The hair stood up on the back of his neck when that dreaded smell entered his nose. Hydrangeas. God that smell. That sickly sweet smell. It made him want to gag. He never understood why people enjoyed that wretched scent.
His head whipped around to find the source of the stench, which happened to be a very beautiful woman who seemed to be in a rush. Each step she took made her long luscious brown hair sway back and forth in time with her hips.
A violent chill tore its way up his spine, she looked so familiar. The world beneath him became uneven, he could feel himself falling. There's no way it could be her. She's dead. Dead people don't come back to life. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pry his eyes off of her. It was uncanny how alike they looked. From her long brown hair, to her perfect hourglass shape. It was as if he was staring at her doppelgänger.
Only until she rounded the next busy corner was he able to finally look away. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage and sweat soak through his shirt. The smell of hydrangeas still lingered nearby, making him feel sick to his stomach.
The last time he had the displeasure of smelling it was back when his mom was alive. She would douse herself in perfume that smelt like that horrid flower. Everywhere she went, the cloud of that stuff would trail behind her. Hell, she wore so much he could almost taste the chemicals.
It didn't matter the occasion; she wore that damn perfume every single day. He remembered back to when he was a kid and that scent comforted him. Whenever he was scared or upset, he would just follow the smell, for he knew he could find his loving mother at the end of the trail awaiting him with open arms. When he was more innocent, there was no better feeling than being hugged tightly by his mother
Only now was he able to realize that her hugs may have been too tight, and how the way she would squeeze his thigh in reassurance wasn't really for that reason. It didn't bother him when she was younger, he thought all mothers did that. It wasn't until thanksgiving one year when he was 13 and his cousin said something about it. He remembered the exact words he said that changed his life for the worst.
"Ben why is your mom touching you like that?"
"L-like what?"
"I dunno, I just think it's kinda weird how her hands are basically all over you all the time. Doesn't that bother you?"
"…should it?"
"I dunno." His cousin shrugged. "I would be annoyed if my mom gave me no personal space."
No personal space.
He was right, his mother never let him have any personal space. Every single time she was around him she was always so touchy and invasive. She scolded him for locking doors, including the bathroom door, and would even barge in if she so felt like it while he was changing or taking a shower. Sure it was a little annoying but he thought that was normal. She always said "Ben sweetie, we live together, there's no reason to be locking doors." And he truly believed that.
After that horrid slap to the face, he started trying to push his mother away. Whenever her claws began to grasp at his chest, he would slither away from her as discreetly as possible. One time he verbally told her to stop, and it wasn't even a harsh "stop that!" It was a quiet, "mom…please." But it made her furious.
He remembered her seizing his wrist in a hold that was so tight he could see the veins pop from his skin. After pulling him roughly into her body she leaned over and whispered "don't you ever, and I mean EVER, treat your mother that way. You don't push me away like that Bennett."
And it only got worse.
As he got older her hands reached for places he wouldn't dream of letting her touch. She became more pushy. If she wanted his body, she would take it. End of story. How badly he wanted to forget the drunken late nights spent in mother's room, to forget the feeling of utter disgust he felt for himself afterwards. He was 6' 9, how on earth did he not stop his mother from violating him.
A sense of dread washed over him, black dots filled his vision. The world around him turned into a mess of colors and sounds he couldn't distinguish what was what. Knees buckling, he reached out to find something to support him. He was so dizzy. Why now. Why in public. Nobody was supposed to see him like this. That smell, those memories, it was too much. Finally, his hand made contact with a cool brick wall. He didn't care what it was, he had to rest for a moment.
In attempt to dispel the nausea, he placed his forehead and forearms on the wall. Sweat was noticeably running down his face, he hoped it hadn't stained his shirt yet.
That stupid fucking scent. It was embarrassing how fast just a smell could break his normal cool and collected demeanor. He took long and deep breaths, reminding himself that she wasn't here anymore, in order to calm himself down. Just as he felt his heart rate return to normal, he felt a large hand touch his back, making him jump.
"What's wrong wi' ye." A blunt voice rang out from his right, that familiar Scottish accent making him almost impossible to understand. "I've been trying tae get yer attention fur like 5 minutes."
Ben looked down at the short ginger man, trying to translate what he said in his foggy mind. "I-I uh…nothing. Nothings wrong. I just got dizzy. It's hot." He quickly spat, forcing his signature sly smile. "I'm a-alright. Let's keep going."
She's not here anymore, she can't hurt you. He reminded himself before taking one last deep breath and continuing on with his day.
