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Description
Redraw of this: [link]
---
"I blinked awake, sitting bolt upright and looking around me, almost hitting my head on the bunk above. For a moment I was disoriented, confused as to why I was surrounded by stacks of wood beds and straw and the smell of death. But soon my memory returned to me, and I glanced over at Benjamin. His hand was still in mine, his eyes were closed and his mouth was turned into a small smile. I laughed to myself; how could my awful singing make anyone smile?
“Sorry for nodding off, Ben. So how was it- dreadful as I thought it was? …Benji?”
He didn’t respond.
I squeezed his hand. “Benjamin?”
Nothing.
His face was still.
My heart began racing. No. He was just sleeping.
“Benjamin, wake up! …This isn’t funny, Benji! Wake up!”
His chest wasn’t moving.
I struggled to a sitting position and took his shoulders, shaking them, gripping his shirt with both hands. It was still warm.
I shook him again.
“Don’t you dare die on me! Goddamnit, Benjamin, don’t you dare die! ”
He wouldn’t wake up.
Why? Why wouldn’t he wake up?!
Because wasn’t sleeping, that’s why.
NO.
I felt a sob beginning to rack my body, but I couldn’t hear anything as I took his hand again, feeling his wrist for a pulse, for something. I wasn’t even sure I was the one making the noise anymore; it was almost as if I was watching everything from a few feet away. Watching as a tattered, bone-thin girl with tangled black hair and a streaming face tried to rouse the dead. Watching as the boy with disheveled hair like sun-burned wheat lay limp in her arms, his battered face lolling back, drenched in moonlight, torn and scarred like a child’s old ragdoll.
I pressed my forehead against his, feeling myself tremble, holding him in my arms. “Crucified Christ, Benjamin, wake up! I love you! Why won’t you answer me? I never got to tell you! Oh God, oh God,” I whispered, rocking back and forth, never letting go of his hand. “Oh God, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”
People say when a person you love dies before your eyes, you see something. You feel a gentle breeze on your cheek or hear a soft whisper in your ear. I have seen death. So much of it. To those who haven’t, I can tell you now that they are all lies:
Nothing happens. Nothing at all. Nothing but gone-ness. Nothing but dead. Nothing except your heart being ripped into thousands of little pieces- repeatedly smashed, glued back together, and broken again.
Each time a heart breaks and mends itself, there will always be a few pieces missing. That’s true with anything. If you break a vase, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to get each piece back in the way it was. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be the same.
It wouldn’t be the same.
I buried my head in his shoulder, throwing my arms around his neck- waiting for him to rest his chin on the crown of my head and return my embrace, telling me that it was going to be okay. Kiss me on my forehead, Benji, call me blackbird one more time.
“Benjamin! It’s okay… You can wake up now! WAKE UP! I need you! Goddamnit, Benji, you promised me! You bastard, you promised!”
The murmurs of the other prisoners as they acknowledged that another one had died floated up, wafting up through the ceiling like fog. They didn’t care.
Nothing cared in concentration camps.
I cried and cried. Quietly, but I cried as hard as I ever have. So hard that my ribs felt as if they were shattering, my lungs puncturing, deflating, their will to keep breathing leaving me alone with the corpse of the boy who was my last hope.
I remember Daniel trying to tear me away from him. I remember screaming, “Don’t! You’ll wake him up!”
He was holding me, crying quietly, too, telling me to hush through his sobs, telling me that the soldiers would hurt me if I kept shouting, that Benjamin wasn’t going to wake up.
I didn't care. Not anymore. My paper star had blown away.
…We were liberated the following morning."
Art, characters, writing (c) me
---
"I blinked awake, sitting bolt upright and looking around me, almost hitting my head on the bunk above. For a moment I was disoriented, confused as to why I was surrounded by stacks of wood beds and straw and the smell of death. But soon my memory returned to me, and I glanced over at Benjamin. His hand was still in mine, his eyes were closed and his mouth was turned into a small smile. I laughed to myself; how could my awful singing make anyone smile?
“Sorry for nodding off, Ben. So how was it- dreadful as I thought it was? …Benji?”
He didn’t respond.
I squeezed his hand. “Benjamin?”
Nothing.
His face was still.
My heart began racing. No. He was just sleeping.
“Benjamin, wake up! …This isn’t funny, Benji! Wake up!”
His chest wasn’t moving.
I struggled to a sitting position and took his shoulders, shaking them, gripping his shirt with both hands. It was still warm.
I shook him again.
“Don’t you dare die on me! Goddamnit, Benjamin, don’t you dare die! ”
He wouldn’t wake up.
Why? Why wouldn’t he wake up?!
Because wasn’t sleeping, that’s why.
NO.
I felt a sob beginning to rack my body, but I couldn’t hear anything as I took his hand again, feeling his wrist for a pulse, for something. I wasn’t even sure I was the one making the noise anymore; it was almost as if I was watching everything from a few feet away. Watching as a tattered, bone-thin girl with tangled black hair and a streaming face tried to rouse the dead. Watching as the boy with disheveled hair like sun-burned wheat lay limp in her arms, his battered face lolling back, drenched in moonlight, torn and scarred like a child’s old ragdoll.
I pressed my forehead against his, feeling myself tremble, holding him in my arms. “Crucified Christ, Benjamin, wake up! I love you! Why won’t you answer me? I never got to tell you! Oh God, oh God,” I whispered, rocking back and forth, never letting go of his hand. “Oh God, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”
People say when a person you love dies before your eyes, you see something. You feel a gentle breeze on your cheek or hear a soft whisper in your ear. I have seen death. So much of it. To those who haven’t, I can tell you now that they are all lies:
Nothing happens. Nothing at all. Nothing but gone-ness. Nothing but dead. Nothing except your heart being ripped into thousands of little pieces- repeatedly smashed, glued back together, and broken again.
Each time a heart breaks and mends itself, there will always be a few pieces missing. That’s true with anything. If you break a vase, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to get each piece back in the way it was. And even if you did, it wouldn’t be the same.
It wouldn’t be the same.
I buried my head in his shoulder, throwing my arms around his neck- waiting for him to rest his chin on the crown of my head and return my embrace, telling me that it was going to be okay. Kiss me on my forehead, Benji, call me blackbird one more time.
“Benjamin! It’s okay… You can wake up now! WAKE UP! I need you! Goddamnit, Benji, you promised me! You bastard, you promised!”
The murmurs of the other prisoners as they acknowledged that another one had died floated up, wafting up through the ceiling like fog. They didn’t care.
Nothing cared in concentration camps.
I cried and cried. Quietly, but I cried as hard as I ever have. So hard that my ribs felt as if they were shattering, my lungs puncturing, deflating, their will to keep breathing leaving me alone with the corpse of the boy who was my last hope.
I remember Daniel trying to tear me away from him. I remember screaming, “Don’t! You’ll wake him up!”
He was holding me, crying quietly, too, telling me to hush through his sobs, telling me that the soldiers would hurt me if I kept shouting, that Benjamin wasn’t going to wake up.
I didn't care. Not anymore. My paper star had blown away.
…We were liberated the following morning."
Art, characters, writing (c) me
Image size
1159x720px 1.16 MB
© 2011 - 2024 HennaFaunway
Comments111
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The picture is touching. The awesome (extremely well written) writing is EVEN MORE touching.
My mother (and my everything) died, so normally, when reading about deaths, I'm the one closing up, commenting about how the character should stop whining or about how unrealistic it is. But this feels real. Holding on to the last hope while knowing the situation is hopeless...
Tell me when the book is published, I want to buy it ^^
My mother (and my everything) died, so normally, when reading about deaths, I'm the one closing up, commenting about how the character should stop whining or about how unrealistic it is. But this feels real. Holding on to the last hope while knowing the situation is hopeless...
Tell me when the book is published, I want to buy it ^^