Benjamin's Parasite

by Jeff Strand

  He continued to watch.

  Brian didn't move again.

  Good. Deceased kids weren't supposed to move. They were supposed to lie peacefully in their caskets, lips motionless. Any movement was strictly prohibited by the laws of nature.

  And then Benjamin swore—swore—that the body exhaled.

  Not possible. No way in hell. He'd had an autopsy, for God's sake. You didn't exhale after coroners cut you open and scooped out your insides. Brian was a troublemaker, but not that much of a troublemaker.

  Benjamin leaned down close to Brian's face, hoping that anybody who saw him merely thought he was whispering his goodbyes. The kid wasn't breathing—it simply wasn't possible—but Benjamin would feel much better if he could verify that for certain.

  A soft gust of air hit his face.

  He let out a loud yelp and stood up straight.

  Benjamin stood there for a long moment, silently. It was difficult to quantify exactly how much he wished he hadn't yelped like that.

  Awkward...so very awkward...

  He quickly regained his composure and hoped that nobody else noticed. The quizzical expression on the old woman's face indicated that she had indeed noticed. Benjamin slowly turned around and saw several people staring at him, including Margaret and Brian's mother.

  Awkwardness increasing exponentially...

  "Sorry," he said. "Just, uh, a little choked up."

  He took a step away from the casket. He was not, under any circumstances, going to raise an alarm. Brian Dexter was not breathing. He was not a zombie. Unless this was a spectacularly demented prank, Benjamin had either imagined everything or there was a perfectly plausible, scientific, zombie-free explanation.

  He was stressed. His student was lying dead in front of him. It was natural that his disloyal brain would turn against him.

  Though he knew the best course of action was to walk away from the casket before he saw something that made him yelp again (or even worse, squeak) like a complete and utter jackass, he couldn't bring himself to look away.

  So now what?

  Perhaps he should subtly notify somebody in charge. "Sir? Hi. Benjamin Wilson. Look, I'm not trying to cause a panic or anything, but I thought you should know that I have reason to believe that the dead boy in the casket just exhaled on me. I'm not sure how you want to handle the situation, but I kinda thought it was something that should be brought to your attention. Thanks."

  No. He wasn't going to say anything. He could just imagine the headline: Dumb-Ass English Teacher Causes Ruckus At Funeral; Quickly Escorted From Premises. Career Downturn Follows.

  There was absolutely nothing to report to anybody. Brian was dead. Not alive. Dead. Dead, dead, dead, dead—

  "He looks so peaceful."

  Benjamin yelped again.

  Mr. Reitz placed a steadying hand on Benjamin's arm. "Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

  "S'okay."

  "It makes your heart sick, doesn't it?"

  "Yes. Very sick. Quite sick. I should go find my wife."

  Benjamin walked away from the casket, nearly tripping on a non-existent bump in the carpet. He sat down in the first row of chairs and closed his eyes, trying to breathe deeply.

  Okay, so, we've already clearly established that the young boy in the casket has no potential for being alive. We've also established that, mentally, you're not all you could be right now. It was just a twitch and a gust. No big deal. It's not like you hallucinated tarantulas spewing out of his eyeball sockets or something like that. Just calm down. Caaaallllllm. Sweet, precious calm. Imagine a rainbow. You like rainbows. Rainbows are pretty.

  Somebody sat down next to him. He opened his eyes.

  "Are you okay?" Margaret whispered.

  He shook his head.

  "Was it worse than you expected?"

  "It was bad, yeah. I just need some air. Good air, not dead people air." God, he was breathing air that had been occupied by countless corpses! He stood up and, preserving as much dignity as he possibly could, took Margaret's hand and walked out of the funeral home.

  Then he threw up.

  In front of a whole bunch of reporters.

  * * *

  The funeral itself, which took place outdoors, was almost a relief. It was a nice, warm November day in Tampa, Florida, with a pleasant breeze that helped prevent Benjamin from repeating his regurgitation gaffe. The reverend's eulogy was polite enough to focus on the lost potential and not the whole meat cleaver incident, referring to it only as "the tragic circumstances." Some students came up and shared their fondest memories of Brian, while one of Benjamin's top students recited an original poem that, sadly, he would've graded a C- if she'd turned it in as a classroom assignment.

  Gradually, Benjamin calmed down. It was unusual for a man of almost forty to only be attending his second funeral, and the yelps were to be expected. Though it was the most heartbreaking event of his career, the weirdness didn't go beyond that.

  Except that his nose itched like crazy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A couple of weeks later, things had mostly returned to normal. Benjamin sat at his desk at home, grading the final papers for Wuthering Heights. He tore open another Milky Way bar as he finished a paper about halfway down the stack. He'd covered it with so much red ink that it looked like a serial killer had chainsawed a few victims in the vicinity. Somehow, after two essays, five quizzes, and four weeks of discussion, this student still didn't realize that Catherine and Cathy were two different characters. Instead of scrawling "Are you fucking kidding me?" at the bottom, which would have been unprofessional, he wrote "Unacceptable—please see me on Monday." This was a student whose weekend deserved ruining.

  Cindy knocked on the open door and walked in. "Hi, Dad," she said.

  "How much money do you want?"

  "What makes you think I want money?"

  "That was your 'Hi, Dad, I want money' tone."

  "Have you ever stopped to think that you're creating a self-fulfilling prophecy? Maybe I came in here to offer to get you a sandwich, but then you implanted the idea of money into my mind, and now I'm going to ask for it?"

  "Whose class are you learning about self-fulfilling prophecies in?"

  "Mr. Dzeda's."

  "Give him my love."

  "I will. Can I have fifty bucks?"

  Benjamin grinned. "Are you learning about negotiating in economics?"

  "I'm not learning anything in economics. It's so boring. Have you ever seen that hair in Mrs. Henner's nose? Today it had a booger on it, and it kept bouncing up and down like a trampoline. It was so gross."

  "Go away."

  "Can I have fifty bucks?"

  "Why do you need fifty bucks?"

  "I don't. I need twenty. I want fifty."

  "What happened to your allowance?"

  "Inflation." She nodded at the desk. "Pig out much?"

  Benjamin glanced at the candy wrappers and did a quick count. Seven. Wow. He didn't remember eating seven candy bars.

  "Guess I was hungry."

  "Guess so. Don't let Mom see those."

  "Don't let me see what?" asked Margaret from the living room.

  Benjamin couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. Gorging himself on candy bars was pretty tacky, considering that his wife was continually denying herself more than a chocolate sliver.

  "Dad let me eat two candy bars," said Cindy.

  "You shouldn't have candy before dinner."

  "I know. He's a terrible father."

  Benjamin scooped the wrappers off the desk and deposited them into the trash can. He took out his wallet and removed a twenty.

  "I hope it doesn't bother your conscience to spend blood money," he said.

  "Not at all," she said with a cheery smile, taking the cash.

  Cindy left and Benjamin returned to grading the papers. He ate too much candy, that was a given, and he had a nice big stash in the bottom desk drawer. But he'd never eaten seven in a row. He'd never even eaten three in a ro
w, at least not since he was trick-or-treating age. And he'd certainly never eaten candy without realizing it.

  Weird.

  He was working too hard. At least the holiday break was coming up soon. He definitely needed some time to just be a vegetable.

  He moved on to the next paper. This student was not a complete moron and her words did not produce carpal tunnel syndrome to correct. He wrote "Nice work. A-" at the bottom, then took another bite from his Snickers bar.

  He didn't remember opening this Snickers bar. Or eating the other half.

  And he only now realized that he was sick to his stomach, much the way he felt after those gluttonous Halloween feasts from decades ago.

  He locked the candy drawer.

  This was probably a sign that he should quit for the evening, but that wasn't an option. Though he liked to think of himself as a rather easygoing teacher, he was also extremely strict about homework being turned in on time. Unless you had a spectacular excuse—as in, your homework was currently clutched in your severed arm, with no way to retrieve it from the underside of the tractor—the grade penalty was severe.

  Since he was, as he'd once overheard, "a real dick" about this, he felt obligated to set a perfect example. So if he said their papers would be graded and returned on Friday, they'd be graded and returned on Friday. No excuses. He was pretty sure that if a student explained that their tardy paper was due to personal concerns about excessive chocolate consumption, he'd be less than understanding, so he had to push through this.

  * * *

  Margaret made a delicious chicken casserole for dinner. Benjamin didn't think it was a good idea to confess his pre-dinner piggishness, and so he forced himself to choke down the meal, even as his stomach begged for mercy. If she noticed that he wasn't enjoying her fine cooking as much as he normally did, she didn't say anything.

  However, he gobbled down the chocolate cake she made for dessert and asked for seconds.

  * * *

  He lay in bed, reading a bodice-ripper. Typically he liked to end his day with something more intellectually stimulating, to give his subconscious mind more to work with, but for some reason he desperately needed to know if Henrietta would end up with Draven after the deflowering.

  He heard Margaret spit out her toothpaste. The water ran for a moment, and then she walked out of the bathroom, wearing her faded blue nightgown.

  She looked good. Real good.

  He felt himself responding. It definitely wasn't the book—the last sex scene was two chapters ago.

  Benjamin and Margaret enjoyed a healthy, if vanilla, sex life. They went at it once or twice a week, which Benjamin thought was pretty good for a couple in their twenty-first year of marriage. Nothing kinky. Every half-dozen sessions averaged out to three missionary positions, two Margaret-on-tops, and a from-behind. Maybe every six months or so they'd throw something new into the mix, with varying levels of success. Their toy and video drawer was poorly stocked and rarely utilized. But still, despite the lack of variety, Benjamin had no complaints.

  The nightgown was intended to be functional rather than seductive. Still, right now she looked incredible.

  "Looking good," he said with an appreciative whistle. "Wanna fuck?"

  She gave him a surprised look. Benjamin himself was more than a little taken aback. Though his vocabulary included all of the major expletives, he rarely used them in a sexual context. Dirty talk wasn't his thing. Even though he knew it turned Margaret on, he felt ridiculous when he tried to talk nasty. He was much better at moans and "Ooooh yeah" and "Just like that" than at any phrases that included "my cock."

  Four years ago, in an effort to overcome his self-consciousness, he wrote up a cheat sheet of what he'd say during that evening's encounter. Not that he'd planned to tape it to the headboard or anything—he simply figured that having it written out beforehand would help him recite the basic gist whilst in the act of lovemaking. Unfortunately, he got an important phone call before he'd finished, and more unfortunately, the phone call was extremely lengthy and distracting, and most unfortunately, Cindy had discovered the crib sheet on his desk. An impromptu "birds and the bees" chat followed.

  "Did I hear you correctly?" asked Margaret, clearly amused.

  "I hope so."

  "Well, yes, I would. Thank you for asking." She climbed onto the bed with him. They kissed, long and deep, until Benjamin pulled away.

  "Do we have any chocolate syrup left?"

  "Why?"

  "Foreplay."

  * * *

  Margaret's heels dug into his back as Benjamin lapped at the sweet, delicious chocolate. He could also go for some peanuts and nougat, but thought it best not to suggest such a thing.

  * * *

  There was no question that tonight's position of choice was doggy-style. He thrust into her, getting into the act as much as he could while remaining considerate of the mental health of his daughter in her room at the end of the hall.

  He clutched her hips tightly in his hands as he pounded away. She whimpered and made various cat-like noises to indicate that she was enjoying the evening's activities.

  Her ass looked great. Smooth. Firm.

  Penetrable.

  "Ooooh, baby," he moaned. "I'd love to stick it in your..." He couldn't quite bring himself to finish the sentence as intended. "...anus."

  She stopped moving. "What?"

  "Nothing."

  She slid forward, popping free. "You'd love to stick it where?"

  "I don't remember."

  Margaret rolled over and sat up. "Did you say anus?"

  Benjamin gave a slight nod. He was pretty sure it wasn't just the nomenclature that had taken her off-guard. Before they were even married, she'd made it perfectly clear that that particular orifice was exit-only, and Benjamin had never been more than slightly interested in trying to change her mind in that regard. Maybe every once in a while there'd be a mild sense of curiosity, but never enough for him to ask her to reconsider her anal boundaries.

  She raised an eyebrow.

  Was she considering it? Was she really going to let him have a turn at her—?

  Uh, nope. She definitely wasn't.

  "I'm flattered, I guess," she said. "But did you really think I was going to just let you suddenly pop it in?"

  Benjamin violently shook his head. "I wasn't actually suggesting it. I was speaking metaphorically."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "It was a metaphor. I said your...anus, but I meant your...soul."

  She stared at him.

  "Sorry," he said. "Won't happen again."

  "In the future, if you're going to speak metaphorically, almost every other word in the English language is sexier than 'anus'."

  "Point taken."

  "But let's try not to go there."

  "I won't. I was just really enjoying the sight of your...y'know, buttocks."

  "'Buttocks' doesn't really work for me either."

  "I was just really enjoying the sight of your butt."

  She smiled. "I'm glad."

  To his great surprise, the embarrassment of the situation had not impacted his arousal. His erection remained as mighty as ever.

  They finished up the evening in missionary. Benjamin whispered in her ear, trying for a triple X rating but only managing to achieve a hard R. It was still a very satisfying night for both of them.

  * * *

  Benjamin woke up and glanced over at the clock. 2:37. Four more hours until the alarm went off.

  He really wanted a Butterfinger.

  And his wife.

  He looked at her, lying on her side, facing the opposite wall. She was a heavy sleeper, and not one who responded well to being woken up in the middle of the night.

  He lightly ran his finger over her shoulder, hoping that perhaps she was already awake and just lying still to avoid disturbing him.

  She let out a light snore.

  He wondered if there were any traces of chocolate left.

  He'd bee
n pretty thorough, but it was possible that a speck or two had gone unconsumed. He should probably check. No sense wasting good chocolate syrup. There were starving children in third world countries who had nary a drop of chocolate syrup to enjoy, and yet he was going to let this perfectly good chocolate get washed off in the shower.

  That was just flat-out wrong.

  However, she wasn't lying in the best position to remove the chocolate. He'd have to do the best he could. He slid under the covers and carefully maneuvered his way underneath her legs and onto her other side. Then he went to work.

  There were not, to the best of his tasting ability, any chocolate remnants left, but that didn't stop him. Margaret rolled onto her back, whether asleep or awake he wasn't sure, and he sought out elusive chocolate for several minutes until her entire body tightened.

  He slid out of bed, hurried over to his office, and unlocked his desk drawer. He scarfed down two candy bars in a row, then took two more to place under his pillow to satisfy future urges.