2019-10-04 - Ten Little

One little, two little...

They both knew petsitting was a convenient excuse.

Alexander has a way cutting through Bennie's bullshit down to the bone. Sometimes he's polite enough to pretend he just doesn't see it.

And that's how Bennie came to be staying at 13 Elm Street. At least for now.

She can't stomach the apartment, had already let go of the rent on the trailer, and there are too many people around the station to crash there. So when Bennie opens the door to the squawk of Luigi and the distant meow of Blue Bell, it's a relief. Not that the slings and arrows are gone, but that she has a place to just be alone and process. But even that respite doesn't last long. Her phone starts lighting up with text messages, all her friends crawling out of the woodwork to 'randomly' check up on her. Easton must be telling the whole goddamn town about what happened. She needs a distraction.

Three little Indians...

And that's when Bennie starts to clean. When she's high on Adderall, it's good to have something to hyper focus on. In the back of her brain it's probably a 'thank you' to Alexander, but the favor is really to herself. Vanquishing even the smallest speck of dust and obliterating that nearly hidden cobweb are a great way to give Bennie a sense of accomplishment. Of a task complete. Of a win. So by the time the whole house is smelling like a pine forest and sparkling like a photo shoot out of Good Housekeeping, she's even come up with a convenient excuse as to why she went to great lengths thanks to some well placed texts with Alexander about Luigi. She'd felt guilty about antagonizing the bird, you see. A bandaid from her bag wrapped around perfectly unbitten skin will seal the story.

But she's a terrible liar, Bennie told Easton. Well, one becomes not so terrible at it after so much practice.

She's even able to spin off all the concerned texts, pouring sunshine into every reply so the conversations all end with something similar. 'Well if you need anything...' 'I'm totally good! Promise!' Geoff was the only one she wasn't able to put off, but by the time he comes to check on her, Bennie'll have thought of something or dosed enough to make it seem conceivable that the Blonde is doing JUST FINE despite the love of her life's murderous rage. It'll pass. This'll all pass. And everything will go back to normal. She can even bullshit herself at the worst of times.

Four little, five little...

Bennie's phone quiets down and the exhaustion starts to settle into her bones. Sinking down into the couch, the tears finally start to come. That's when Alexander pings her to relay how to get Luigi to do tricks. He tells her to find the treats, and she doesn't move. Tells her to open the door to the bird's cage, and she doesn't move. It's easy to lie through texts. Convey joy and appreciation for the imagined antics of the feathered beast. Look! He can play dead! Look, he can sort colors! Enthusiasm can be faked with just the right application of an exclamation point. She needs to sleep.

Six little Indians...

Instead she finds Alexander's books and picks up a random one about Body Farms. She pours through it at lightening speed, eyes darting across the pages and absorbing at least most of what she's reading. This is how she passed all her written exams to become an EMT while working four jobs. There are twenty four usable hours in every day! Bennie grabs a stack of books and brings them into the tiny bathroom, setting them by the bathtub. Then every pillow, every blanket is piled in the basin and the Blonde climbs into the nest she's made. Like some sort of ritual, she starts laying out little tablets on the lip of the tub. It's how she knows how many she can take without risking an overdose.

Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians.

Ten little Indian boys.