1)
"Why didn't you tell me?"
He wouldn't meet my gaze or respond.
"Benjamin!"
"I'm sorry!" he blurted. "I assumed you knew!"
I snorted. "Bollocks, nobody tells me anything. Why ever would you think that my mother would tell her own daughter squat?"
We were in the attic and I had cornered him against the far wall—I was fed up with not knowing and being treated like a child, and Benjamin was practically cowering from the vehemence of my ire.
"I already told you I was sorry!" he cried out. "What else do you want me to say, Sara?"
"So you're trying to tell me that during all the hours we've spent together, you never once thought to mention that Aunt Jo was trying to smuggle you out of the goddamn country? I thought we were supposed to tell each other things—communicate our feelings; that's what friends do! But instead you go slinking about, keeping secrets from me, just like everyone else!" I cried out.
"Believe it or not, Sara, the world does not revolve around you," he shoots back, plucking up his courage. "Perhaps I didn't tell you because I wanted some sense of comfort and normalcy in my life for the first time in, what, four years? I don't think that's a great deal to ask for! This is the first time I've felt even remotely safe since I can remember, but even now I have this constant fear following me around everywhere I go. You want me to tell you my feelings, Sara? Fine! Do you know what it's like to be invisible? Do you understand how it feels to be buried and suffocated by constant prejudice and isolation? According to the world, I do not exist—I have no identity or future to speak of. Sometimes I find myself awoken at night with this crippling fear that they're right—that I am nothing. When people tell you something enough, you start to believe it. I've lost count of all the times that I've sat on my bed and whispered my name out loud just so I can convince myself that I won't disappear." His chest was rising and falling rapidly, and I was frightened that he would go into hysterics. "Even in this place, even with you and your sister and your parents for company, I feel alone because, like as not, I'm not one of you. I can't be, not when these lines have been so clearly drawn. I want to be so much—I want a family again, but I don't belong here because I'm a danger and a burden to you. So no, I didn't tell you about England, and I'm sorry if I've made you feel foolish and inconsequential, Sara—but yours aren't the only feelings that matter."
I felt guilt stab at the corner of my stomach, but the anger was still present. "I'm sorry that you feel that way, but it's no excuse to keep something like this from me-"
"Why are you being so selfish? If you're so cross at me, then you should be glad that I'm going!" He suddenly bit his lip, shamefaced. "I… I…I'm sorry, I didn't mean it…"
I didn't hear the rest, though, because I had lit down the attic ladder and into my room; I slammed the door, fell on my bed, and tried not to cry. What I didn't know was that Benjamin was leaning against the wall right above me, pressing his forehead against the wood, cursing himself for loosing the words he wanted to say, the words he had wanted to say for so very long:
I don't want to leave you, either.
2)
I gave his shoulder a small punch, but he caught my fist neatly in the small of his hand before my knuckles reached his sleeve. I felt another of those odd tingles rush through my body as we touched and I quickly drew away. I shut the feeling off and got to my feet, opening the window for fresh air: the sky was getting darker, purple painting over the pale blue. Benjamin got up, stood beside me, and together we quietly watched the world go dark.
"I have a question," I found myself saying. "About the other day. When we fought."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Are you happy here?"
Benjamin turned to me, his eyes strangely bright in the gathering dark. "Of course I am, Sara. Happier than I've been for a long time."
"But you're sad, too. I see it in your face sometimes," I explained. "What you told me about feeling so alone just proves it."
He sighed and looked away slightly. "It's hard to explain. It's as if every time I'm happy, my mind gives me a hundred reasons why I shouldn't be."
"So you don't want to be happy?"
"I want to be happy more than almost anything in the world. But my whole existence is a contradiction. My brain sabotages me again and again. Right now, though, I am happy, honestly. It sneaks up on me. And I don't want to be sad. I don't like being sad at all and I don't think that it does me any good. It's just that I've seen things that I wish I hadn't, lost people who could've been saved and watched as all the things I thought I knew about world crumbled away between my fingers. It just makes me feel as if I've been cheated."
"Out of what?"
"A normal childhood? A loving family? My innocence? I don't know. That's the thing. I don't want to be ungrateful. But I am, and it makes me feel terrible. That's life, though: it's this never-ending cycle of happiness and guilt and maybe, if you're lucky, a little bit of redemption."
