at the comic book. “What is this??” She reaches down and snatches it from his hands. “What is this filth???” The boy looks down at the floor, then looks back up at her with only his eyes. “I ASKED YOU A QUESTION!!” “Mommy, did I do something bad?” With a disgusted snarl, she turns and walks toward the door, comic book in hand. Reaching for the doorknob, she turns her head back to him, and says something, the cold derision dripping from every word. “That’s all you ever do.” The boy stares at her expressionless, watching as she narrows her eyes, then turns and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her. Jeffrey continues staring, now at the door. His eyes drift momentarily to the carpet, and he tilts his head ever so slightly. He stands up, turns to the record player and very carefully places the needle on the vinyl, then pushes the lever forward. The music slurs back to life, but he turns the volume knob to keep the sounds confined to his room. He sits down again, his back against the wall, his legs crossed, looking at the carpet. He examines it, and in his mind, it comes closer and closer, until the very fibers within the material are within his purview, and the intricate weaving of each forms a coalescence in his psyche. More, more, there must be more. I will have it. It will not have me. He tilts his head… …and smiles. "Typically, a psychiatrist can fool a patient by telling him the root of his problem can be fixed with this pull, that support group, and more psychiatry appointments. They don't tell the patient that the really fucked up people never get better. They mask their diseases by dousing them in heavy narcotics to numb their sickness, for years, until the peaceful eternal sleep comes and takes them away." - J. Matthew Nespoli Present Day. Tokyo, Japan. Birds are chirping, fresh flowers are blooming, and children are playing in the street. It is a warm, sunny, Spring day. A man walks up to the front porch of a small ranch-style home, painted light blue with yellow accents. It seems quite out of place here until it becomes clear that this is a constructed facade. There are two picture windows to the left side of the porch, and each one has a flower box on the ledge with newly placed flowers. Inside the house is an idyllic setting. There is an old tube television propped on a wooden desk and a sectional sofa across from it. A small rack with three TV trays is propped against the wall adjacent to the sofa. The man walks through the hallway at the back of the room, ignoring the cat perched on a nearby cabinet. A few steps down the hall he turns toward a closed door and reaches down for the doorknob. It turns easily, and he pushes the wooden door open. He finds himself at the top of a long staircase, with only the faintest light illuminating what lies beyond the stairsteps. He walks purposefully down the stairs, the wood creaking with each step. At the bottom, he looks to his left. The darkness is thicker down here, with only a small crack of light shining in through a pinhole in the tiny basement window on the wall. The sound of water dripping into an empty sink repeats like a metronome. Plop… plop… plop… plop. A voice calls from the darkness, and the man stops in his tracks. “Hello, Arthur.” The man, Arthur Pleasant, squints his eyes, and having a frame of reference upon hearing the voice, is able to just make out the outline of a man sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, one leg stretched out in front of him and the other bent at the left knee, with an arm and elbow resting lightly upon it. Arthur smiles slightly. “Nice little place you’ve got here. I see you’ve chosen the nicest room to hang out in.” In the darkness, a knowing grin. “This room feels more like home to me.” Arthur nods. “Not used to the outside world yet, I guess.” “No,” the voice replies. “I will never be used to the outside world, nor will the outside world ever be used to me, as you well know.” Arthur chuckles. “It’s good to see you again, also, Jeffrey.” It’s hard to tell, but the seated man smirks ever so slightly. “So, my good friend Arthur, to what do I owe this visit?” “Well,” Arthur paces toward the window. “I heard you were no longer in prison. That made me pretty fuckin’ curious. I’m curious why they’d let a crazy demented fucker like you out among the free folk. Although, with all that’s going on in the world, I suppose you aren’t as big of a concern as you were in less chaotic times.” Arthur waves a hand. “Not that I’m complaining of course. I always rather enjoyed your company. Better than most of the fuck wits around pretty much everywhere these days.” ‘Jeffrey’ slowly stands to his feet. “And I’ve always enjoyed your visits, Arthur. You are violent, vulgar, and lacking all social mores. You are, after all, one of my people, aren’t you? There are so many of us, yet so few. It’s hard to know for sure. But as you know, there are many of my disciples in the world more than willing to do whatever I ask of them. And this time, what I asked for… was freedom. There are a million ways to convince someone if you know the proper leverage. You simply find a tipping point, and you… push. I have something they want… I… am… something they want. I am obliged to help, for now.” Slowly Jeffrey walks close enough so that Arthur can see the outline of his entire face. Jeffrey James Roberts is a man of thirty-one years, with buzzed dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Over his left eyebrow there is a tattoo of a small sword, and on the left side of his neck is another tattoo of a scorpion. Arthur again smiles this time a wide toothy grin, a wave of glee washing over him. “I’ve been waiting for this. Come with me. I have a plan to discuss with you… and there’s someone I’d like you to meet.” "Countless words, yet none can express the pain when a mother passes away." - Shah Asad Rizvi Sunday, May 12, 2002. Mother’s Day. ♬♫”We’ve Only Just Begun” - The Carpenters♫♬ The scratchy sound of an old record player echoes from the walls of this converted basement bedroom. The walls, a white cinder block construction, bounce the soundwaves back and forth creating a surround sound effect. A little boy, ten years old and wearing black horn-rimmed glasses is sitting on the carpeted floor with his back against the wall reading an X-Men comic. His head sways back and forth to the music as he reads, and every ten seconds or so he flips to a new page. Next to him on the floor is a jagged-edged melon baller covered in dark red fluid that is already staining the beige carpet underneath. The boy starts to hum to himself… “Before the risin’ sun, we fly... So many roads to choose… We’ll start out walkin’ and learn to run… And yes, we’ve just begun…” Outside a dog starts barking. The boy doesn’t flinch and his expression doesn’t change. His head still sways to the music. He reads, his eyes focused on each story pane, and he turns another page. “And when the evening comes, we smile… So much of life ahead… We’ll find a place where there’s room to grow… And yes, we’ve just begun…” The sounds of a door being kicked in overtake the music, but the boy still listens, head swaying, and reads. “Sharing horizons that are new to us… Watchin’ the signs along the way… Talkin’ it over, just the two of us… Working together day to day… Together… Together…” Suddenly the door to the basement bedroom bursts open, and there are at least three officers there, weapons drawn. They rush in and see the boy sitting by the wall, but it only takes a moment for their attention to be diverted elsewhere. On the opposite side of the room, there’s a King-sized bed with blood splatter all over it and the wall behind. Lying on the bed is a female with an appearance in her mid-30s. There is evidence of stabbing wounds all over her upper torso, and the eyes have been removed from her skull. Two of the officers cover their mouths as waves of nausea wash over them. The third turns to the boy… “Jeffrey, what did you do?” The boy calmly looks up from his comic book. “She refused to see. I wanted her to see.” The officer turns back to the bed, cringing at the sight. He turns back and the boy is already reading his book again, swaying his head to the music, and singing… “And when the evening comes, we smile… So much of life ahead… We’ll find a place where there’s room to grow… And yes… We’ve just begun…” "The heart can get really cold if all you've known is Winter." - Benjamin Alire Saenz ♫♫ “I Think I Love You” by The Partridge Family ♫♫ Drip. Drip. Drip. Water drops in perfect rhythm into the metal sink below. A single light bulb hangs overhead, swaying slowly back and forth. Set against a cinder block wall is a small poured concrete table, and an old record player upon it. The record crackles as the needle drops. Jeffrey James Roberts is seated on the floor, his back to the wall, one leg bent upward and an elbow resting on that knee. His eyes are closed, and his head is leaning backward slightly. It sways lightly to each side as he listens to the music, and he smiles. Do you hear the sounds that I hear? Do you feel them? Do they surround the thoughts inside your mind the way they do mine? Is it more? Is it less? Maybe it’s an endless droning buzzing sound to you. Do they… bug you… the way they bug me? The truth, my friend is that the things you think about me are as meaningless as the endless droning. They are as endless and empty as every word that has ever been said. There is no depth to any of this. It is not worth describing. It simply “is.” Talk, talk, talk, and then talk some more. See if it does you any good. I am either as you supposed or I am something entirely different, but who is to say? Am I a God? Maybe I am. Maybe I was mocking someone when I said that. Maybe I’m mocking myself. Maybe I was mocking you, even though I didn’t even know who you were yet at the time. Whether or not I am a God is immaterial. None of this is real. If I can do a thing then I will most certainly do it. If that means clipping your wings and scraping what remains of you into a thin paste to slide under plastic for safekeeping, then so be it. Or, if you are as you say and I suspect, simply a human being, perhaps it means removing your scalp and leaving you a bleeding, heaving husk in the ring. Either way, I will be back here afterward, my friend, here in this cage. I chose this life, you see, knowing fully well what would become of me because I could not help myself. We are all motivated by something, whether seen or unseen. I chose to embrace who… and what… I am. I am forever destined to live the vast majority of my life in isolation. This is for the good of humanity, for whatever good humanity deserves, and for whatever is left of it. I will be escorted to the ring and back again, a tool used to achieve the desired outcome. I simply cannot be trusted in the company of other people. I cannot trust myself in fact. I don’t have any idea what I will do to you. I won’t know it until I do it. It will just have to be our little surprise. All I can tell you is I have been dreaming about you, fantasizing about what should and could be done with you. So many choices… so many choices… I hope you are everything you are said to be. I hope that you will punch me harder than I’ve been punched before. I hope your knees and elbows can cut me like a scalpel. I hope you will twist my joints into knots. These are ideas that fill me with hope. Pain is a gift, you see. It is not something to be avoided. Your words will bring no fear from me. I am frothing at the mouth in anticipation. I am not a monster. A monster can be killed. I am nothing at all. I want to be clear. You are all in one. Whether a disembodied female voice or a man cosplaying as an insect, on the precipice being devoured. I don’t care. You have not earned distinction. You have not gained any respect from me because I don’t believe in such a concept. I do not discriminate. I do not show mercy. These are constructs, just as you are a construct. I might pin you to the mat and win a wrestling match. Or, I might snap every bone in your body one by one, skin you alive, and dispose of you so that you are never heard from again. A three-to-one mixture of sulfuric acid to thirty percent hydrogen peroxide will completely sublimate all carbon in a human body in minutes. I wonder what it would do to four of them? I don’t need a mask, and I am not a story to be told. I am everything and nothing to you. I am fear and happiness, and terror and joy, and I am more than all of these things still. Jeffrey’s eyes open finally as the music begins to fade, and he smiles a sinister smile while tilting his head to the side and forward just a bit. I like myself very much. There is chaos here, so I am very happy. What becomes of you is not of my choosing. It is an unknown. Chaos. With one stroke… Your existence stops. I am talking to all of you and none of you. I don’t even know how much of this exists. My brain and my conscious thoughts are all that is left of me. These words mean nothing. "How miserably hypocritical, you might say, but no sooner am I offered a chance to flee Hell than I yearn to stay. Few families hold their relations as closely as do prisons. Few marriages sustain the high level of passion that exists between criminals and those who seek to bring them to justice. It's no wonder the Zodiac Killer flirted so relentlessly with the police. Or that Jack the Ripper courted and baited detectives with his - or her - coy letters. We all wish the be pursued. We all long to be desired. The strangest stories, I'm afraid, ultimately ring true. Have you heard of this one? The government struck a bargain with a cannibal, and they use him to dispose of bodies after executions. The supermax prisoners use it to scare each other up in Gainesville. Better watch your step or a man from the government will come and eat you. It doesn't make much sense, but conspiracy theories never do. The man who told me this story tried to walk it back, of course. 'It's probably bullshit,' he laughed. 'Definitely bullshit,' I clarified, and then I took a big bite out of his face." - Chuck Palahniuk, Jack Heath ♫♫ “Leavin’ On a Jet Plane” by Peter, Paul, and Mary ♫♫ March 21st, 2023 A warehouse in the outskirts of Minneapolis, what’s left of it, made to look like a maximum security cell in Alcatraz. The speakers of the record player in the corner crackle under the needle, the scratching feedback of the old device giving a warm fuzzy quality to the sound. Jeffrey James Roberts’ ‘trophy’ photos and items are pinned to a cork board on the wall above, with a new one present. Beside a promotional photo of an unnamed young actor is a small hunk of rotting flesh with a thumbtack pushed through it and into the cork. Roberts himself is in a seated position on the floor in the middle of the room. His back is to the cell bars and plexiglass, his eyes are closed and his head is tilted back slightly, swaying left and right. His lips are stained red, with crusty remnants of blood at each corner. He would seem calm and relaxed if not for this, however, the drip drip dripping of the water in the corner keeps him from resting fully. This, of course, is on purpose. “So nice to see you again.” Roberts calls out, having heard the rustling noises announcing the arrival of a Japanese gentleman in a dark suit, his hands clasped behind him as he cautiously approaches the cell. He is nameless, with no identifying marks that are visible, and a mask over his face concealing his face. “What brings you back this evening? I suspect it isn’t in your manner to seek out stimulating intellectual conversation, so I assume you have another task to complete, and in turn, another for me to complete as well. Am I correct?” The man looks around the room, sees the new ‘trophy’ and grimaces, then turns his eyes back to the prisoner on the prison cell floor. “He saw what you did to the young man on your… cork wall, and he was impressed. You did well. Now, he has something else for you, another task to complete.” Roberts sways, his expression remaining stoic. “Is that all? Has someone else been… naughty?” The man shakes his head, though Roberts can’t see him. “He wants to see what else you’re capable of.” An eyebrow shoots up on Roberts’ face. “Does he? Is he sure he really wants to see what I’m capable of?” The man holds still in place. “Those were his exact words.” Roberts nods, his eyes opening finally. He twists just enough to turn his head and look at the massive guard just outside the cell. “I assume you have another package to give me.” The masked man nods, steps forward, and slips another envelope through the rusty, weathered slot on the cell door glass wall, making sure to keep his eyes on Roberts the whole time. Roberts stays perfectly still and watches as the envelope is thrust through the tiny metal-hinged door, and clatters to the floor inside. “Tell him I’ll do my very best to be worth his time.” Roberts’ head tilts down slightly, his expression a bit more sinister, and smiles a thin, empty smile. "A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead." - Graham Green Present day. The scratch of the same old record player brings the music back to life. Jeffrey James Roberts is sitting, this time staring at a photo of his opponents. The eyes are gouged out with large red “X”s over them. He tilts his head and closes his eyes, swaying softly back and forth… “It’s a small world after all… It’s a small world after all… It’s a small world after all… It’s a small, small world…” The world is what we make of it, what it makes of us, and what is made of everyone else. Chaos defines our reality when our reality no longer matters. We appeal to things greater than ourselves until we determine there is nothing greater than ourselves. Read into this what you will. Think what you wish. The best narrators are unreliable.