inserting this into the epilogue so I can ruin more lives <3
I think. That's an excellent question.
Benjamin. A boy who paints what he wants to see. A dreamer. A friend. A warm summer night on the rooftop, a hot air balloon, a sea of whispering grass backlit by a kerosene lamp and the fireflies that flickered like sparks from a bottle-rocket. A match-giver, a soft-spoken superhero, a tear-choked goodbye in the shadow of the stars. A boy who was, and will forever remain seventeen years old, who died to make his bird fly once more.
But what happened to you, Benjamin Thomas? What happened to my poor, sweet boy? What could you have done to deserve the darkness that befell you despite all of your hopeless, misguided kindness? Could it be that you were born into a world that was just not ready?
You lived your life before its time—a life meant for the pages of a beautiful book, had your story only been written! You could have been a poem, an epic: lyrical, grand, long and free. Instead, your precious world became a limerick, a sonnet—bound by syllables and parameters and lines. You were trapped within your own pages, between the front and back covers of your body and mind, of prejudice and hate, of sadness and regret, and yet you could still find happiness under all of that filth! With all of your flaws and your fears and all of the evil that surrounded you and stifled you…oh, Benjamin
, you were still beautiful. Do you hear me? You're beautiful, you gentle tower, you freckle-faced blusher, you parenthesis-smiler—oh, you sad, brilliant, damaged, beautiful boy
—how I miss you so! Who's Benjamin?
"I'll tell you someday," I say to them.