Neurotica Read online

Benjamin awoke suddenly, after fitful sleep. His shoulders ached. Perhaps he hadn't slept at all. Rubbing his eyes, straining, he tried in vain to read the clock perched on his desk, at the foot of his bed, by the window. But the light from a few lonely stars outside was not adequate, and it didn't help any that he was without his glasses. Angered at awaking, letting curiosity get the best of him, he pushed himself up and leaned towards the clock for a closer look. A beak snapped at his forehead. Wings flapped wildly in the darkness.

  Pulling away, he flung an arm up in defence, unable to see the source of the attack. Yet, no further attack occurred. Lowering his arm, hearing a subtle caw, his eyes somewhat adjusted now, he noticed a large black crow sitting atop his clock, shrouded in the darkness.

  The limited starlight found its way through the window and reflected off the crow’s blackened feathers. The crow fluttered his wings, perhaps out of force of habit. His eyes, like black marbles, rolled and winked with each twitch of his head. Benjamin was able to get a good view of the crow in the dim light, yet, for the life of him, he couldn't see what time it was.

  Feeling under his bed, where he always kept his glasses when he slept, he found nothing. Perhaps the crow, crows being notorious pests and known to be attracted to shiny objects, had flown off with them, hiding them in some tall tree.

  Motivated by both curiosity and impatience with his late night visitor, Benjamin leaned towards his clock, demanding to know the time at any cost. Again the crow snapped at him. He lunged for the bird, hoping to scare it off. The bird, quite large and intimidating in the darkness, flapped and cawed, talons gripping the clock, almost flying up to the ceiling with it.

  “Benjamin,” a familiar voice floated through his locked door. The crow, clock held tight, landed back on the desk, “are you alright in there?”

  It was Benjamin's mother, standing outside his door, in the lit hallway. He could see the shadow of her feet through the bottom of the door. The crow called out again, as if to answer for him, but more than likely just to create a stir, characteristic of his species.

  “Benjamin?” she persisted, still knocking.

  “What's wrong with him now?” came an unfamiliar female voice, running from the kitchen, knocking into a picture on the wall, causing it to sway like a pendulum. It was a portrait of a very young boy, standing in a garden.

  “Sounds like he's got a bird in there,” he heard his mother whisper to the stranger. “I hope it doesn't ruin the curtains!”

  “Oh Benjamin,” the stranger cried, “are you alright in there?”

  “Benjamin,” his mother called, knocking again, “please don't be difficult. We're worried sick.”

  “I'm fine,” Benjamin called back, perturbed. He didn't understand their concern, nor could he explain the presence of a strange female voice outside if his room, apparently someone who knew his mother though. “I just awoke to check the time.” He threw back the covers.

  “What's going on out there?” he heard his father's voice, originating from the sitting room. “I'm trying to watch the game. I have to pay attention. I've got money on it. I joined the hockey pool at work.”

  Benjamin thought he heard a young boy cry out with glee. He could hear toys crashing together.

  “He won't come out,” his mother called back to his father, “and he's making a lot of noise in there. It's strange.”

  “Benjamin,” the voice of the stranger pleaded, trying the locked door, “please, what's wrong? Please come out. I'm worried.”

  “Look what you've done,” his father's voice boomed from the sitting room. There must have been a commercial, because he began quite the spiel. “The entire family in an uproar!” he opened a new bottle of beer, still seated in his favourite chair. “Just come out now, Benjamin. Don't get into one of your moods. Look how upset Francine is, and it's your fifth anniversary, for crying out loud! Whoops, the game's back on!”

  Benjamin remained silent, digesting everything that was said. He had forgotten completely about the time now; curiosity led him down a different path. What was this talk of an anniversary? It was strange, he couldn't explain it. Shaking sleep away, he suddenly felt very alien. Confused, he unlocked his door and opened it. He was greeted by a warm embrace from an attractive young woman.

  “I was so worried,” she kissed him gently.

  “Here he is now,” mother called to the father, as if he was listening in on the progress from his chair in the sitting room, television blaring.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of breaking glass.

  “Oh no,” the mysterious woman drew her arms away from Benjamin and covered her mouth, “it's fallen! I knocked into it by accident.”

  “Don't worry yourself,” mother walked towards it, “I'll clean it up.”

  Benjamin's thoughts were jumbled. It was bad enough that he'd just been awakened, not from the best sleep either, but now he was confronted by just too many perplexing factors, all intertwined. Firstly, he didn't recognize the hallway outside of his own room. It was narrower, more claustrophobic, poorly lit, compared to his real home. Secondly, his mother, it struck him, had become much older - over night, it seemed. And thirdly, most importantly, who was this woman embracing him, looking deep into his eyes for some sign of recognition? Was this the Francine his father had shouted about? And the talk of an anniversary? Was this his so-called wife?

  “What's happening to me?” he thought aloud.

  “What's wrong with you?” Francine shrunk back. “Are you well? I thought the sleep would help.”

  Obviously, his eyes could not lie, especially not to a woman who loved him, or so it seemed. She saw the lack of recognition, the confusion, and, unfortunately, it formed a massive cold front passing over her. But how could he be blamed? He was an innocent dreamer, plunged into strange circumstance, without any explanation or warning. Benjamin's thoughts disappeared. He was struck by a strong, unusual recognition, bringing back memories of his own childhood photos. The young boy, previously in the sitting room with Benjamin's father, waddled forth. Was it possible?

  Francine went over and picked him up, bringing him towards Benjamin. He was an attractive boy, but with the smile of a trouble maker. Yes it was possible; after all, Benjamin's own mother always said he was a terror when he was young. The boy looked up at him with the look of someone who had just recognized a kindred spirit. It didn't surprise Benjamin; he'd felt it himself, but kept it at bay; one of his more far-fetched explanations. Yet, a child is more receptive to the unusual and the fantastic than an adult. This is why the boy had that wicked little grin, that look of sharing a secret only with his father and no one else.

  Suddenly, there was a loud hissing in the background.

  “Oh,” Francine cried, “the soup! I forgot about it.”

  The young boy in her arms, she hurried into the kitchen to turn down the heat. Benjamin's mother helped her clean up the mess that boiled over, soiling the stove and the floor. The distraction saved Benjamin from further scrutiny. But he was far from feeling safe and comfortable. Wandering into the sitting room, his father, also significantly older now, sat in front of the television, sipping beer and cheering on his team. The sitting room was small and dingy, poorly furnished compared to what Benjamin was accustomed to. The cheap paintings on the wall, the dusty lamps, the scratched furniture - absolutely none of it was familiar to him.

  “This place,” he blurted, “I don't feel comfortable here.”

  “What was that?” his mother came out from the kitchen, followed by Francine and the young boy, throwing himself on his toys.

  Benjamin did not wish to be cruel. His predicament seemed impossible - beyond comprehension. As a result, he couldn't, in all fairness, direct his anger and impatience at his parents, or his supposed wife and son. Perhaps in vain, he tried to repair the damage his comment had made, in the process hoping to gain some insight into why things were as they were - or how things would be in his future. That was his official explanation.

  “It
's too small here,” Benjamin motioned around him, “and dingy. I liked the old place the best. Lots of open space and wondrous antiques. I'm just not accustomed to anything else. It's such a shock for me.”

  “Oh Benjamin, why must you go on about it?” his mother cried. “Aren't you over it yet?”

  “After all these years. Your poor mother!” father spoke up during a commercial. “You know it was hard for us to sell the old house. But the bills and the debts, it was just too much. And now, of all the times to dredge that up, you choose your anniversary! What terrible timing! You should have stayed in bed, rather than awakened with such an ugly disposition. We've all been through far too much in the last few years and you're well aware of it. You should be ashamed! Whoops, the game's back on!”

  Benjamin rubbed his brow. His shoulders still ached. They ached since he awoke. However, now there were sharp stabbing pains, and an unrelenting itch. Feeling under his pyjamas, he discovered that his shoulders were deeply marked by talons. Yes, time flies, but it carries the dreamers with it, regardless of whether they're ready or not, and completely against their will.

  “Benjamin,” Francine interrupted his thoughts, taking his hand “why do you look at me that way? What's wrong with you? I thought a sleep would make you feel better.”

  Without warning, Benjamin pulled away from her and raced into the kitchen.

  “What's wrong?” Francine called out to him.

  “He was not easy to raise,” his father sipped his beer, during a penalty announcement, “always distracted. Don't expect him to change any time soon. Maybe he wants some of that soup.”

  “This is just too much for me,” Francine sat next to his mother on a quaint little sofa. She could hear Benjamin in the kitchen, apparently searching for something. She watched her son push about with his trucks and cars, uttering all sorts of imaginative noises. “I don't know what to do when he gets like this.”

  “Don't worry,” Benjamin's mother consoled her, setting down her magazine, as Benjamin raced into the sitting room, looking around madly at walls and furniture, “it's just one of his phases; best to let it run its course. I'm sure it won't affect your relationship at all, having been married for five years now. You're through the worst of it - the first few years are always the worst. Besides, you make such a wonderful couple. You're definitely birds of a feather.”

  Benjamin's mother returned to her magazine, and Francine watched Benjamin closely, running around in his pyjamas like a madman. He grabbed his father's left wrist, then dropped it, looking disgusted. His father showed no reaction, glued to his game. He then came over and checked his mother's wrist, prying her away from her magazine, and then Francine's. She looked at him blankly, as he turned and sped off, racing through the halls, in and out of the bedrooms, slamming doors behind him. These odd habits worried her, but her son, excited by it all, and being very young, took off after his father to help him runabout madly, slamming doors. It was a son's duty.

  Staring blankly at the television, Francine heard Benjamin return to the kitchen, searching through all the cupboards, cursing under his breath. He appeared at the door to the sitting room.

  “I'm going back to bed now,” he announced.

  His son ran over and sat next to Francine. He smiled knowingly at Benjamin. To such a young mind, this was all playful fun. But to an adult, it was devastating. Benjamin leaned over Francine and kissed her good night, overcome by the feeling of kissing someone you're greatly attracted to but have only just met. A brief goodnight to his parents and he was ready. He looked at his son, not knowing what to think. But his son simply smiled and nodded, which was all he needed.

  Returning to his room, locking his door, he stepped carefully back into bed, darkness all around him. Laying there, wrapped in blankets, he was furious that he was unable to find a single clock in the entire house - or even a calendar for that matter. There was a flap of wings. Yes, of course he was still there. He had to make his presence known. But Benjamin would ignore him now. He figured that whatever trick had plucked the crow from his dreams could just as easily return the bird. He just hoped it would be easy on his shoulders. Exhausted by the ordeal, he quickly succumbed.

  He awoke suddenly after fitful sleep. His shoulders ached. It seemed like he hadn't slept at all. Rubbing his eyes, straining, he tried in vain to read the clock sitting on his desk, at the foot of his bed, by the window. But the light provided by a few lonely stars was not adequate, and it didn't help any that he was without his glasses. Angered at awaking, letting curiosity get the best of him, he pushed himself up and leaned towards the clock for a closer look. A beak snapped at his forehead, followed by a brush of wind caused by flapping wings. Pulling away, he flung an arm up in defence, unable to see the source of the attack. Yet, no further attack occurred. Lowering his arm, hearing a subtle caw, his eyes somewhat adjusted now, he noticed a large black crow sitting atop his clock, shrouded in the darkness.

  What light was allowed through the window caused the crow's blackened feathers to shine as he fluttered his wings, perhaps out of force of habit. His eyes, like black marbles, rolled and winked at Benjamin with each twitch of his head. All this Benjamin could make out in the dim light, yet, for the life of him, he couldn't see what time it was! Feeling under his bed, where he always kept his glasses when he slept, he could not find them. Perhaps the crow, crows being notorious pests and known to be attracted to shiny objects, had flown off with them, hiding them in some tall tree.

  Motivated by both curiosity and impatience with his late night visitor, again Benjamin leaned towards his clock, demanding to know the time at any cost. Again the crow snapped at him. He lunged for the bird, hoping only to scare it off. The bird, quite large and intimidating in the darkness, flapped and cawed, talons gripping the clock, almost flying up to the ceiling with it.

  “Benjamin,” a familiar voice floated through his locked door, as the crow, clock held tight, landed back on the desk, “are you alright in there?”

  And then it struck Benjamin. He froze in his bed, momentarily, then jerked up and looked around. Was it possible? He had experienced spells like this before.

  “Benjamin?” his mother called, still knocking.

  “What's wrong with him now?” came another familiar voice, running from the kitchen.

  “Sounds like he's got a bird in there,” he heard his mother whisper. “I hope it doesn't ruin the curtains.”

  “Oh Benjamin,” Francine cried, “are you alright in there?”

  In a sudden burst of what might be called anger, brought on by a highly unusual circumstance that would justify a wide variety of emotions, he flung back his covers, causing the crow to leap up again.

  “Straighten the picture in the hallway!” he hollered towards the locked door. Through the bottom of the door, he could see the shadows of the two figures in the hallway outside. “Do it before it falls and breaks,” he continued, “and take your soup off the oven because it's about to boil over!”

  There was a period of silence. He heard his mother and Francine move to the end of the hallway and then into the kitchen. He listened very carefully; nothing - no noise, no word - would slip by him. The crow, still atop the clock, flapped its wings impatiently. He waved a hand at it, as if to silence it, as if he had any control over this creature of the night who visits dreamers as he sees fit. Sure enough, straining to hear, his mother and his supposed wife ran back to his door. He could hear them whispering. Obviously they were amazed. He smiled to himself.

  “Benjamin,” his mother knocked, trying the lock as well, “please come out here. We're worried.”

  There was a pause, and then he heard whispering again. It sounded as though Francine was trying to coax his mother along.

  “Benjamin,” she knocked again, “you were right about the portrait and the soup on the oven. How did you do that? We'd really like you to come out now.”

  Benjamin laughed out loud. The crow cawed.

  “I'm an aspiring Nostradamus!�
� he hollered, laughing. “I can see the future!”

  Suddenly, he heard his father leap up from his chair in the sitting room and come running into the hallway. Apparently, he had been paying some attention to what was going on.

  “Ask him if he knows who's going to win the game!” he hollered.

  The young boy came running from the sitting room as well. He slid between his mother and the door.

  “Daddy,” he spoke through the key hole, “are you back again?”

  Benjamin just laughed. There was little else he could do. It was a common reaction for someone under such a strain, such a strange series of events and realisations.

  “Go back to Granddad,” Francine took him by the arm.

  “But I don't want to,” the boy grumbled. “I want to run around the house some more.”

  “Go back!”

  The boy left the door, reluctantly.

  “Benjamin,” his mother started up again, “maybe you should come out now. You've been sleeping for so long. Surely you feel better now.”

  “I'm a grown man,” Benjamin shot back, “and I don't need to be told when to get out of bed. I'm staying here - and that's that!”

  “What's come over him?” he heard Francine whisper to his mother.

  “I don't know,” she shrugged, “a phase of his. Best to let it run its course.”

  His mother led Francine back to the sitting room. Benjamin shifted around in his bed and suddenly felt a sharp pain in each shoulder. Slipping his fingers under his pyjamas, he discovered that the wounds were very deep now, beginning to burn.

  “Well,” Benjamin looked towards the crow, “I don't approve of your trickery. Why this place? Why again? I vaguely recall that I have things of importance to accomplish in the morning: some house chores, papers to review, calls to make. All those things I did before - when I was still a single, relatively happy young man. So why not just let me rest in peace?”

  The crow looked at him blankly, as blankly as a crow can. His eyes, those black marbles, darted back and forth, still atop the clock, of course. Benjamin would think no more of it. How could he? It was all a terrible mistake, a mistake of the powers that be, of course - not his mistake. With this in mind, he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

  He awoke suddenly after fitful sleep. Of course he did! His shoulders ached. Why shouldn't they? It seemed like he hadn't slept at all. Rubbing his eyes, he was glad it was all over with. Other things concerned him now; so many things to do, first thing in the morning. Yet the sun was far from rising. Angered at awaking so early, straining, he tried in vain to read the clock sitting on his desk, at the foot of his bed, by the window. But the light provided by a few lonely stars outside was not adequate, and it didn't help any that he was without his glasses. Letting curiosity get the best of him, he pushed himself up and leaned towards the clock for a closer look. A beak snapped at his forehead, followed by a brush of wind caused by flapping wings. Pulling away, he fell to his pillow, sighing deeply.

  “You again?” he grumbled.

  The crow's eyes, like black marbles, rolled and winked at Benjamin with each twitch of his head. All this Benjamin could make out in the dim light, yet, for the life of him, he couldn't see what time it was! Of course he couldn’t! And his glasses? Why bother checking! The bird, as large and intimidating as ever, in the darkness, flapped and cawed, talons gripping the clock, almost flying up to the ceiling with it.

  “Benjamin,” his mother's voice floated through his locked door, as the crow, clock held tight, landed back on the desk, “are you alright in there?”

  Normally, the flight of the crow was predictable. But now the crow had grown unreliable, no longer to be trusted by travelling dreamers. Benjamin, lying quietly in bed, thought about it carefully, distracted somewhat by the pain in his shoulders, now quite severe. It seemed like the crow was circling something of interest, as crows often do. But why this particular point in time? It seemed of no consequence. Yet, he had learnt several things, all of them disheartening, rather bleak, and of debateable importance.

  “Benjamin?” mother asked, still knocking.

  “What's wrong with him now?” Francine came running from the kitchen.

  Benjamin, ignoring the ruckus in the hallway, continued to reflect on the events. What significance did it all hold for him? He knew he'd be married, with a child, and his parents wouldn't be able to maintain the old house. But why did the crow keep bringing him back? Once was more than enough, and almost too much for him to handle as it was, being too tired and miserable to appreciate it fully.

  “Sounds like he's got a bird in there,” his mother whispered to Francine. “I hope it doesn't ruin the curtains.”

  “Oh Benjamin,” Francine cried, “are you alright in there?”

  “Benjamin,” his mother called, knocking again, “please don't be difficult. We're worried sick.”

  Benjamin, still ignoring the pleading at his door, reached beneath his pyjamas and felt his shoulders. Blood trickled down from the wounds. It seemed unlikely that they'd heal. The fault of the crow, of course, but also the price that any dreamer must pay, a burden on his shoulders – but also the key to freedom. Benjamin didn't feel it was a price he should be paying. He wasn't enjoying the trip. How could he? How could the crow be so careless with its passenger? Why couldn't it let him off at the signing of the Declaration of Independence, or a nudist beach, or a combination thereof? Why not something exciting, memorable, something to be discussed over coffee at the office the next day? Why this same hell again and again?

  “Benjamin,” Francine pleaded, trying the locked door “please, what's wrong? Please come out. I'm worried.”

  “He won't come out,” his mother called back to his father, in the sitting room, “and he's making a lot of noise in there. It's strange.”

  “Can't this wait for a commercial?” Father barked back.

  Benjamin shook his head.

  “Why,” he thought aloud, whispering softly to the crow, “why are you doing this to me?”

  Benjamin was surprised at how weary he suddenly became. In the comfort of his bed, shrouded in darkness, with the gentle flutter of the crow's wings, oblivious to the pain in his shoulders, he fell back to sleep.

  In the morning, he awoke for the last time. The sun crept in through the window and over his desk, reflecting off the clock. Reaching under his bed, he found his glasses. Putting them on, he noticed it was eight o'clock. Slowly he pushed himself up out of bed; his shoulders were a mess now. Unlocking the door, leaving his room, he wandered down the hall. He paused in front of the portrait on the wall, a photograph of a handsome young man, his own son, now fully grown, standing in a garden. In the dim light of the hallway, and with the dark background in the portrait, he could see his own reflection superimposed over his son's. All the wrinkles, the grey hair, the weathered face of a man in his final years. Moving away from the portrait, somewhat saddened, he paused in the sitting room. He was alone, of course; he had been for the last ten years. No one else in that small house he'd inherited from his parents so many years ago.

  Thinking back to the portrait, reflecting on his life, he hated the impudence of his youth, somewhere far in the past. He hated the selfishness and the lack of foresight, the preoccupation with unimportant things like office work and daily chores, obscuring all things that should be held dearest. But could his past self be blamed? After all, he didn't know what he knew now, so his reaction seemed warranted, if not justifiable.

  Of course, he'd beg the crow to carry him back once again, but the sun was up, the rooster cried, and the crow was gone. No more chances; three was enough. He had failed. Obviously, he appreciated the past more than his past self appreciated it - or the future, for that matter. But it proved very difficult to get his past self to realise his folly. If only he could get through to him back then, that was the plan; then things would be different. But the feeling was so strong within him; he had such hope. How he strived to remember those simple mom
ents of domestic bliss! Yes, come to think of it, he'd have went back a hundred times, but his past self, impatient and lacking the wisdom he now had, wouldn't allow it; too much of an inconvenience for him. Of course, all of this is insignificant to a bird that could drop you anywhere, whenever it tires, whenever it sees fit. No, he could not blame the crow.

  Moving back down the hallway, towards his bedroom, all things considered, he was still thankful that he was given those last few opportunities. Closing the door behind him, locking it, he heard something at his window. It was the crow, on the outside looking in, beating and flapping against the pane of glass, perhaps craving his perch atop the clock. Benjamin slid slowly into bed, his shoulders aching from an age long burden of hopes and dreams. With his head resting on his pillow, they exchanged their final glances. The crow's black marble eyes blinked with each twitch of his head, his wings shot up, he let out a tremendous cry and then disappeared into the sky. Benjamin turned away from the window. No longer caring what time it was, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep, deep sleep.

  A Note on Fancy Toffee Tins