Author: MelissaLianne PM
It's 2009 and two watchmen find Benjamin Button buried alive. Benjamin relives another life but finds nothing, and no one, is the same. In progress. R&R is loved.Rated: Fiction T - English - Mystery/Hurt/Comfort - Benjamin B. - Chapters: 3 - Words: 3,535 - Reviews: 23 - Favs: 10 - Follows: 14 - Updated: 03-31-09 - Published: 03-02-09 - id: 4897043
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
A/N: Sorry that this took a while to update! Thank you –so- much to everyone who reviewed, favourite, added this story to their alerts. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that people are enjoying this story! I'm pretty sure I thanked everybody for reviewing my last chapter, but if I didn't then I'm sorry! Anyway—I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It kind of ends on a cliff-hanger... hehe!
The back room of the cafe was furnished according to expense—it seemed that the most expensive items, which were a lava lamp and a cracked, leather sofa, were the only real pieces of comfort in the dimly lit room. A few plastic chairs were stacked under the window and in the corner there were supplies—extra coffee packs and soda cans, stacked unnecessarily high.
Janice and Graham began to unstack the plastic chairs for themselves and Mr B. Max and Benjamin took full leisure of the leather sofa, and though it wasn't as comfy as expected, it was a mile better than plastic seating. Benjamin gurgled appreciatively as he was placed carefully on the couch, but after a few seconds of being ignored, he began to cry.
"Now you wait here little Benji! Don't ya'll start cryin' over my best sofa, you little munchkin! Lemme go and heat you up a bottle 'o somethin' good, yeah?" Janice smoothed down Benjamin's hair which, to Max's surprise, seemed thicker than it had been a few hours ago. Benjamin nodded enthusiastically and his face broke into a wide smile.
"You certainly have a talent with babies, Janice," acknowledged Graham, taking a sip of his coffee.
Janice nodded and offered a smile, placing a bottle of milk in the old microwave. "Well, I can't have Benji ruinin' my best sofa, can I? Milk always sweets a baby up. Just you wait and see."
Mr B positioned himself carefully on the chair, his hat pulled low over his eyes. "So—anybody want to hear a story?"
"Like, a ghost story? Uh uh. Not in front 'o the baby," Max declined this suggestion with a polite smile.
"Well, Max an' I sure as hell have a story to tell," Said Graham, looking at Mr B with a smile, "Damn, if any media got hold of this shit we'd be in the business, you know?"
Mr B paused and pressed his fingertips together, addressing the new information with a contemplative expression. "Hm, what kinda story?"
Janice left the bottle of milk on the coffee table and sat down. Benjamin stretched towards the bottle eagerly, but Janice shook her head at him. "Uh uh, Benji, ya'll burn your mouth! Let it cool a little. But Graham, I'd like to hear your story, and judgin' by Mr B's face, he does too!"
Max lifted Benjamin onto his knee gently and looked at Graham silently. If Graham chose to tell the others about Benjamin's real origin, they might try to claim him, contact the press or even worse, severely hurt him. "Now then, Graham... Uh, don't cha' think that story is a little... far fetched?"
"No story is ever farfetched," replied Mr B in a grim tone. He stretched his arms and then shuddered as a coldness flittered through the window, which judging by the interior had been repaired not by professional means, but rather a cheap substitute—probably Janice herself, who chose to glance at the window that moment and cringe.
"Agreed," nodded Graham, ignoring Max's warning look. "Anyway—Max and I were chillin' out in the graveyard, 'cause we're night watchmen, see. Sometimes there are grave robbers or disruptive kids—you know the sort. Uh, we hear this cryin' sound and I'm thinkin', 'This is god damn spooky,' but Max 'ere was pretty cool wi' it, 'cause he's been in the business longer than me. So, anyways, we gets up to investigate. I'm thinkin' it could be some o' those drunken teenagers, causin' shit. It was only last month we had a memorial grave covered with graffiti. So uh, we walkin' and we here this cryin' sound. We think it could be a cat, or somethin'."
"Wow," said Janice, looking intrigued, "Was it those teenagers?"
"Uh uh, I'm gettin' to tha' now." Graham smiled at her and Mr B, before continuing. "anyways, we think it's from one of the graves, this sound. The cryin' grows fainter so we starts to dig and see if there is anythin' there. We pull out this lil' coffin, despite the fact the gravestone claims when this guy died he was around, eighty-five years. So we pull open the coffin, and—"
"It was a cat," interrupted Max. Graham and Benjamin's expressions registered as blank. "Yeah, uh, we gots a real scare."
"Wooow." Janice looked scared—her image reminded Max of a child hearing a scary story at bedtime. "That's mad! So did ya'll find the body, an' what did ya'll do with the pussy cat?"
Max paused for a moment. "Well uh, when we got the kitty out its lungs had stopped—it was dead. Dunno where the body is, like."
"Strange," mused Mr B, who looked as if he did not believe a word Max had said, "very strange indeed... would it be impolite to tell you all a story of my own? It's real."
Benjamin sat up straight on the couch, his little hands balled into fists. Max absently smoothed the baby's curls and nodded at Mr B.
"During November, 1918—the time when people of New Orleans were celebrating the end of world war one, there's a baby born. 'Nothing unusual,' I see you are thinking. Well, there was. This baby boy was born with physical and health problems—like that of an old man. The mama dies after givin' birth, and the daddy flees, not wantin' any abnormality for a child. This child was left on the porch 'o a nursing home. The woman who finds the baby names him... Benjamin." At this point, Mr B looked at the Benjamin on Max's knee.
"Ooh," breathed Janice, "now that's coincidental!"
Graham looked intrigued—but Max was frowning. With a light smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, Mr B continued in a philosophical tone. "Throughout his life, Benjamin grows... younger. So at the age of eight, he can walk an' talk as eloquently as any kid can in school—'cept he still looks like an old man. He continues to grow younger and he soon begins to look like a young man. And then a teenager—and before you know it—a bratty kid. Within the blink of an eye, he's a baby again. He dies—at the age of eighty five."
Max closed his eyes—even to him the story seemed to mesh in well with Benjamin's. Janice didn't comment on Mr B's story immediately; she gently lifted Benjamin from Max's knee and began to bottle feed him. "Tha... tha...nk...s. Thaa...nks."
"Ooh," Janice said again, "Did that lil' baby just say thanks to me?"
"No," denied Max, "I was scrapin' my chair on your floor. Sorry."
The young waitress gave him a disapproving look and then addressed Mr B with a bright smile. "That story was amazing! And ya'll see it's real? Whoa! So what do you think happened to Benjamin, Mr?"
"I think..." Mr B glanced at Benjamin who was staring back at the man with mature eyes, "He's sittin' right there."