An 'X'mas Carol Part Two, Chapter One

An 'X'mas Carol Part Two, Chapter 1
By Jaech Reiter
[email protected]

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.
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An 'X'Mas Carol Part Two, Chapter 1

No sooner had Ben gotten up, unfortunately still in his white briefs, though still a bit too groggy to notice, but the room felt like it was going to spin. Elias Marley, that ghostly visitor in his already disturbed night, stepped forward and grabbed his arm; and all of a sudden the room gave a sickening twist and screeched out of one existence and into a new one. Ben doubled over with the abrupt nausea and disorientation that the (spiritual?) movement had caused, but Elias kept a firm grasp of the boy's arm and pulled him back upright.

"It gets a bit easier, boy, with each trip we will take."

Ben looked down and now saw he was just standing around in a foreign place, somebody else's house even, and only in his white briefs! He quickly squawked and covered up, bending forward slightly as he did so. He never got this naked (even though still in briefs) in front of anyone, except for those exceedingly brief flashes in the Gym lockers; and he wasn't about to start now.

"Agghh, take me back!! I'm naked."

"Ah for Nick's sake, boy," Elias said and jerk Ben's arm away from his groin and hauled him up straight again. "You're not naked, and besides, no one can see us. One of the virtues of being a spirit. You're way too modest for your own good, you know, although that could come in handy later. As for now, we aren't so much as IN another place as we are looking INTO another time. Look around, you should recognize this."

Ben slowly moved his other hand away from his cotton protected groin and looked around him, still fearful over what had happened and where they might be. But he recognized this place. He knew where he was. Moreover, he very soon recognized this 'time'.

"This is my house in Ft. Walton . . . . . before we moved to Grove Lake!"

"Yes, very good," Elias said, "Now watch. Pay close attention to the real past, which may not be quite as you remember it."

"I was only 4 when we moved . . . ."

"You're only three here."

Sure enough, the three year old Ben ran into the room all excited, and straight to the small Christmas tree near the window.

"Santa bring me trike? Santa bring me trike?" The cute little boy enthusiastically asked the room in general as he clapped his hands and ran around the tree looking.

"I look so happy then . . . . ." Ben said, with more than a touch of sadness, as he watched the fascinating scene before him.

"Keep watching, though this may be more painful than you remember," Elias warned.

"Mom!" the older Ben exclaimed, as he saw his mom enter the room carrying baby Fran.

"She cannot hear or see you, Ben," Elias reminded him.

The younger Ben, still squealing with the delight of the Christmas morning, ran up to her repeating his hopeful rant. After all, his mom said Santa probably would.

"Mama! Santa bring me trike? Santa bring me trike, mama?"

"Well, I don't know, Benny sweetie. I bet he did; let's look around and see."

A tear began to form in the older Ben's eye. "I forgot she used to call me 'Benny'."

He watched himself still running around the room excited, looking for a bit of magic, perhaps, and his mom wandering around the room perplexed, having set down an equally excited Fran to follow big brother around the room.

"Hey," older Ben said with a sudden realization and a smile on his face, "If I'm still three, then that means . . . ."

"Charlotte! Where did you put the damn coffee?" came a grumpy voice through the door heading into the kitchen.

His dad! If he was still three, then that meant his dad was still there! No wonder he was so happy as a little tyke. Ben followed the voice into the kitchen, almost as excited to find his dad as his younger self was to find the tricycle. He came into the room to see his dad opening up another cabinet and pulling a can of coffee out. He would have run up and hugged the man, even though he was only dressed in whitey tighties, except Elias, once again, reminded him that they could not be seen or heard OR felt.

Ben nodded in glum acceptance, but happy enough to see his dad there, instantly forgiving the man for the abandonment that Ben could never accept at face value, even to this day. "You know, Elias, I remember looking for that tricycle. I won't find it. There wasn't one."

"I know," Elias said, with a sad voice.

"I remember being upset with mom for a long time afterward. It hurt. She got me thinking that Santa was real. That I would actually get the tricycle I always wanted. You shouldn't do that to a little kid."

Elias just nodded, as they continued to watch the scene of the man before them stirring his instant coffee and giving it a taste. Very shortly his mom came back into the scene, leaving the children to look for Santa's gifts, while confronting her husband in the kitchen.

"Bill, where is the tricycle?"

"Where do you think it is?" He asked, not even looking up.

"Well, I thought it was where I put it last night, by the sofa!" Older Ben gulped when she said this. There really had been a tricycle! "Oh Bill, what did you do?"

"Joe Sikes needed a last minute gift for his boy – offered good money when I told him about that tricycle. Tricycles and toys don't pay the bills, Charlotte. Those . . . . kids . . . are too young to need any of that stuff anyway."

"The bills." Charlotte repeated. "You mean your gambling debts. Bill I worked HARD for the money to buy our son something special---"

"YOU worked hard? YOU worked hard?" Bill spat back with an ugly face that made even older Ben step back in fear. Elias put a hand on Ben's back, though, and steadied him with the still not very comforting fact that they were only watching something that had already, long ago, happened. "Well, that's rich Charlotte! You saying I don't work hard for this family? Is that what you're saying? Well come on then, say it plain, you bitch. I dare you; say it!!"

It wasn't yelled out, but it was fierce. Older Ben could still hear his younger self unaware in the other room.

"I only meant, Bill---" Charlotte began timidly, but was cut off. Ben could see the fear and anguish in her face, and it almost broke his heart to have to watch it.

"You only meant," Bill sneered back, "You only meant to waste good money that we need on some worthless contraption that that . . . . boy . . . . will only use for a year or two, at most. Shheeesh. You know what; I don't have to put up with this. I'm going over to Charley's."

"You will not!" Ben saw his mother, still obviously afraid and almost shaking, steel herself to challenge the man. "You will not take away everything from poor Benny at Christmas. You will at least go in there and spend some time with your son. If he can't have the tricycle that I let him believe he would get, then he at least will get some happy memory of his dad actually loving him!"

"Fine! Will that make you happy, Charlotte? Will that get you off my back? I'll go and spend some time with the little brat. Happy?"

Ben felt cut through the core as his dad walked past his unseen, shell-shocked spirit. He watched as his mom broke down in sobs, thinking somewhere deeper inside himself that she couldn't have been more amazing. But he didn't want to watch this anymore.

"I want to go." He told Elias. He wanted to go before he too broke down in sobs.

Behind him, he could hear his dad turn on the charm, the same charm he used to dupe Charlotte Brownlow into marrying him.

"How's my little boy? How's my little girl?" Older Ben heard the cheerful voice, and knew instantly the fake smile that would be on it, the fake look of love that all these years he thought had been genuine. His gut twisted as he heard his younger self gleefully run into his dad's arms.

"Daddddyyyy!!" He heard the giggles and squeals and the inevitable question, and with it remembered, "Daddy!! Santa bring me trike?"

"Son, I'm sorry. You can't trust Santa. He doesn't really treat all boys and girls the same. Your mom shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. I'm sorry son, but Santa didn't bring you a trike."

Older Ben could hear his younger self bawling, and he remembered his dad comforting him. It had always been one of the better memories of his dad – the man who had been there for him – a memory that always kept the glimmer of hope going that his dad hadn't really abandoned them. He had always thought that maybe it was because of his mom; maybe his dad would one day come back and save him. But that had all been an illusion.

As his younger self was in the other room being falsely comforted by his dad, no one was comforting his mom. He wanted to wrap his arms around the sobbing woman and hug her, but he knew that he could not.

"Please, Elias . . . . . ."

In compassion, Elias took the boy's arm and the two winked out of that existence – but not before Ben saw his mom run a hand protectively over her stomach, and he realized instinctively what that meant. Charlotte was pregnant. In a way, Tim had been there for that last Christmas, too.

This trip wasn't nearly as nauseous, though it could have been because Ben was already torn up in his belly over what he had just witnessed. This time when he looked around, it was once again December, but two years later, and in their present house, which meant his mom and dad were separated, though not divorced. As his mom was hanging up ornaments on the upper branches of the tree, saving the lower ones for Fran and Benny to decorate, albeit clumsily, young 5 year old Ben was standing by and peeking into little Timmy's playpen.

He was saying something to the smiling baby, and the older Ben moved forward to hear what was being said:

". . . . . and I'm gonna be your bestest older brother ever, Timmy. And if Santa don't bring you a trike, I'm gonna find you one. And I'll show you how to ride one too. And I'll always always protech you, like mama says. One day, daddy's comin' back, and you'll like him. I'll protech you just as good as daddy. Promise."

The older Ben stepped away, saddened. He remembered that promise. Ironically, he had lived up to the last part of it. He had protected Timmy just as good as their dad. He had abandoned him – just like their dad.

"Can we go?"

"So sad, Benny?" Elias asked. "That's a shame. These were your happy Christmases."

"Were." The boy answered sulkily.

"Ah, yes. Not so happy now are they? I wonder who's fault that is?"

Ben looked up at Elias, half-guilty, half-angry.

"You know the answer, Ben – and don't say it's your dad's fault. We both know now that he isn't worth enough for that. Would you like to hear the conversation your mom had on the phone with him on your sixth Christmas?"

Before Ben could say 'No!', Elias had snapped his fingers and brought them forward one year, landing them in the kitchen with his mom on the phone. They could only hear one half of the conversation.

"Don't do this, Bill, the kids were looking forward to seeing you, especially Benny."

It looked like it killed her to have to admit that to the man who certainly did not deserve his children's love.

"At least get them a gift. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A card? . . . . . . . . . . . Damn it, Bill . . . . . . . . . It's a card, Bill, it's not . . . . . . . . . . [the mumbles on the other end of the phone became more demonstrative yells, though the only words older Ben could make out were curse words] . . . . . . . . . . . [sigh] Well, at least put some money in it. . . . . . . . you're kidding . . . . . . . . . . . Bill . . . . . . . . . . . How about this, you send the kids some money in that card, or I take you to court for overdue child support . . . . . . . . . No, that's not enough, and you don't need me to tell you that!!"

She slammed the phone down.

"Asshole. Worthless piece of shit. He doesn't deserve his name to even be spoken by those sweet children." His mom uttered to the air around her.

Older Ben had to agree.

"He didn't come that year." Elias simply said

Ben shook his head.

"Or the next."

He shook his head again.

"Do you remember what he said to you the last time you actually saw him?"

This time Ben nodded. "I was 10. He told me I had to grow up. I couldn't be Benny the little boy anymore, or he would be disappointed in me. I had to be a man."

"It meant he wasn't coming back. And you took it out on Timmy the next time he called you 'Benny'. Your mom, too, later. Ever since she has been so careful to call you 'Ben'."

They watched as 6 year old Benny came in and asked his mom what he could have for lunch. She dried her eyes and kept her back to him and went into mother mode fixing him a peanut butter and jam sandwich. It was refreshing for Ben to see himself there, so simple, so happy.

"Do you remember what you wrote Santa for when you were six, Ben?" Elias asked him.

Ben shook his head 'no' once more.

"You wrote Santa to remind him not to forget your little brother next year like he forgot you."

Ben smiled at the memory. "He got the trike."

"And you taught him how to ride. And you were very good about it."

"I was happy for him."

"When he got older," Elias continued, "You also taught him how to ride a bike, without training wheels.

"I wasn't very nice about it," Ben admitted, more sad than guilty.

"No. You weren't."

He wasn't even tempted to cover up his near-nakedness anymore so distracted he was by the wrong turns he had taken in his life. He was about to ask Elias if he could use these trips to the past to correct some of his wrongs, but he was cut off before he could even get it out.

"No, Ben, I told you, this is just a window on the past. You cannot affect decisions or effect changes in what has been. But you ARE being allowed this visitation to convince you to make those changes for the future, to make things right with your little brother. Take some consolation – but not so much that you are tempted to not change – in the fact that you DID actually teach your little brother how to ride a bike. You might be interested to see something a little closer to your proper time period."

In a swoosh and a blink, they were outside and in a park. Ben automatically covered himself in alarm, and Elias started laughing at him.

"I already told you that no one could see you, Ben."

"Yeah . . . . . well . . . . . it's still really embarrassing being out here like this. Where are we anyw---- never mind; this is Gargery Park. So . . . . when . . . . are we?

"In August, of the same year you are meant to be in currently. Here comes Timmy, now. He turned nine just a couple months ago."

"Ugh. He's riding that nasty third-hand bike from the seventies or eighties or older."

"It was your bike, also --- until you complained so much that your mom bought you your new one. She sacrificed quite a bit to do that, too."

Ben blushed in embarrassment of his behaviour more than the fact that he had once ridden that ugly and out of date thing. As for Timmy, their mom had already said that she couldn't afford him a new bike until he was 11 or 12. Timmy meanwhile had pulled up near to Ben and Elias, and three boys roughly Timmy's age came from the opposite direction and met him there.

"Tim, you're such a loser, even your bike is pathetic." The first boy said.

"It is not. It's a special bike." Tim retorted.

"What's so special about old, worn out junk?" The second boy asked.

"UGLY, old, worn-out junk." The third boy clarified.

It was, actually, old, worn out junk. But money was tight. Ben knew that; and a bike wasn't in the budget. But Timmy had an answer.

"It's special because it was my brother's."

"Well, I heard my brother say your brother was a loser, too."

"He is not," Timmy said hotly. "He taught me how to ride!"

"Big deal."

"It is. Did your brother teach you?" Timmy asked, with a feeling that he had trumped the boy; but, alas, not.

"No," the kid answered back. "My dad taught me. You got one of those?"

Timmy was silent for a moment as the boy and one of his friends laughed (one boy curiously didn't look overly pleased with the comment).

"I got my brother, Reggie, I don't need anybody else."

The boy identified as Reggie shook his head and called his two friends away, still laughing at the boy and the beaten-down, third hand bicycle (though the third boy did look back and gave Timmy an appraising second look and an almost congenial nod of salute before leaving on his own top-of-the-line bike.)

"I'm such a total ass," Ben said quietly to himself. "My Little Brother, all this time he's needed me, and I've . . . . I've been . . . . worse than an ass . . . . . . . Elias, please don't make me watch anymore."

"Oh, no, you don't act the way you have and curse the spirits of Christmas, such as you have, and get to dictate the terms of your re-conditioning, sonny boy!"

And with that Elias snapped his fingers to show him one last view. It was the same day as the one in the park; in fact it was Tim putting away his bike at home. The boy smiled and ran his hand slowly across the battered handlebars, like the way a proud owner would run his hand down his Ferrari F50. And Ben knew why as he watched; it was solely because the bike had once belonged to him. His little brother loved him and thought that much of him.

And look how he had treated him over the last year or two, increasingly worse, and abandoning him to hungry wolves --- no, no, actually dangling him out for the hungry wolves. Ben felt violently ill to his stomach and fell to his knees in the grief of his guilt.

When his knees hit the ground, it was carpet beneath him. He was back in his room, and the last chime of Midnight was fading away on the grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs (a piece of odd furniture curiously forgotten by the last owners of the house when they moved), and still in nothing but his skivvies.

"That was your happiness, Ben Scruggs, the part you threw away, let escape, however you want to phrase it. But you had the power and control of it the whole time. I came to remind you of how things were, before YOU began to change. It wasn't so bad just the four of you. You never needed your father; you always had it in you to be the big brother. But you've let your Little Brother down."

"I know . . . . . but nobody says 'sonny boy', anymore." Ben replied grumpily, referring to Elias' last words in Gargery Park, but inwardly trying to think of what he could do to change, to make things up to Timmy.

"Well, in my day . . . ." Elias began.

"Dude, you sound like an old man. How come you look like you're 13? You aren't some kind of pervert are you?"

"Careful, Ben Scruggs. You already aren't on very good terms with the spirits of Christmas. It so happens that I look the way I did when I died. I'm not a pervert; I'm a guardian of the truth of Christmas, its meaning and its purpose."

"Wait, you died when you were 13? Then how are you Jacob's great-grandfather?"

"Well, the way it works is, when a boy and a girl---"

"Whoa, stop there, please. I don't want to hear about old people getting it on."

"It happens."

"For real, you and a girl . . . . . . you know . . . . at 13?"

"12, really. I turned 13 three months later and died during a lightning strike. Never saw my son in the flesh, but I have been keeping tabs on my great-grandson, and we do seem to look alike."

"Yeah, you do, except he isn't as pale or, uhm, as, uh . . . . ."

"Creepy looking?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"It's the yellow aura. It doesn't go well with me."

"Uh, you said a second ago, I pissed off the "spirits" of Christmas. How many more of them are you guys?"

"Ben Scruggs, before you can be redeemed in the sight of all that is good about Christmas, and thus be saved from your own self-destruction, you will be haunted by THREE Spirits of Christmas. I am but the first. Each Spirit will reveal where you should direct your efforts, will require a payment for services rendered, and will demand completion of a task that will not be revealed to you, but one for which you will be shown the signs."

"So this will . . . . uh . . . save me, somehow?"

"Correct."

"And what about my little brother?"

"Obviously, as you have guessed, Timmy is where you first must direct your efforts."

"OK . . . . I mean . . . I WANT to do that. I really, really do . . . . . but . . . . . I don't have much money . . . . ."

Elias held up his hand and stopped the boy, who, nearly naked, was kneeling on the floor before him, practically begging for help and better understanding.

"I have seen what you have purposed in your heart. It is a good and noble thought, and you will need your money, what little there is, for that. But that is by no means anything but the smallest part of what we would require. You will suffer great Pain, Embarrassment, and Humiliation on this path. Do you accept this?"

Ben gulped and nodded, then said meekly, "I accept."

"Then you are thereby bound to it, and mark my heralding: you will grieve your decision, as much to match the great grief you have brought upon the suppliants of this Season. As for my payment, I will take it from your person by the night's end. It will cost you dearly and vex your soul and body, but it cannot be bartered. Do the task required and you will earn my price back; refuse and it will be mine forever. You will be given three chances to take on the task; each time you fail to do so, I will take another measure in payment."

"Wait!! Don't go!!" The spirit of Elias Marley was already fading out, his voice sounding more distant, with ghostly resonance. "What task?? What is the task I must do?? Elias!"

"You must discover and engage the task on your own."

"How will I know??" The frustrated and scared boy called to the rapidly fading imprint on the air.

"Faith is what you have lacked; faith is what you must exercise to discover the task required. You have three chances to discover and engage the task, Ben Scruggs, or you will be forever doomed!"

"Elias! Wait!! . . . Elias! . . . . Noooo!! Come back!"

The voice and the image of the spirit faded out into the nothingness from which they had sprung.

"Elias?"

"What is with you?" A voice called out. Ben sprang up at the sound and spun around at the apparition in his doorway. "Why are you screaming?"

"Fran!"

It was his little sister, over a year younger and a grade below him. She was standing in his doorway, dressed in her pajamas and looking at him like he was a loon. And then she looked down the front of his body, which was naked except for the revealing white briefs he had on. For a 13 year old, he was heavy in the pouch. It was at that point he remembered his state of undress and quickly threw his hands in front of him to cover up and yelled at his sister to get out and mind her own damn business. Fran frowned angrily at him and turned and shut the door to storm off back to her room; but in that split-second Ben remembered he was supposed to be changing, and he knew at heart it didn't just mean toward Tim.

"No, wait, Fran! Come back! Please!"

Fran slowly opened the door back up, still looking pissed, and still looking at the nearly naked boy attempting to cover himself, all the while in no small state of embarrassment.

"What?!"

"I'm sorry. I . . . . I just had . . .um . . . a nightmare, kinda."

"Loser," she mumbled quietly and turned to go.

"Fran, wait . . . . ."

"What??!" It was clear that she had practically lost any interest in him as a brother.

"I'm sorry, for earlier . . . . . for calling you the B word."

"You can't even say it? Now that you're supposedly apologizing, you suddenly can't say it?" She asked, unimpressed.

"I'm sorry, Fran, for calling you a bitch." He said quickly, surprising both himself and his sister. "You aren't, you know. You really aren't."

Fran didn't know what to say – or think, for that matter. Ben's year(s) of steady decline could not be made up by a single apology.

Still . . . . .

It was a side she hadn't seen in a very long time.

"Yeah, well. Just don't do it again."

It was enough to give him some temporary slack, but certainly not enough to have any second thoughts about that letter to Santa she wrote. And speaking of which . . . .

"But the person you hurt the most was Timmy. I mean, Tim. He won't let me call him Timmy anymore. And he's done with Christmas, too. Wouldn't have anything to do with writing a letter to Santa."

These two revelations cut Ben to the core. It was as though Timmy, or Tim, was turning into the worst of Ben, following the exact same path of bitterness and emptiness.

"I'll fix it. I promise."

"You better."

The tone and look that went with that statement didn't cut her older brother any slack at all, and he knew it. Fran went back to bed, and Ben had to think a few things through. He pulled on his pajama bottoms and went downstairs. Sure enough, next to his mom's purse, was Fran's Letter to Santa, and a note explaining that Timmy (scratched out and rewritten 'Tim') did not want to write a letter this year. Ben took that note and went in to the closet and got a sheet a paper and a crayon and headed upstairs. He stopped halfway and went back to the closet and got a few more sheets and another crayon, as well as two envelopes.

He knocked quietly on Timmy's door and found the boy still sleeping. He gently shook him awake and waited for a few moments on the side of the bed while the boy cleared the fog of sleep.

"What do you want?" He asked, remembering this was now a brother not to be trusted.

"I wanted to talk to you, Timmy."

"My name's not Timmy! It's---"

"I know, I know. Fran told me. She also told me that you didn't write a letter to Santa. And . . . . I know it's my fault. I was being a real ass today. Well, this week. Um . . . . . or, uh . . . . this year."

"Go away. I don't want to write a letter to stupid, fat---"

"Don't say it!" Ben quickly put his hand over Timmy's mouth. He didn't want these Spirits of Christmas mad at his little brother. His logical and rational parts of his mind were telling him this was silly, because Santa still was not real, and this had all been just a bad dream. But he also understood deeper within that that wasn't the case.

"What do you want? I'm not writing any letter. I'm NOT a little kid!"

"I'm writing a letter," Ben said. "And I really want you to write one with me."

A glimmer of hope inside Timmy glowed, and his heart yearned at doing this with his still cherished, older brother. But he still had his guard up.

"OK. But it's still stupid."

"OK. But we're still going to mail them."

Timmy nodded. He really did want to do this. The two boys turned on the desk lamp in Timmy's room and wrote their letters out in crayon, and each addressed the envelope themselves to 'Santa, North Pole'. Timmy wouldn't let Ben see what he wrote, but he peaked over at Ben's and saw the very first line:

'Dear Santa, I want to be good. But I want even more for you to get my little brother a new bike for Christmas, or help me get him one. I promise I'll . . . . . .'

The letter went on, but Timmy smiled to himself and wrote his own. He hoped his brother was still like this the next day. After they were done, Ben told the boy goodnight and started to leave. That's when he got the strangest confession from his little brother.

"Hey, Ben?"

"Yeah Timmy?"

"I saw you."

"You saw me?"

"At the park. I heard what you said, too."

Ben froze. This couldn't be related, his rational mind was telling him.

"What do you mean, Timmy?

"At Gargery Park, in the summer." Ben's blood froze as he waited for the rest of Timmy's revelation. "I thought maybe I was seeing stuff. Maybe I was retarded like you said I was."

"You aren't retarded, Timmy. I'm the one who was retarded."

"It was you? Were you there?"

"Yeah. That was me. What did it look like?"

"Like you was somethin' 'tween a ghost and real. I didn't really think you was real, though, especially cause you weren't wearin' nothin' but underwear. But I heard what that other guy said before you disappeared, the one that looked like Jacob Marley all dressed up in old-fashioned clothes or something. Are you in trouble with him?"

"Sort of," Ben admitted. "But it's my fault. And it's nothing I can't handle, so don't you worry about it."

"What happened?"

His little brother asked innocently enough, and Ben hesitated burdening the boy's psyche with what he himself had gone through; but obviously the boy was more perceptive than he realized already. So Ben walked back in the room and sat down on Timmy's bed and told him everything.

"Wow. What are you going to do?"

"Not sure. I'm not even sure what it all means. Except for, like, the whole waking up and realizing I was being a total ass. Don't you say that word, though."

"I won't. . . . . Hey, Ben? Can I help?"

"No. I don't want you involved, you know, just in case. Just be Timmy. And tell me when I'm being a . . . .you know."

"A big booty?"

"Yeah, a big booty."

Both boys laughed and Ben said goodnight again and stole back downstairs and left the letters next to Fran's, but with a new and different note to their mom.

'Mom, I don't know where the stamps are. Sorry. Please put some on so me and Timmy's letters to Santa make it to the North Pole. Thanks, love Ben.'

He looked at the note and then added two letters, so that it now read: 'love Benny.' And then he went to bed.