The Inconsistent Ramblings of a Constant Story Teller(A short story collection)

Ben

Ben sat at his dining room table, alone. His sandy blonde hair had gotten too long recently and he had been meaning to make a hair appointment soon. Ben picked at his fingernails as the smell of roast beef wafted in through the double doors leading into the kitchen. It was dark outside, darker than Ben thought was ever possible for a Fall night. Daylight savings had just ended and dark storm clouds blocked out any light of the moon or stars that were in the sky. The dark black clouds, filled with moisture were waiting to burst, straining, wanting to release all of the pent up rain that it held in its poofy looking body.

This stress made its way to Ben. His fingernails, that had recently been painted by his girlfriend as a joke, we're now a tattered mess of pink and white. A scar on his right hand drew his attention and he began picking at it. The more pain that he inflicted onto his already tattered hand the more the stress seemed to dissipate. Soon, the scar broke and small amounts of thick red blood poured out of the open cut in his hand. He held the hand to his mouth and sucked at the blood, as he liked the taste. When Ben stopped feeling tasting the metallic liquid in his mouth, he drew his hand away and held it by his side.

A band erupted from the kitchen and a smell of smoke arose, mixing with the beef. Ben was not startled by the sound or the smell, because he was used to his mother ruining something that had seemed so perfect just a moment before. That made Ben remember his father, and how he had seemed so happy before his mother, well. Anyway, Ben, stone faced, stared at the wall opposite him and tears welled up in his eyes. He suppressed the tears and punched his right thigh with the scarred hand.

Ben took a sip of his water. A slight taste of cigarette smoke lingered in it, and he realized that it was his mother's glass. Ben's hand began to shake. Fear grew inside of his stomach, and he was not exactly sure why. Ben looked down to the floor below his table, and saw the blood red carpet, stained brown by this and that over the years.

Suddenly, the doors to the kitchen burst open with so much ferocity that the mangy old gray tabby cat two rooms over got so startled that it jumped out of its spot and ran into the closet for solace. Ben's mother slammed the roast beast onto the table and Ben saw the blackened, burnt right side of it. His mother grumbled something, but Ben barely listened to her anymore. He just took the large kitchen knife and fork that were on the same plate and started carving into the large slab of brown and black meat in the metal plate on the dining room table.

He slapped the meat down onto his plate, half of the piece he had carved for himself was burnt, however he far from cared. He cut a small piece of his food and shoved it haphazardly into his hungry mouth. It didn't taste good. The little seasoning that it had on it had mostly burned off of the food and it was not tender at all. He felt as if he was eating a brick rather than a food item. His body tried to reject the meat, but he forced it down his throat.

His mother, unsatisfied with Ben's look of disgust, walked out of the room angrily. Ben was thirsty, due to the dryness of his mother's cooking. He looked at the small glass of water that he had previously noted tasted like cigarettes. He glared at the glass and swiped it off of the wooden table, shattering it on the ground. His mother burst into the dining room once again screaming in anger.

Across the street, a large pit bull that was tied up with a frayed rope to his heavy doghouse. Bruce, the dog, was an angry dog. It's owner had never cared for it, always leaving it outside in the cold and dark, underfeeding it. Bruce sometimes would catch squirrels and bunnies and eat them just to get sustenance. Ben used to sympathize with the dog, until last year when it had bit him so hard he had to go to the emergency room, get rabies shots and a cast on his right leg.

As Bruce bellowed out his barks, Ben and his mother fought. Throwing words that both of them would come to regret. The fight escalated into the physical. It was his mother first throwing a dead plant inside of a decorative vase that Ben's girlfriend had given to him that set him off. Ben threw his plate at his mother, but it did not hit her. Instead the plate shattered on the ground. Ben's mother screamed at his and ran towards him.

As Ben's own mother attempted to choke her own son, the old cat in the other room shook out of fear. Ben kicked his mother off of him and stood up. The woman stumbled back to the back wall, and Ben grabbed the sharp carving knife. Not long after, Ben ran out of the house, leaving the blood stained carpets and knife. He sprinted past Bruce's house, as the dog urged against its rope, fraying it more and more.

Ben ran down the streets, not sure where to go. The streets were dark and cold. Not long after he left his house, the clouds broke. Rain poured down in thick sheets soaking the boy and washing his hands and his jacket of his own mother's blood. It was a cold rain and Ben knew that if he did not get to a shelter soon, he would die of hypothermia.

But lucky for him, his girlfriend's house was right around the corner. He ran to her, thinking that she would understand him and give him piece. Ben was wrong. When the boy arrived at his girlfriend's house, she did not act as he expected, but she instead acted like any person would act if you told them that you murdered your own mother. He saw her face as he never had before, twisted in fear. She then looked at Ben's hands. There was not a lot of light, but she could still see his bleeding hand and ruined finger nails. She slammed the door.

Ben, assuming that she would call the police, foolishly ran back towards his house. Where else would he go? A harsh wind blew in freezing Ben even more than he already was. The thick rain smacked his head and he tripped, falling head first into a dirty puddle filled with muck and grime. He stood up quickly to try to avoid freezing to death, however he might have already been too late.

The young man continued running towards the only place where he thought that he could be alone and safe. He reached his street and looked forlornly at his own home. But, as he began running at his house, Bruce broke free. The angry pit bull that had been tied up by the frayed rope for years upon years had finally broken free and started bolting straight towards Ben. The dog, who had so much pent up aggression towards the world, finally could take it out, and it took it out on the last person that it bit.

Ben was taken down to the ground trying to block his face from the snarling beast. Teeth gashed in front of his horrified face and bit his arms and face. Blood poured out and Ben began to scream. The dog mauled the boy, gashing him more and more until all of the life was out of his body and not even his own mother could recognize his face, if she was still alive.

The police arrived at his body and the case was closed. In about a month nobody remembered Ben or his mother, although the beast that killed him continued to haunt the town for years to come.