|
|
Post by Benjamin Burke on Nov 18, 2011 11:27:59 GMT -5
  yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive[/font] [/center]
When you broke down the days into hours, then it was much easier to get through them. 6:00 -- wake up and run around the lake. 7:00 -- continue jogging if you have the energy; if not, collapse on the edge of the lake until your legs function again. 8:00 -- eat until the hunger pains go away, because anything more than that makes him sick. 9:00 -- read until lunch. 13:00 -- eat if you're hungry; if not, don't bloody bother. 14:00 -- practice in the practice room. That one took up hours of his day, so he never had to worry about finding something else to fill the time during that time of day. After that, he usually skipped dinner and went for another run around the lake. He was usually in bed by nine pm, having exhausted himself enough that it was almost too easy to fall asleep. Sometimes he had nightmares and his day started earlier than six o'clock, which meant he had more hours of the day that he had to fill up. Sometimes, he re-did his essays, and spent hours working on his handwriting, until he was convinced he'd get an O in every single one of them, and that Professor McGonagall would actually be proud at how much his handwriting had improved in just a matter of days, and might even say something about how she'd known he could do it if he really put his mind to it. But then he figured that it would be uncharacteristic of her to comment in the first place. And then he decided he didn't care anyway; and that wasn't strange because he cared about very little these days, and he refrained from thinking about this things he did care about because he knows he shouldn't, or didn't want to, or simply couldn't. It was a frustrating battle at the end of the day, not caring. He's always cared too much; about his friends, about his family, about what he's done or, worse, what he hasn't done. Not caring wasn't natural. It made him feel sick to his stomach, it generally made him feel worse about himself, and it was really just fodder for his downward spiral into a Benjamin that, deep down, he knew he hated, but he'd rather fester in guilt and self-hatred then face the fact that he couldn't keep doing this. That he couldn't ignore his friends forever. That eventually he'd have to face Rose and Ian and fight with the natural urge to let Rose hug him, to let Ian talk sense into him, even listen to Justin give a sarcastic comment or two. They wouldn't take it well, he knew. What he was planning on doing. Avoiding them. Pretending they were mere acquaintances. Shutting himself off from the world. Keeping it all inside and fighting anyone he tried to find their way in, pushing them all away. They would hate it (he hated it), they would say it was stupid (it was), they'd say he needed them (he did -- no, he didn't. He shouldn't), they'd see right through him (he was transparent). But when they were all gone, it was easier. It was easy to ignore Ian's last letter, easy to put Rose's letters in his drawer without opening them. The real challenge would be when they came back and tried to talk to him. When he saw Rose's face, upset, possibly weeping. But it wouldn't matter. He'd made his decision. Just a year and a half more and then he could leave them, forever.
Would he last that long, though? He wanted to believe that, but it wouldn't be the first time he'd lied to himself.
Sometimes sleep escapes him. He's only been alone for ten days (or was it eleven? twelve? he's not sure, sometimes the days merge together in an endless cycle of practicing spells and running and, sometimes, he hits balls with his beater bat) and he hasn't slept properly for five of them. Sometimes he wakes up from a nightmare just seconds after he put his head down. Other times, he'll stare up at the canopy of his bed, listening to the minutes tick by; the dormitory was awfully quiet, so quiet that he can hear the sound his wrist watch makes every time the longest hand moves to indicate another sleepless second had passed by. Eventually, he'll give up and go back to the dormitory; start a fire and stare deep into the embers, imagining them engulfing him. Burning him up from the inside and out. He knows he should go back to sleep, because he body is exhausted and pleading for rest after what he's done to it all morning, but his brain won't allow it. The second night it happens, he realises he needs something to do with his hands and thoughtlessly finds a quill and begins toying with it; nimble fingers pluck at the fine hairs, pulling it off the vein, one at a time. It fills up his time, and he finds he has to concentrate so that he doesn't accidentally take more than one at a time. He continues until the sun comes up, and then he puts down the quill - now only half a quill, really - and then goes about his daily routine. That night sleep comes quickly, and he's so tired that it's, thankfully, dreamless. The next time insomnia claims him, he continues plucking at the quill. When he's done, there's a tiny, barely-visible pile of hairs between his feet. He points his want at the quill and murmurs reparo, half expecting it to return to it's original state. But nothing happens. He's still only holding the hard vein that once was a quill, and he realises he can't fix it with reparo because, technically, it's not broken. He throws it away and goes to breakfast. The next time he can't sleep, he finds a quill someone had lost under the pillow and starts on it. He's faster and finishes it all in one night. He doesn't really know why he's doing it, only that it feels like he's doing something productive (he's doing something perfectly because he doesn't pull out too many at a time anymore), and it passes the time, time he would otherwise spend thinking about Marlene and Jaime and everyone else.
He's not depressed. At least, he's almost positive he's not. He's sad, sure. But he's not depressed. He's just quiet. He's quiet and he's determined. He's quiet and he's determined and he's not depressed. He's fine. And he's dealing with it in his own way. Were his means a little extreme? Maybe. But in the end, it was for the best. If you didn't care about anyone, you couldn't lose anyone you cared about. It was simple. Logical. Flawless. It was weak. Cowardly. Impossible, a voice whispered sometimes, but it was so quiet that he could ignore it with only a little bit of extra effort. But he still wasn't depressed, and he'd probably argue how not depressed he was until his face turned blue. And then he'd take in a deep breath and argue some more. He had a feeling that was easier said than done, though. It was easy to be alone now, when everyone was at home or on far away islands, but when everyone came back to Hogwarts...well, it'd be difficult to duck past them, at any rate. Pretty much impossible, if you considered how many classes Ian and Rose were in with him, so avoiding them was not an option. So he'd keep them at arm's length, at least. He'd be abrupt and short; polite, but stand-offish. Maybe even cold at times. And if that didn't work and they didn't realise he was cutting ties with them, then more extreme measures would have to be done. What "extreme" was, he hadn't decided yet, but he knew it'd be a last resort. No matter how much he told himself he'd stop caring, there were some things he just didn't want to do, like hurt his friends. Especially not Rose. He just wanted to be left alone. He wanted to stop losing the people. But mostly he wanted to fight. He wanted to avenge Marlene's death. And if he couldn't (and how could he? He didn't know who'd murdered her), he'd die trying. Anything for the guilty to ease. Anything to make the nightmares of hands pulling him into a grave, of accusatory fingers pointing at him, all attached to faces of loved ones, forever frozen in time, to stop.
There was the sudden swish sound of the portrait door swinging open. As far as he'd been aware (and he'd been mostly unaware of his surroundings for the past week or so), all the Ravenclaws were away for the holidays, and no one was supposed to be back yet. His hands, which had been stripping his fourth (or was it fifth?) quill had stilled, and he almost considered continuing with his habit, ignoring the intruder. It could very well be Professor Flitwick, checking up on him. He hadn't gone to breakfast, lunch or dinner; hadn't been hungry. Inexplicably, he found himself turning his head an infinitesimal amount, hesitating for a beat and then turning fully. He wasn't sure what or who he had expected, but he knew he didn't expect who it actually was. "Imogen," he exclaimed quietly, taken aback. The surprise was, perhaps, the first type of emotion he'd shown all week besides anger. She looked healthy, tanned, relaxed, she looked good and wholesome. Just like that, the shutters slammed down, his eyes growing cold as suddenly as she'd walked back into the common room. "Welcome back," he said flatly. For a moment, he held her gaze, his face impassive, and then he turned his back on her, sat down and tugged at the quill, wincing when he plucked out five at a time. He drew in a deep breath, told himself to pull himself together and remember he didn't care anymore - hating that he had to keep reminding himself - and went back to his old habit. This time, he didn't screw up.
 imogen sauveterre
[/color] |
|
|
|
Post by Imogen Sauveterre on Nov 19, 2011 17:17:42 GMT -5
  it all goes crashing into the sea if it's just you and me[/color] She never should have left.
The island was probably the best thing that happened to her. Tori taking her away, honest to god, saved her sanity. The fact was, Imogen couldn’t handle everything that was going on. She couldn’t handle Benjamin not letting her be there for him. She couldn’t handle the idea of Fabian being hurt, possibly dying. She couldn’t handle being alone in all of that, but she couldn’t handle the guilt of forcing Ian to come back from his holiday because she was too weak to take care of things herself. She couldn’t handle her own shitstorm, and she’d shut down. Being on the island was like a new start to life. It was beautiful. It was far away. It was liberating, being there with only Tori and no one else from Hogwarts. She’d gained confidence there that she didn’t think she would ever feel. Tori had control over her wardrobe, and had convinced her to wear all sorts of light, summery clothes that she never would have chosen for herself. They even went swimming and Imogen had worn a two-piece for the first time in her life. No one said anything about her scars, and she tanned so easily and quickly that they were well-hidden. And the things she and Tori did were… they were incredible. The first day, they’d spent the morning learning how to surf. Sometimes when her family went to vacation at Fistral Beach, Simon would go surfing, and Imogen had done it once or twice. She was able to pick it up pretty quickly; even Tori got the hang of it after a while. They’d practiced surfing for part of the day before taking a tour around the island. A couple of local boys had taken it upon themselves to be her and Tori’s official tour guides, something that greatly amused Imogen, though she kept that to herself. They’d gone out on their boat that evening, something Imogen had been hesitant to do at first, but it ended up being a lot of fun and she was able to see a glorious pink-and-gold sunset directly from the water. Every night on the island was like a party, and she and Tori were able to watch fire dancers on the beach from the balcony where they ate their supper. That night had been one of the best sleeps of Imogen’s life: deep, fast, and completely dreamless, and for the first time in months, she’d woken up smiling.
The following day was just as adventurous. They met up with their “tour guides” and went on a hike all around the island, exploring trails and caves, and were amazed when they were led to a thirty-foot waterfall. Without warning, their guides stripped down to their swim trunks before leaping off the rocks a few feet below the top, falling into the water below. Imogen and Tori had barely shared a glance before doing the same, and the free-fall had been beautifully terrifying. In the afternoon, they’d trekked over to the other side of the island for another surprise. After changing into wetsuits, they were led down to the water by a woman carrying buckets of fish, and then there they were: a pair of bottlenose dolphins, leaping out of the water almost in unison before swimming up to greet the trainer on the dock. Imogen and Tori followed her out, getting the opportunity to meet and feed the dolphins before slipping into the water with them. Getting to interact with those animals was something Imogen was sure she would never forget; being around creatures so playful, so full of life and happiness, sparked something in Imogen she didn’t even think was possible. She smiled nonstop for the rest of the day. Her spirits felt totally uplifted, almost like flying. Being in the water with something that graceful, that beautiful, that lively and fun, made her realise how much she was letting herself be torn down by negativity. It was beyond liberating. It was perfect. When she and Tori came out of the water, Imogen was still beaming, and her smile barely faded at all for the rest of the day. She and Tori returned to the beach under their hotel and practiced surfing until dinner, when they dared to ask for a few mimosas (which Imogen didn’t really like, but the name was fun to say and she’d always wanted to try one) and danced a few rounds with hunky island boys by the bonfire. And New Years’ Eve… That was when Imogen let loose in a way she never had before. Their tour guides invited them down to a more private, secluded beach after dark, where a party was well underway. Imogen and Tori drank and danced, and when it grew close to midnight, they were thrown for a loop as the partiers each grabbed a surfboard before paddling out into the water and (though Imogen could barely believe it) stripped of their bathing suits. Naked night-surfing, they called it, and even in the dark Imogen was sure her face was glowing bright red. It took all her willpower to not hide her face in Tori’s shoulder when one of their (now very nude) tour guides jogged toward them and offered them each a spare surfboard. The nudity was optional, he assured, but he encouraged them to at least grab a board and get in the water.
Maybe it was the fact that it was secluded, or she’d had a couple too many drinks out of the keg, or maybe she was just feeling so good for the first time in ages, but… one way or another, Imogen ended up joining in, and so did Tori. She made sure not to look, and secretly hoped no one was looking at her, but it seemed… wrong not to join in on the fun. Even to this day she wasn’t sure how it happened; all she knew was that one minute they were standing on the beach, and the next they were sitting on surfboards in the water, stark naked, facing the shore and shouting out the countdown with everyone else. And when it reached zero, music blared up from across the island, and fireworks shot into the sky, lighting up the trees and the beach and the ocean. And maybe it was all that “hippie shit” she’d heard about, but Imogen didn’t care: in that moment, out in the water and completely free of troubles and stress and grades and evil wizards and death, she felt more wholesome and content and happy than she had in her entire life. She shouted and cheered with the rest of the islanders; when they got back to shore, people started pairing off for New Year’s kisses, and Imogen didn’t even care when one of the tour guides planted one on her and the other one managed to snag Tori. It didn’t mean anything but fun, and for the first time, Imogen was all right with that.
The next few days on the island were just as amazing. They spent more time surfing, and though they weren’t doing fancy tricks, they’d both managed to complete a few rides without falling once. Parasailing was terrifying but exhilarating. Scuba diving let them see all sorts of reefs and sea creatures Imogen knew she’d never find in Falmouth. There had been one terrifying moment when they spotted a shark, but it turned tail almost right away and didn’t show up again. There was one day dedicated purely to relaxing in the hotel spa, where they received facials and mud baths and a full-body massage, and when that was done they continued their relaxation by simply lying on towels on the beach and working up nice, dark tans. Nights were spent dancing by the bonfires, and there even a night where a fire eater performed for guests. When Cody Montague’s jet picked them up from the island in the early hours of January 4th, it was all Imogen could do to not flee the hotel and hide somewhere on the island until they stopped looking for her and left. But leaving was the right thing to do, and she made sure to thank Tori and Cody several times on the way home until they finally told her to stop. She slept part of the way home, and it was when she woke up that she fully realised everything that had happened since the holidays began.
And then the guilt set in.
She had abandoned Benjamin. She’d left him alone at the school when he’d needed her support the most – not her specifically, but she was the only one there who could be there for him emotionally, and she had left. There had been no word, no warning. She had seen him one day, and the next, she was gone. After his best friend died, another person he cared about disappearing without a trace could only make him think of the worst possible scenario, especially with her track record. All of his friends had gone home for the holidays, leaving only her to be there with him, and even though she fancied him and he’d expressed interest in her, the fact remained that they didn’t know each other as well as they should have, and she didn’t know him as well as she needed to. She didn’t know him well enough to know how to recognise signs of trouble. She didn’t know him well enough to know how to comfort him. Instead of being a good friend, she had chosen to leave him completely alone. She’d not only let him down, but let down Ian as well. She should have written to him; she should have told him that things were bad. She should have told him that Benjamin was acting fine but that he wasn’t fine. She should have told him that Benjamin needed someone there who understood him, who really and truly knew him, whom he trusted wholly and who could really help him through his loss. Imogen wasn’t that person, but Ian was, and Imogen… She should have told him. But she was weak, and stupid, and selfish, and had decided that it was more important for her to leave than it was to stick around and be there for someone she cared about. It was more important to write to someone who didn’t even like her rather than let Benjamin know that she was okay. Imogen had fucked up worse than ever, only this time, she wasn’t the one who got hurt. All that she could think on the way back to the school was that she never should have left. Seeing Benjamin when she finally reached the Ravenclaw common room only confirmed that. She saw the tension in his face, the stiffness in his posture. She heard the coolness to his voice, and as he turned away from her, she could almost feel him pushing her away. He wasn’t like this before she left.
He was like this because she’d left.
She ignored the violent twisting in her stomach and came forward, her eyes flickering to his hands as she watched him pluck at a quill. “I—Hullo,” she whispered softly. She reached out with her hand and placed it on his shoulder, half-expecting him to flinch away. “I shouldn’t have left you. I’m sorry. Please—Please stop.” Imogen leaned forward a little, placing her other hand on top of his to stop the plucking. Her insides felt like they were being tied into knots and poked with needles. “I’m sorry. I really am. I don’t know what I was thinking. I think I just… I panicked, maybe, and I wasn’t thinking right and then I was… I was selfish, I was, I was only thinking of what I wanted and not what you needed, and I never should have done that and I won’t again, ever, I promise. Benjamin, you’re not—you can talk to me. You can. Please look at me.” Why? She didn’t know. Maybe if she could meet his gaze, she’d be better able to explain herself. Or maybe she’d freeze up altogether.
She supposed she’d find out.
|
|
|
|
Post by Benjamin Burke on Nov 20, 2011 15:42:16 GMT -5
yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive [/font] [/center]
If he focused on the quill, he could almost pretend she wasn't there. Having something to do with his hands helped. It also helped him calm down if he regulated it with his breathing. Inhale, pluck, exhale. Inhale, pluck, exhale. It was how he slowed down his heart rate after a nightmare from bursting-through-his-chest to just-run-a-marathon; it took a lot longer to get it down to his regular heart beat after that, mostly because the images normally remained fried to his eyelids long after he was fully awake, and it was all he saw every time he blinked. Now was a different sort of relaxation, though. Now was more of an I-need-to-settle-down-before-everything-I've-been-working-towards-this-past-week-and-a-half-is-absolutely-ruined. Inhale, pluck, exhale. It was disappointing, to say the least. Imogen should have been the easiest to face. She didn't know him; she didn't know him at all, and he hardly knew her. Not enough to know each other's reactions to things, not enough to know how to comfort the other, or draw comfort from the other. And yet, already he was struggling to keep his composure, and she hadn't said anything. Inhale, pluck, exhale. Maybe it was how he felt about her. Maybe that was why he was all...messed up. Maybe he would've reacted the same way if it were Jordan to walk through the portrait hole. But no, it wasn't the same. Not just how he felt about Imogen, but how he felt now. Even as he desperately tried to lock down on his emotions, shove them below the surface and strap them down with proverbial chains, he could feel them rising to the surface, filling his throat, knotting his stomach; bitterness. Betrayal. Rage. Relief. Confusion. After so many days of abject numbness, the absolute snowball of emotions rolling over him was throwing him for a loop, and he hated that. He hated that he couldn't seem to hold his hands as steady as they always were. He hated that he wanted to touch her to make sure she really was here, that it wasn't a figment of his imagination. He hated that she looked so good when he felt like shit. He hated how he knew she wouldn't leave him alone. He could already hear her approaching; with them being the only occupants of the Ravenclaw common room, he'd be able to hear a pin drop, so the creaking of the floorboards as she walked towards him was unmistakable. It made him mess up again and he cursed quietly under his breath. Inhale, pluck, exhale. Maybe if he did it for long enough she'd just leave.
No sooner had he thought it that he heard her voice near him, and felt her hand on his shoulder. His first knee-jerk reaction was to shrug it off; his second was to lean into it. He did neither. Instead, he stared resolutely at the quill in his hands, his shoulders stiff, and wondered over how likely it was that she'd leave him alone if he ignored her; very slim, he guessed. He clenched his jaw when his hand suddenly covered both of his, effectively stopping his movements. He was tempted to jerk away from her, to stand up and just walk away since it was becoming evident that, if he was to be separate from her, he'd have to remove himself physically from her presence. And yet, for some reason, he remained seated, his gaze fixed on her bronzed hand, staring at the light dusting of freckles that blemished her skin. No, blemished was too strong of a word. It implied a flaw; there was nothing flawed about the way Imogen looked now. Inhale, exhale. But he couldn't breathe properly because the most important factor was missing. The air hitched in his lungs and he ground his teeth harder, brow furrowing deeply. It was taking too much effort to pretend he couldn't hear her; of course he could hear her. He probably wouldn't have been able to ignore her if she had whispered it. She was sorry. She hadn't meant to abandon him. She had been selfish. Had it been because she left, that he became this way? No. No, he didn't think that was it at all. In fact, she was being rather arrogant, thinking he'd only deteriorated into this condition -- no, those were the wrong words. This was completely wrong. He was fine. He wasn't upset. His condition was fine. He'd just made a decision. A decision to cut off all ties. A decision to stop caring so that he'd stop losing the people he loves. He would've made it regardless of whether she was here or not. He didn't need her. He hardly knew her. And he wanted to tell her as much. Tell her she was wrong, it wasn't because she left, it wasn't because she left at all. The fact that it had all begun as soon as she was gone was just a coincidence. An unlike coincidence. Things like that happened all the time. But he couldn't bring himself to speak just yet. Not yet. He just continued staring at her hand. For some reason, he'd expected her nails to be perfectly filed. To be painted some sort of girly colour, or manicured into perfection. But they weren't; not even close. Jagged and short; it was apparent that she'd been chewing on them. That was odd, he'd never noticed that she bit her nails. Normally, he noticed these things. Or maybe he'd just forgotten.
"No," he said suddenly, startling even himself. He finally slid his hands from under hers, folding them in his lap and leaning back to survey her coolly. Her face was the same golden shade her hands were; of course it was. It was flattering; he hated that, too. "I don't want to talk, Imogen. You left," He put as much emphasis as he could on the word left as he could. He thought his teeth might break, he was clenching them so hard. He wasn't sure of the words coming out of his mouth right now; it was all wrong. He was supposed to tell her to leave him alone, that this was none of her business, that her leaving had nothing to do with anything. "You left, and now you're back, and you're in no position to try to talk to me. You left," he repeated, as if to insure the message had sunk in. He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth and turned his gaze to the quill again. Inhale, pluck, exhale. "And anyway, I'm fine." Inhale, pluck, exhale. "There's nothing to talk about, nothing to discuss. I'm fine." Inhale, pluck, exhale. "I'm dealing with this. I know what I have to do now." Inhale, pluck, exhale. He paused his motions to look at her, his expression neutral rather than cold. "Please leave," he told her passively, and then shrugged. "I'm sure you have plenty of packing to do," he added. Keep her at arm's length. That's what he planned to do, wasn't it? Keep everyone a few feet away, both physically and emotionally. And then, naturally, they'd begin drifting apart until they were no longer friends. It wasn't an unusual occurrence; happened all the time, even between the very best of friends. It had happened to Penny and him, hadn't it? They'd promised to write to each other every day. To keep up with each other's news. And they'd been closer than close. She had been his only family, especially after Jaime died, and vice versa. And yet, look how quickly they'd drifted apart. The last he'd heard of her was over a year and a half. For all he knew, she could be dead, too. That thought made the unpleasant twisting in his stomach increase. He'd already counted her as a person he'd lost, but not because she'd died, but because he hadn't spoken to her in so long. He hadn't considered the possibility that she could be literally gone, too. Trying to shake himself from a deeper stupor, Benjamin drew in a couple of short, steadying breaths and tried to focus on the quill again, but his vision seemed to blur and he couldn't tell apart the fine hairs anymore, so he put it down and stared at the blazing fire instead; anywhere but at the girl standing next to him.
[/color] |
|
|
|
Post by Imogen Sauveterre on Nov 27, 2011 0:40:43 GMT -5
it all goes crashing into the sea if it's just you and me [/color] Imogen didn’t know what she had expected to find. She knew Benjamin wouldn’t be in a good place; he wasn’t before she left, and being forced to be alone when he was grieving couldn’t be good for him. Hell, that wouldn’t be good for anyone. It was illogical of her to expect that things would get better and turn around once she returned. And it was stupid to hope for him to smile, to say he was glad she was back, because then she could be there for him the way he needed her. She and Benjamin were friends. At one point, she’d believed they could have been more. But now, with the way he was and the way she was, with the way he’d acknowledged her return and went back to plucking at that quill and making sure it was completely destroyed with no hope of repair, she wasn’t so sure anymore. She had hurt him in the worst way at the worst time. She’d kicked him hard when he was down, and now she deserved his coolness. She really did. As much as she could have hoped for him to be happy she was back, this made far more sense. But… she couldn’t let him believe that. She couldn’t give up, because he’d know, and then… things could only get worse, she knew. He could have been not talking at all, or something. He could have been completely catatonic, or he could have been self-destructive. He could have hurt himself and not even have noticed because of his anguish. His best friend was dead and he was alone and there was nothing Imogen could do or say to bring her back and make him better. Just because she was back didn’t mean he was any less alone. He didn’t need her, he needed one of his good friends. He needed Rose, or Ian. Ian would know what to do. Ian would know how to handle this. Imogen didn’t have a clue, but it was Benjamin, so she’d try. And if she failed… No. She couldn’t – well – she would see how this conversation went. If Benjamin talked, then maybe things would be okay. Maybe. But if he didn’t… She would have to write Ian. There was really nothing he could do, since there were only two days of holiday left, but at least he would be prepared and know something was wrong. Imogen only hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
And then Benjamin spoke, and it was cold and angry and Imogen was taken aback. Her thoughts seemed to halt in her head as she stared at him, and then he said two words that nearly froze her entire core: “You left.” She sucked in a breath and her arms fell to her sides. Her fists clenched and she stared at him in shock. Had he really just said that? Or had she just imagined it because she was so guilty about leaving? But no, he went on, saying that she was in no position to talk to him, and it was because she left. Imogen tried to say something. She opened her mouth to explain, maybe tell him that she had to leave, because… because why? She didn’t have to. No one forced her out. She could have stayed. She could have stayed and dealt with shit like an adult. Instead she ran away like a fucking child. She always ran away from problems. Imogen had never really dealt with anything. She hid her problems away from her friends and from herself. She pretended like they didn’t exist while they bubbled down within her. Sometimes it felt like… like some sort of thick, black ooze in her abdomen, creeping up and up and covering her organs and muscles and tissue until she felt heavy and didn’t even want to try anymore. It was a disgusting visual, but it was accurate, and… and with the way Benjamin spoke to her, it really was how she felt at that moment. It was as though the mere fact that she existed around him angered him. Imogen was certain that no apology, no matter how sincere, would be able to fix this. Not even close. She could try anyway, but… He said he was fine. Well, it was pure bullshit. He wasn’t fine. Benjamin was tearing himself up over this; they may not have known each other well, but she at least knew that much. It wasn’t his fault, not remotely, but Marlene had been his best friend and one of the most important people in his life. He loved her. He might have been in love with her; Imogen wasn’t sure. And now she was gone, so he was shutting down. If Imogen was being completely honest, she was certain she’d be doing the same thing if someone close to her had died. She’d deny help, she’d say she was fine, she’d turn her back on the world. Yeah, she knew she’d do that. But that didn’t make it right.
“Benjamin…” she began, but he cut her off with “Please leave.” She stared at him for a few moments, unable to speak, as he continued to pluck at that fucking stupid quill as if destroying it could give him some sort of satisfaction. And maybe it could. Maybe tearing something else down until it could never be the same or whole again did make him feel better. Males had different coping methods than females. Almost opposites, she had to wonder: destruction versus creation. He didn’t have anything else to destroy, so he picked a feather. A quill. For a moment, her blood ran cold, wondering if she’d destroyed the albino peacock feather quill she’d given him for Christmas once he realised she was gone (but she hadn’t signed it as being from her, so many he wouldn’t have done it out of vengeance), but she stopped herself from asking. It was selfish, and she didn’t need to get upset over that. She’d had enough of being selfish. Benjamin wouldn’t have been such a wreck if she hadn’t been selfish enough to leave him and let him deal with this alone. She sucked in a breath and shook her hands out to relieve some of the tension. He didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to hear anything she said. Fine. She’d talk anyway. Not that she knew what she’d say, exactly, or if it would even help, but talking would at least be giving it a good shot. “Yeah, I left,” she said, her voice soft, “but I’m back now, Benjamin. I’m not going to stop you from hurting, because I can’t anyway and it’s… you need to grieve.” She resisted the urge to touch him again, something she never imagined would be difficult for her. “What is it you need to do now, Benjamin? Hmm? I can help you. I want to help you. Please.” Not that she could, really; she supposed they both just needed some nice idea to believe. “You don’t have to be alone in this. You know that.” She finally reached out again to touch his shoulder, squeezing it gently and, hopefully, comfortingly. “I’m here now, I promise.”
It wouldn’t be enough.
She hoped it would, at least, be a start.
|
|
|
|
Post by Benjamin Burke on Nov 28, 2011 6:58:26 GMT -5
yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive [/font] [/center]
She just didn't get it. He should have expected this. He should have known that his friends wouldn't understand what he needed right now. He'd underestimated how persistent they would be. Or maybe he'd (naively) hoped they'd give him the space he desperately wanted. That he needed. Maybe they'd think he ought to try to do it alone; to pull through this alone, to do it in his own way. And then, when they finally realised that he wasn't grieving anymore, that he honestly wanted nothing to do with them anymore, that the reason why he was holding them at arm's length was just the first step to completely pushing them out of his life. Because he wouldn't always be grieving. Because the depression had to end sometime, right? The pain, the hurt...it had to go away eventually, right? He tried not to think about Jaime, then. Tried not to think about how, until this day, he pictures his non biological brother's too-skinny body fall with a deceptive grace, the light dying in his eyes, the blood pooling around his body, Penny's screams of anguish filling his ears. It had been over years years since that dreadful day, and he still remembered it with as much clarity as if it had happened yesterday. Worse, the ache and the guilt had never quite faded away. So how could he think that this would go away? That he could just wait it out and, after a while, it would just go away on it's own? The he can somehow fix this by insuring that he never lost anyone ever again? He was being a coward. He was running away from it. Running away from his feelings. From the hurt, from the pain, from the guilt, from the possibility of more of all three. It was a harsh realisation. Benjamin had never wanted to be called a coward and yet, there it was, staring him right in the face. He didn't even need anyone to tell him, although he knew a lot of his friends would be thinking it. Probably Ian would, and everyone knew Ian was never shy about his opinion, especially if he thought it would do more good than harm. But see, the thing was, Benjamin couldn't care less right now about being a coward. If that was how they would label him, then so be it; he supposed he was one. But it was better this way. It had to be. He couldn't begin to explain it to Imogen, though. And if he couldn't explain it, then how could he expect her to understand? How could he expect anyone understand? They couldn't. That was why no one could help; that was why he didn't want anyone's help. It was all his fault, so only he could fix it. But what was it, and how could he fix it? Merlin, his head was f*cked up.
But he was still fine. And he still wanted her to leave. And he didn't know how to communicate that any clearer than he already had. And if someone like Imogen, who wasn't even as close to him as Ian or Rose was, couldn't seem to let it go, then how could he ever keep them away without resorting to more extreme measures? Then again, Imogen was being driven by guilt, wasn't she? She felt that her leaving had caused this downward spiral. Hadn't she noticed his distance after they'd gotten the news? True, he might not have quite pushed her away, but he had made it a point to avoid her if he could. Perhaps her leaving had been the straw that broke the camel's back, but perhaps not. She wouldn't see it that way, though. Even if he said it out loud, she wouldn't believe him. Guilt didn't work that way; he would know all about guilt, after all. And he hadn't exactly helped dissuade the notion, had he? You left, he had said. You left, he'd told her, and his tone had been accusatory, had been bitter, betrayed, angry. He might as well have shouted it. The damage was done, and now she felt guilty, so of course she'd want to do anything she could to make it better. Of course she would cling onto the hope that she could help. That, somehow, just by talking to him, comforting him, it would fix him. But he wasn't broken. He didn't need fixing. He was fine. Better than fine, because it was clear what he had to do to stay unbroken. He had to protect himself, he had to make sure he wouldn't even have to go through another heart-shattering loss again. It was just something he had to do. But Imogen wouldn't know that, because she wasn't him. Because she didn't feel the same guilt he did, hadn't lost as many people as he had. Then again, maybe she did know. He wasn't aware of her history; he barely knew anything about her, and to assume was to make an ass out of you and me. But he didn't care. He didn't want her understanding. He didn't want her help. He didn't want her.
(And that, perhaps, is the biggest lie of them all.)
Her hand on his shoulder made him stiffen, his hands gripping the quill hard enough to break it if it wasn't tucked in the, somehow protective, grooves of his skin. Quite suddenly, he stood up and turned to her, reaching out to grab her shoulders. There was nothing violent about his movements; in fact, his grasp was gentle, almost a caress. He didn't want to hurt her. That was the last thing he wanted to do. "Look, this isn't your fault. None of this is. You left, yes. Was I angry? Yes. Because I thought something had happened to you." Because I thought you'd died, his mind supplied, but he couldn't bring himself to form those words. "I didn't -- it doesn't matter. That you left. You shouldn't feel bad about that. I would've still --" He let out a frustrated sound, unused to having such difficulty with articulating his thoughts. "I know you feel like you need to help. I know Ian will, too. And Rose, and Deed, and Ted, and everyone. But I don't need it. I need you to understand that. I don't want any of this. I don't want your help. I don't-" His breath hitched for a moment, his hands moving to her chin, fingertips brushing against the soft skin of her cheek, unable to speak the last lie statement. Instead, he switched tracks, his tone becoming impossibly soft, so much so that she would have had trouble hearing it if they hadn't been completely alone. "Please just leave it alone. Leave me alone. I don't want to have to hurt you, but I will. You still matter to me." You shouldn't; none of you should, but it's still too early. But soon, soon, he told himself. Soon, none of it would matter. He'd leave it all behind, he'd be alone, and then...only then would he be able to go to war. Only then would he be strong again. But right now? Right now, he was weak. Right now, he could easily fall to pieces. But when he was alone? When he was alone, he didn't have to feel guilty anymore. He wouldn't have to lose anyone else. And then it would be better. Everyone would be better. Easier. He was a coward, yes. He was weak, yes. But none of that mattered anymore. He was f*cked up, but that wouldn't matter when he was alone, when he had no one to lose, and no one to hurt. His grip tightened briefly against her jaw; not with enough pressure to hurt, but enough to get her attention. His tone was harsh again; it was almost as if the softness had never been there in the first place. "I won't tell you again." He let her go, then, and stepped back, his arms heavier than ever. "I'll see you around, Imogen," he told her coolly, and turned his back on her, starting towards the portrait hole. Praying she'd let him go this time.
Praying that she'd just let him go.
[/color] |
|
|
|
Post by Imogen Sauveterre on Nov 29, 2011 12:56:46 GMT -5
it all goes crashing into the sea if it's just you and me [/color] Imogen didn’t understand. She and Benjamin weren’t close, but she figured that she would at least be able to get a grasp on his emotions when he spoke. But she didn’t understand anything, and it scared her and frustrated her and… He was holding her by the shoulders, and her heart started to pound and her stomach twisted nervously as she met his gaze and he told her it wasn’t her fault. He had said he was fine, but now he… he knew he wasn’t… normal. He wasn’t going about this in a healthy way and he knew that. Because why? Because of guilt? He didn’t have to feel guilty about Marlene’s death. He wasn’t even in Diagon Alley when it happened. And if he had been, he might’ve been killed, too. But he didn’t want… She stared at him, fighting the lump forming in her throat as he said he didn’t want anyone’s help, her breath catching in her throat as he moved to touch her face. She clenched her fists, her hands starting to tremble, and she didn’t know what to do or say because she was so fucking confused as to what he wanted and needed and what would be best for him. He said he would hurt her and she had to bite her lip to stop the strangled noise threatening to emit; her stomach clenched and a shiver ran down her spine, and for the first time she was scared of Benjamin, because he—he couldn’t say those things, those horrible things, and touch her that gently, and speak that softly, and say she still mattered to him. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal, it… It was threatening in a way that he had never been threatening before, and it was directed at her, and she was actually scared. Her breath caught again as his grip on her chin tightened and she froze completely, wanting to pull herself out of his grasp but afraid to do so. “I won’t tell you again,” he said, sounding so hard and angry that this time she did make a noise: a soft, barely-audible whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. And then he was leaving, and she wanted to go after him – she did – but the shaking had spread to her knees and she wasn’t sure if she could even move.
“Benjamin,” she tried, her voice cracking. She took a step forward. “Benjamin, please… You’re not you.” Her legs seemed to be working again, however shaky they were, and she ran forward and around him, blocking his exit. Imogen reached out and placed her hands on his chest, not meaning to push him back, but her momentum did that for her. “Sorry, just—don’t leave. I want… You can’t… I know Marlene was your best friend and you loved her more than anyone, but please don’t throw yourself away just… It’s okay to grieve, grieve all you want, but don’t act like no one else loves you, don’t pretend like you have to be alone or even like you want to be alone, because I know you don’t. Do you think it’ll be easy, telling Ian to go away? What about Rose? Who’s going to be her best friend, who’s going to keep her safe? Ian’s her cousin, but you’re her Benji, that’s… special, that’s something she can’t just go out and replace because you’ve decided not to be there anymore. Stop trying to convince me that you want to be alone because it won’t work; you’re just trying to convince yourself.” Where the words were coming from, she had no idea. How she found the courage to say them was another matter altogether. Her grip tightened on his chest for a moment before she dropped her hands, taking one of his in both of hers. She held it close to her chest, but not touching, and squeezed his palm. When she spoke again, the lump in her throat had returned, this time making her eyes sting with tears that she didn’t dare let fall. “You still matter to me, too, Benjamin. I don’t care if you say you’ll hurt me. I don’t care if you try. I’m not abandoning you again.”
|
|
|
|
Post by Benjamin Burke on Nov 29, 2011 14:30:00 GMT -5
yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive [/font] [/center]
It had to be Imogen to first test him. It had to be someone who's words he couldn't predict; whom he was wholly unprepared for. Ian, he could've dealt with. Deed, he could've handled. Even Rose would have been easier to deal with than Imogen at the moment. Because he knew his friends. He knew them well. He knew what they would say (or could accurately guess, at least). But fact of the matter was, he didn't know Imogen. He didn't know how to make her leave him alone, he didn't know how she would react to his words and, more importantly, he didn't know what she might say. She wasn't like everyone else. She was different, and on so many different levels that it fairly made his head spin. Her small whimper of fear caught him so off-guard that it sliced through his heart strings before he could throw up his proverbial defenses. He hadn't meant to scare her; he hadn't meant he'd physically hurt her. Already the words were jumping in his mind, jumbling up with his original plans, fighting to breach his defenses and assure her of his intentions, that he would never hurt her, that he would never hurt anyone, but he couldn't. He couldn't tell her any of that. Maybe it would be better if she's scared. Maybe fear was the only way to get her to back off. But he didn't want that; he didn't want that at all. He didn't want his friends to be afraid of him. He didn't want Imogen to be afraid of him. He felt the guilt build up, chewing away at his insides. So he turned and walked away before he could make things worse. Before he could scare her further; or worse. But he didn't want to touch on the worse. He didn't even want to consider what was worse. It made his stomach knot in ways that were both pleasant and unpleasant; but mostly the latter. It just gave him more reason to walk away, because he had all these feelings and he didn't know what to do with them because they were conflicting with his...his plans, so to speak. And he was almost sure he would successfully get (run) away when she suddenly stopped him and he automatically took a few steps back when she pushed him back, eyes narrowed, but not quite out of anger.
There must have been a stretch of at least two minutes of silence between them following her words as Benjamin simply breathed and tried to tamp down on the absolute pandemonium of emotions that were currently wreaking havoc on his systems. Anger and guilt because he knew she was right, more anger because he didn't want to admit that she was right, determination not to let her deter him, desire to just give in and give up his whole damn plan because it had never been logical in the first place and he knew it and then anger all over again for his own weakness. Finally, he breathed in deeply, unclenched his fists (he couldn't remember clenching them in the first place), and shook his head. Not trusting himself to speak, for fear of what would come out of his mouth, he instead dropped his gaze down and away from her, breathed out slowly and then made a point to walk around her, careful not to come close enough to brush against her, not even accidentally. He paused by the portrait door, one hand against the cool surface, his head still lowered. "Goodbye, Imogen," he murmured, and then, his hesitation rapidly fading, he firmly pushed it open and walked out. He had no real idea where he was going; only that he was determined to put as much space between them as possible, even if it meant climbing to the top of the highest tower. Was it extreme? Yes, very much so. But was it necessary?
Yes, even more so.
the end
[/color] |
|
