3. Benji
BENJI
WHO EVEN DREAMS THESE DAYS?
The trick to opening the window in my room without anyone noticing was to use both hands.
You had to slide it up from the center to avoid friction and slow down just before reaching the top.
If you weren’t careful, the spring-loaded lock would snap into place, and, with how thin the walls in this old house were, even that quiet sound could echo through the whole hallway, alerting everyone that I wasn’t still asleep.
So this Tuesday morning, just like any other morning, I held the damn thing open. It was worth it, though, if it meant I could breathe unnoticed.
I leaned out and inhaled. The cool morning air, still sweet and clean before it would turn hot and insufferable within a few hours, filled my lungs. This was what heaven must feel like .
The sky glowed a deep orange, fading into navy blue.
The corn field behind the house sat still.
My gaze wandered into the distance, looking at nothing in particular—not the treetops of the grove at the horizon that hid the lake I sometimes escaped to when things got too intense, not the crows gawking in the distance as they circled over the farmland behind our house, not the first beam of sunlight, glistening at me as it finally rose.
Instead, my mind clung to that dream image that still held its cold, unreal grip on me.
I had been standing in front of our bathroom mirror, soaked in blood.
But I wasn’t alone. He stood behind me for some reason.
Sam. That guy, whose face I barely knew in real life but had heard plenty of rumours about in the last twenty-four hours.
In the dream, his hands pressed on my shoulders.
Despite my protesting, he pushed me down, gently but firmly, until I knelt at his feet, looking up at a friendly but mischievous grin.
And then I woke up, breathless, heart pounding, wanting to know what would happen next.
No idea what the dream meant. Probably nothing. Dreams come and go like birds: chaotic, without any real intention, and impossible to catch.
The real kicker, though, was that when I woke up, I had my fingers already wrapped around the heaviest boner I’d had in months.
Sure, I usually use those quiet minutes in the morning to rub one out before work.
But I’d never woken up already doing it—especially not after a dream of another guy pushing me to my knees.
Yeah.
This was the first morning I shot my load within thirty seconds of waking up. And the first morning, I pretended it didn’t happen at all.
This didn’t mean I was into Samuel. It could’ve been any guy.
Gordy. My stupid cousin Pete. Some random face I scrolled past on Insta.
Could’ve been a woman, too. It was probably more about someone else taking control for a hot minute.
It only ended up being Samuel because he’d taken up so much space in my day yesterday.
That was all. Coincidence. End of story.
I dropped my gaze to the windowsill. Another chip of paint was gone. A shard of the loose wood had broken off, exposing the soft, rotting frame beneath—the perfect distraction to keep my brain from circling back to what I didn’t want to think about anymore.
Steadying the window with one hand, I brushed my fingers over the damage with the other.
The wood gave way too easily under the pressure.
I let out a quiet sigh. Now that the shard was gone, the risk of moisture seeking in and mold building up inside the wood was even higher.
If I didn’t do something about it, it would become another item on the list of things we couldn’t afford to fix.
Hopefully, there was still some paint left in the shed.
I pulled my head back inside and slowly slid the window shut when an uncaring knock tried to wake me up.
“Thirty seconds, Benji,” my father yelled, his voice already frayed with impatience.
I didn’t answer. I just listened to him stomp away without waiting. Classic. After twenty-two years of living together, he still hadn’t figured out that I was always awake before him.
Instead of going out straight away, I checked my phone as if anyone but Gordy would ever text me.
I grabbed an old gray shirt from the armchair in the corner of my room, brought it to my nose, and a quick whiff decided it still smelled fresh enough to wear.
I pulled it over my chest, cracked the door open, and stepped into the hallway.
Dad blocked the entry to our open living room, fumbling with a hideous tie patterned with smaller ties. I stopped in my tracks, careful not to run into him.
He looked like a clown, trying to sell RVs and trailers dressed like that, but, as he'd explained years ago, that was precisely the point. The tie was so ridiculous that it sparked a light-hearted conversation, and as a result, it paved the way for convincing a so-far hesitant buyer. If you asked me, it was probably because the moment they saw his taste in fashion, they stopped taking him seriously, let their guards down, and assumed they could easily outwit him for a good deal. Perhaps he was clever enough to know that, playing them, or maybe that was just the plain truth. I didn’t care.
Whatever worked, as long as he brought home another commission check.
His fingers still fumbled with the knot, but his feet and eyes already wandered around the living room, scanning the floor like he was searching for the tie that was already in his hands.
“Did you take my car keys again?” he barked at no one in particular.
Mom, who was tossing salad in a metal bowl in the kitchen, looked up, eyebrows raised, her hair fuzzing out of the quickly bound bun, equally confused about who he was talking to.
“They’re probably where they always are,” I mumbled, feigning a yawn. I trudged over to the little bowl on the side table next to the entrance door (the one that was too small to hide a water ring underneath) and, sure enough, there they were. “Bingo.”
Dad stomped over, eyes still searching the ground. “Where were they?”
“In the same bowl, they’re in every morning.”
“I didn’t put them there yesterday.” He snatched them up and straightened, leaning in close like I’d hidden them on purpose. “I put them on the coffee table . Because they’re easier to see there.”
I clenched my jaw, keeping my voice low. “If you’d put them in the same fucking place every day, you wouldn’t have to search for them every morning.”
He took a step closer, lowering his voice, too. “Stop swearing in my fucking house.”
I clenched a fist, but hid it behind my back. “Then stop making it so fucking necessary to swear so you’ll fucking listen.”
“I’m telling you...” Dad pushed his head closer to mine, unimpressed that I was taller and stronger than he was. “...if it weren’t for you helping your mum, I’d throw you out of the house right now.”
If seeing his stupid face didn’t make my whole body tense up so much, I might have admitted that he had guts. But I wasn’t going to let this slide. Every morning, the same fight. It was only a matter of time before it boiled over.
“Do it,” I barked back. “Let’s see how far you get without me.” I raised my chin, showing him where to punch if he wanted to give it a try.
A crash from the kitchen cut through the room.
We both spun around.
Mom stood frozen behind the counter, her hands open, staring at the floor.
“Nothing happened.” Her voice trembled. “Nothing broke. No need to worry.” Her eyes blinked heavily. “Just a metal bowl.”
I rushed over and found the bowl lying on the floor, tipped on its side, salad scattered across the linoleum.
I crouched and gathered up the lettuce. “You don’t have to overexert yourself, Mom.
I’m happy to make lunch for Dad and myself.
” I rose and placed the bowl on the counter, my eyes meeting with Dad's.
“No, no,” Mom shook her head, her trembling hands reaching for the salad. “I’m still capable of making your lunches. It keeps me alive.”
Alive. That word sat wrong in my chest.
My hands twitched toward her, wanting to take over, stop her from working, but instead, I settled them gently on her shoulder. “And I love eating your sandwiches. They taste so much better than mine. I don’t know how you do it.”
She smiled, closed her eyes for a second, then looked up at me as if she were memorizing my face. ”You know my secret ingredient. It’s love .”
Dad cleared his throat. “And you know, darling, we appreciate everything you do for us.”
“I do.”
“Benji,” Dad said in a low, soft voice, “you still remember?—“
“Of course. I’m going to work extra hard today, so I can maybe even make it out of the farm a little earlier.” I turned to Mom, putting on a smile. “I wouldn’t miss our weekly trips for the world.”
“It’s just to the doctor's office.” She smiled back.
“That doesn’t change anything about what I just said.”
“Perfect,” Dad replied with a nod. “I’ll try to be home early as well, but I doubt I’ll manage tonight. Mr. Penton is quite a tough nut to crack…”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We know it’s important.”
Mom rinsed the salad again, shook the leaves dry, and placed them on the sandwich bread in front of her. Dad watched her like she was made of glass.
His eyes shifted to me. “I have to go. I need to open up the office today.” He held his keys up high. “Thanks for finding them.”
“Sure,” I replied.
Mom put a slice of bacon on one of the sandwiches and closed it with another piece of bread.
To speed things up, I grabbed plastic wrap from the drawer and searched for Mom’s approval.
She nodded at me, so I wrapped it up. Dad came over, pressed a quick kiss on Mom’s temple, took the wrapped sandwich, and left the house without another word.
Thirty seconds later, the engine of his car roared to life, the gravel crunching under the tires.
Mom put another piece of toast on the second sandwich and handed it to me.