Strange awakenings

“Are you hungry?” the voice asked, soft as the Spring breeze, but unlike the springtime breezes, the voice instilled upon me nothing less than an icy dread that chilled me to my very core. 

I had hoped to feign my continued slumber for a while yet, long enough to discern what truly was reality and not just the lingering fantastical afterimages of a dream I had yet to fully awaken. But I had never been an actor, and now I can be quite certain that my treacherously quickening breath had been more than enough to alert whatsoever shared my space to my wakefulness. If there had been something there to address me as I awoke, I shudder to think just how long I was not alone, the knowledge that I had almost certainly been observed in my slumber doing nothing to steady my already quickening heartrate. 

With more reluctance that I fully understood on even a purely personal level, I shifted my weight slightly. The comfort of the feather-soft mattress, a world of difference from the forest floor that I had, in my exhaustion, claimed for my rest, felt almost deceptive. ‘How could anyone be in danger,’ it seemed to say,’ if they were this comfortable?’

But even through all the comfort, an odd twitching sense of wrongness made it so that I could not simply relax back into the moment. No, my accursed rationality seemed far too determined to remind me that I did not know where I was, nor how I got there, and so I was not even granted the privilege of enjoying waking up for, quite possibly, the first time in months without one joint or another aching out of bed to remedy the ailment. 

I counted out on my breath three exhales, trying to keep them as steady as possible to mask, to the best of my abilities, the fear I was sure would seal my doom as whichever misfortunes lead me to my present state of comfort. On my third completed cycle of breath, I gradually opened my eyes. A wise decision on my end, as the room I had found myself in was just bright enough to be a little uncomfortable, oddly silvery sunlight streaming in through a crack in the heavy embroidered curtains to cast dancing light upon the far wall.

I did not, however, have all that much time to assess the rest of the room, as my gaze settled upon the figure crouched upon his heels just by me.

The man was strange, but I reasoned he was no stranger than the rest of my peculiar circumstances so I could hardly find a fault in this. To liken his skin to porcelain was less a comment on how alarmingly pale he was, but more because he seemed unnaturally smooth, as if he was a faultless carved statue of porcelain or marble. His hair, coloured as if it were fine-spun starlight, fell so long that, in the crouch he found himself in, the very tips brushed the floor. His eyes were fine amethysts, yet seemed so flat, so lifeless that anything he may or may not have felt remained a secret from the world. There was something about him that seemed almost exaggerated, like a caricature of a man rather than a man himself, too sharp, too pointy and just a little bit too much of everything. 

Upon catching my gaze, the man smiled. It was the sort of smile that seemed practiced, a rehearsed smile that came from a place of obligation rather than anywhere near sincerity. His teeth bore twin eye teeth, leaving the total at eight where most carried four, each just a little too sharp for comfort as he flashed them.

Now, I know I should have acted more cautiously, but a wave of panic struck me faster than rationality did, and so with none of the dignity I wish I could have shown, I scrambled as far away from the figure as I possibly could. All this achieved, however, was that it left me tumbling off the far edge of the bed and crashing onto the floor in a tangle of the silken sheets I had been draped in. My heart was thundering so loudly in my ears as I attempted to extract myself from the mess I had gotten myself into before trying to haul myself to my feet. 

For all my theatrics, the man seemed entirely unfazed. This actually bothered me more than if he had reacted, but the extent of his reaction had come in the way of tilting his head just so that he could look up to me. I was all too aware that his dignity did not mirror my own in that moment and it made me resent him with such a sudden burst that I had not even realized I felt until I stood there for several moments with my arms crossed like a stubborn child. 

“Or you could have just said no.” the man remarked passively. There was something just a little off about his pronunciation, as if he was speaking a language he had learned through the written word but never had the chance to practice aloud. 

I chose not to dignify this with a reply. I decided he did not deserve anything from me, not even the most basic of acknowledgements. 

“You needn’t scowl so,” continued he, seemingly unfazed, and as he rose smoothly to his feet I made the briefest mental note that he was, in fact, a head shorter than I was, “Your lives are far too short to waste it scowling.”

“What?” asked I, immediately disregarding my resolution of no more than a cluster of heartbeats prior that I would not respond.

“You’re scowling.” said he as if this was somehow the most pressing matter at hand.

“Of course I’m scowling,” I shot back, “You kidnapped me.”

The man, or so I chose to continue to consider him even as each passing second solidified my conclusion that he was something other than human, tilted his head, long hair briefly obscuring his features. For just a second, I worried I may have upset him, which felt like quite the opposite of what one should do when addressing the first person seen after waking up in unfamiliar locations. But he brushed the hair from his features with long, slender fingers and with it he brushed aside the look of annoyance I was left wondering if I had ever seen. 

“Would you have had somebody waiting for you had you continued your journey? To mourn for you had things gone sour?” he returned far too pleasantly. 

My features clearly betrayed me in this moment. I had the full intention of lying, to claim there was most certainly people out there waiting for me and would have, upon not seeing me return, already set out to try and find me. This was, unfortunately, a lie, and the unpleasantly heavy sort of lie that would make a person’s heart ache terribly if they were made to ponder it for too very long. The truth was, my unwarranted exile had left me without a single soul to wonder where I’ve been, to greet me by the fireplace with a cup of tea and a story. 

“I thought so,” came the fellow’s remark, “Now, might I have your name?”

“Why?” I asked, my eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Because you’ve decided to treat me as a stranger, and so are being hostile,” returned he, waving a hand, “That is what your lot do, isn’t it? Giving others your name to feel more comfortable?”

“My lot?” I imperfectly echoed.

“Quite.” was all I was given in reply, which was a little unfair. 

I stared at him, hoping my silence would urge him to elaborate. It very much did not. The most it invoked in the man was a look of boredom, which did not really mean all that much considering he had managed to look perpetually at least a little bit bored for the entire interaction. If it had been some strange attempt to make me feel more at ease, it was very much not working. In fact, it make him seem all the more unnatural, and me feel like I was somehow the more unnatural of the two of us. 

Maybe I was, after all, he seemed entirely at home in the area and I had no clue where it actually was that I had found myself.

Considering him to be at home there brought with it an alarming flicker of concern at the potential literal nature of this.

“Is this your house?” I hesitantly asked him.

“Does it matter if it is?” came his vague reply.

“Yes.”

“If I answer you, will you give me your name?”

Now, this set off more alarm bells than I thought was possible, and from every single part of me, including the parts of me that were notoriously known for not making the best of decisions, all screamed at me to deny this. There was just too much of an insistence, and frankly I had no obligation to give my name out to anyone at all. So, naturally with all the feeling in my chest I replied with a confident,

“Yes.”

I regretted my agreement just as quickly as the words slipped through the traitors that served as my lips. I did have the full intention of denying this, to play at being ornery for just a little longer, and yet proceeded to precisely, well, not that at all. The way something that I could not, nor entirely wanted to identify flashed in the otherwise dead eyes of my companion – captor? I still could not quite settle on my definition - made it all too clear that I had made the wrong decision. Actually, I wasn’t entirely sure if there was a right decision to be made at all, but if there was one, it was certainly not the one I made.

“Good, and yes it is my home” he said far too pleasantly, “Now, may I have your name?” 

He was too expectant, too eager and too… flat. It was verging on uncanny and it sent the fine hairs on the back of my neck to prickle uncomfortably. I regretted briefly that I had taken the time to confirm I was not dreaming, as I really would have liked to be able to try and excuse everything away as some strange and vivid dream. 

“Benton,” said I, for this was the truth, though not without some small misfortune on my end. This was evidently not quite enough, however, as the other man quirked an eyebrow as if to urge me to continue, “Benton Harris.” 

Peculiarly, especially considering I had only emerged from my napping a good few minutes ago – an admittedly eventful few minutes considering very little had actually happened while they passed – I found myself feeling thoroughly tired for no reason whatsoever. It was as if something had gone out of me, but I did try to rationalize that I was being ridiculous and that the cool upturn of the fellow’s lips had only come about because I had chosen to play nice and not from anywhere more nefarious.

“Benton Harris? No, I don’t like that,” came the slightly baffling reply from the man, “Don’t worry, I will give you something far better. Something that flows, rather than coming off quite as,” he paused, “Sorry, your words are all so similar in meaning but not in connotation, so I find myself lost sometimes. It is blocky but that is not the meaning I mean.” 

“Unwieldy?” I offered as if I was not thoroughly put off and entirely alarmed by the conversation. Truthfully, I was neither as alarmed nor put off as I think I ought to have been considering a stranger was pondering alternative names for me. 

“I’m sure you know human words better than I,” he said with a shrug, confirming my prior assumption that he was not actually human at all, “But I know names better than you, so I shall find you something that suits you far better.” 

I did not want another name that this man – fairy? – might think suits me better. I liked my name, it was the same one my grandfather wore and it was an honour to share this with him. In fact, I was more than a little offended that my name needed any changing whatsoever so, naturally, I replied with a perfectly telling,

“Thank you.”

Which was decidedly not what I meant to say at all.

A softness seemed to grace the man, whose name somewhat unfairly remained unknown to me, regarding me in a way that seemed typically reserved for small, silly animals doing something particularly charming. Without warning, he reached out and clasped at my face with a grip that seemed just a little too hard for what I would have had to assume, based on my best assumptions of his expressions, was intended to be something tender. Just as uncomfortable was the chill to his touch, the feel of his skin not too dissimilar to the sensation that came from pressing my face against a window if ever I took a fever. 

As soon as he had instigated this touch, his hand fell away again, leaving me with nothing but the odd tingle to my skin where his fingers had brushed. It was not quite as uncomfortable a feeling as part of me wished it had been, and so I found myself chastising myself for it. For the fact I felt uncomfortable at his touch, but also there was a part of me that wanted to remind me that I was supposed to be uncomfortable, that this was a stranger and that I really should not be out there leaning into stranger’s touches like I was doing in that moment.

With the faintest ghost of a content smile still haunting his features, the man drew back and away from me, his gaze only briefly lingering upon me, just long enough to give an appraising yet noncommittal examination before turning on his heels. With his hands folded neatly behind his back, he simply left me there, passing through a doorway that lay half-hidden behind a tapestry of a moonlit field. 

Left alone as I was, it would have been almost too easy to make my exit, to leave the strange place I had woken up in and carry on as if none of it had ever happened, and yet I did not. I did quite the opposite, in fact. Rather than flee, I sat down upon the bed, legs crossed to make myself as comfortable as I could be. 

I don’t remember the last time I felt lonely, truly lonely that was, and yet even before I had even been given the chance to be properly lonely, I found myself near aching with the need for the company of the strange man who had so kindly welcomed me into his house. 

How funny it was, mused I in those lonely moments, that I had been so very afraid of him when I had first seen him. There was nothing to be afraid of, not really. He had even been so kind as to take my – mind – dirty old name from me, so there really was no need for me to have worried at all.