Okay, while this was inspired by GC's song, the guy in the story (Ben/Benj) ISN'T Benji...not unless you want him to be...I just like the name Benjamin, and those are nicknames for it. And the narrator can be anyone you want. So you can read it as a het story, slash story, just a couple of friends, or, if you're really intent on the guy being Benji, you can have the narrator be a member of GC, or whomever the hell else you can think of... :)
"And we all bleed the same way that you do/ And we all have the same things to go through/ Hold on, if you feel like letting go/ Hold on, it gets better than you know..." Good Charlotte, "Hold On"
I was so tempted to go running up the stairs to find Ben, but
something made me creep up them quietly. Maybe it was the fact that the
silence was so deafening in the house that I didn't want to disturb it,
or maybe it was the eerie stillness that threatened to lash out at me
if I broke it.
I couldn't find Ben at first, but then a muffled burst of punk
music from his bedroom door easily led me to where he was at. I,
unfortunately, was not prepared for what I was about to witness.
Because of the music, he didn't hear me coming, and I couldn't
force myself to move from where I had stopped in my tracks against the
banister. He held a steak knife in his hand and he looked like he was
slowly studying it as the light glinted off the silver handle.
I knew he wasn't going to slit his wrists when he dragged it
lightly along his forearm, halfway in between his elbow and his wrist.
A short, experimental scratch, first, and he stopped to study it.
Obviously getting some kind of satisfaction or release from it that I
couldn't quite understand, he brought the knife back down to his skin
and tried again. I couldn't see how bad it was this time. I couldn't
see any blood...yet.
I was still frozen in position, part of me screaming for me to
stop him, and part of me just wanting to not interrupt something that
no one was supposed to find out about. Even as important as we were to
each other, we still had our secrets. This was one of them.
He was still slowly cutting away at the skin on his forearm,
each time getting bolder...spending more time dragging the knife along
his skin with more pressure. I finally saw blood on the knife after
watching him for five minutes. Drops of red were dripping off his arm
onto the wood floor of his bedroom. I could see him cringe at the sight
of the blood on the knife as he dropped it on his dresser and clapped
his free hand over his bleeding arm. His fingers came away bloody,
smeared all over his hand and his arm. He turned around, and I realized
that I was right in his line of sight.
His eyes flashed with fear, shame, and anger as he opened his
mouth to try to come up with a pointless excuse. His eyes were wet from
tears that had leaked out from the pain he had been inflicting on
himself as a demonstration of frustration with life and the world. I
could see his arm clearly now, smeared with dark red blood from elbow
to wrist, courtesy of the gruesome, self-inflicted marks.
"Benj..." I started. "Don't try to cover it up. I saw it all.
I'm not mad."
"Fuck you. I don't give a fuck if you're not mad. I don't give
a fuck if you are. This is my fucking business and I don't need you, of
all people, the person I trust the most, to go drag me off to a fucking
shrink." His anger seemed to fade as quickly as it had appeared, and he
continued, hesitantly, "Don't be disappointed in me...god, of all
people...don't look at me like that. Don't pity me...just..." At that
point, his tears were falling so freely that he couldn't talk without
it being incomprehensible.
My heart broke at the sight of him breaking down in the
hallway, leaning against the wall, his dark hair plastered to his
forehead with sweat and blood still dripping from his arm. "Benj...no,
I'm not disappointed. God, don't think that. Come on, let's get your
arm bandaged." I led him to the bathroom, where he sat on the toilet
seat and let me clean the cuts and put a band-aid over the worst of the
"Ben, look at me. Please."
He looked up, his dark eyes empty, something so scary that I
knew I wanted to prevent him from ever having that look in them again.
I rolled up the sleeve of my shirt and showed him scars on my arm that
had faded into almost nothing. "Benj...I just have one point to make to
you. This was a year ago, when these scars were fresh cuts, when we
were seventeen. We all hit bottom at one point, we all have something
that just breaks us like nothing else. But it's the same for everyone.
Everyone goes through it, no matter how much they all seem to have it
together. Everyone has their dark side. And most of us get through it.
For most of us, life gets so much better, gets so much more worth
living. You just have to get there without ending it. I know you've
been through hell...I have, too. You'll make it, you're strong. I know
He slid off the toilet seat into my arms, where I just let him
sit and rest his head on my chest for a little bit. I slid my hand
through his hair and tightened my hold on his waist, resting my cheek
on the top of his head. "I love you, Ben," I said, softly. "Even if you
think no one cares, just make yourself remember that I always will.
Just...hold on for awhile. Things will get so much better for you."
"God, I love you too. Thank you," he whispered back, sighing,
and leaning into me a little more.
Okay, so I was at a Good Charlotte concert yesterday and as the intro to "Hold On", Benji said, "We're not a very serious band. We're not serious about a lot of things, but one thing we are serious about is suicide." And he went on to introduce "Hold On" and said something to the effect of, "This is for all of you who feel like you can't go on, but I just want you to know that things get so much better and that we don't want to see you go." So, I was thinking about that, and this little story came about. Kinda depressing, I know, but...hey...