Benjamin Yeats (benjamy) wrote in instorm, @ 2017-07-11 21:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | benjamin yeats, catriona blackwell |
Who: Ben & Cat
What: finally talking
When: backdated to end of June (if that's okay)
Where: outside Cat's shop
For more than ten years he's managed to avoid falling into the pit that the Blackwells offered. Of course he knew the Blackwells - most locals did, and what's more he happened to be living near the vicinity of their daughter - and the temptation to reach out to Charlie through them had always been strong, particularly in the immediate months following his discovery of their shop. But at the back of his mind he knew that once he opened Pandora's box there was no hope of ever closing it again. He would hound Catriona everyday as if she could bring his son back and the inability to get over Charlie's death would drive him mad.
So he turned to the other spirits and talked to them all the time instead. Talked to Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels and Jim Beam, went looking for a few answers and a bit of relief at the bottom of a glass. They seemed much more helpful at helping him grieve and they could numb his senses at the same time so it didn't feel like everything foreign he touched was giving him a seizure.
Johnny, Jack and Jim could be a very convincing bunch, but once or twice a month, Ben invariably finds himself walking past the Blackwell's shop. He could try and make peace with not opening Pandora's box, but that didn't stop him from holding it in his hand, feeling its weight, turning it over, studying all the carvings and markings. There's been a few times he's even walked into the shop, back when Catriona's parents were running the place, even though he's never idly touched or picked up anything once inside. He liked the idea that he could go up to the counter and ask to talk to Charlie at any time more so than the prospect of actually opening up that line of communication.
But these days, since the surviving Blackwell lady took over, he hasn't ventured inside. He likes to park his truck outside her shop and go for a short walk to get a coffee. He'll come back with a third or a quarter cup of coffee left and lean against the passenger door. In the time it takes for him to finish a hard-earned cigarette he'll finish his coffee as well. Hardly anyone ever goes inside during the time he's there, but he watches the occasional passer-by walk past. The cigarette butt goes into the coffee cup before he fishes some peppermint chewing gum out of his pocket and pops one into his mouth as he's climbing into the driver's seat.
It's always the same, every time. And as his cigarette burnt away between his lips slowly like a joss stick offering to the cancer god, he didn't expect today to be any different.