You can feel it, you can tell without even looking that there's something wrong, wrong, wrong. God, it was so much easier before when everything was black and white and the rules made sense because there are some things people should never do and why not lay down the law. You can't hold your breath forever and you can't keep turning your face away so everything, that whole big fucking mess, is just a distant shady area in your peripheral vision.

You look back at old pictures, when everyone was smiling and desperately short in a way that you can't actually ever remember being. There's something about those pictures, and not in the mismatched, brightly colored clothing, but in the look in everyone's eyes, there's that look of complete and utter innocence, a happiness that resonates from the pictures so strongly that you can almost feel it in your finger tips. It makes you think, for a second, for one long heart-wrenching moment of the way things are now. You can't help but think of Melissa, with strands of her long blonde hair woven tightly into her fingers and the thin line of her lips as she asks "What's the catch?" every time someone, anyone, offers to do her a favor. Nothing is free anymore, you can hang a price, now, even on intangible things that you used to give away, just throw into the breeze until someone plucked them from the air.

Its got to get better. You say this every year, and you imagine that you are on the horizon of it, of that better life, every time a monumental moment creeps up behind you. But its never there, and its always the same just with a different background and unfamiliar faces. You began, a long time ago, by plotting out your life carefully, assured by the results in books, in people's faces, and everywhere you turned that there was something out there for you. A destiny you could catch and hold in the palm of your hand. And then things change. You look more closely into their eyes, of the people you meet, and you don't see anything, just a misery bourne of waiting for life to begin only to realize that it never does.

You make yourself look, now, stare at the disaster that has spilled around you and seeped into your, life poisoning everything that it has touched. You bite your tongue, to keep yourself from thinking, until a metallic taste fills your mouth and you know without a doubt that you are bleeding a thin, fine river clouded with something you never wanted to believe in.

You're staring at Ben. You can't help it, because maybe he isn't the disaster, but you know with a certainty that pulsates painfully through your body, that he was there at the beginning and even if he didn't create this he sure as hell didn't stop it either. You wish you could see through him or better yet, into him. With time, we've each created a shell, a perfect replica of who we are, excluding the damning realities, and we live quite comfortably in them safe with the knowledge that no one will ever quite know the truth.

There was a time, you can almost remember, when everyone was an open book. Facial expressions told the story better than the stumbling words of youth. You learn to control your face and you learn the perfect inflection of your voice that sings out that you are being honest even when there is something darker beneath it.

Your heart begins racing a little too fast for comfort when you realize Ben is staring right back at you. He's sprawled on the couch, but he's positioned in a way that his shoes don't touch the fabric. We've changed, but some of the rules that were ingrained into our minds remain and it hurts to think that Ben is capable of so much destruction and yet knows better than to get dirt on the furniture.

His eyes are wide, they always have been, and when you were just kids on the same block, you used to laughingly compare him to the Tootsie Pop owl and taunt him with phrases like "How many licks to the center of a Tootsie Pop?" and maybe he would hoot back at you or sometimes just steal your candy when you weren't looking. His eyes are different now. You know him well enough to tell that he's mad, maybe madder than you've ever seen him before. There's a darkness that never goes away and you can see now that instead of the fake florescent light that sometimes shines from within his eyes, his temper is like an endless black cloak that wraps around the usual lies and half truths that lurk in his eyes.

There's an ache somewhere deep inside of you, but you can't tell where its coming from and you know enough now that there is no cure to stop it. There are two distinct and warring images in your mind and there isn't enough energy inside of you to fight them. You can clearly see yourself getting up and walking over to Ben in both images, but in the first, you take the palm of your hand and you carefully place it over his nose and mouth until nothing can escape into him or out of him. In the second, you climb right on top of him, a knee on either side of his hips and place your mouth to the spot where his neck meets his collarbone. A voice inside of you tauntingly reminds you that maybe both of those scenes have happened before. You never wanted to believe that you were a part of this, but guilt by association doesn't even cut it in your mind.

You close your eyes and place your head between your knees. You've been sitting on the ground all morning and as your hands come up to clasp around your legs, you can feel the intricate pattern of Ben's carpet imprinted into your flesh. God, you just want to scream because somehow, Ben is always there, trying to get under your skin, inside of you until maybe no one could tell where he began and you ended.

There's a ghost of a touch on the side of your leg and you choke on a gasp to make this go away. The touch increases until you can tell that it's a hand, rubbing up and down, attempting to sooth and probably make you forget that anything out of the ordinary has happened. There's a primal urge, a driving force rewiring your mind until all you can think of is beating at Ben with your hands until he is the person you remember him being. Or maybe its just the person you wish he were. Your nails bite into the undersides of your thighs until you're sure there will be half moon scares there forever, telling the story that you swore you would never repeat. "Hey, come on, don't do that. You're hurting yourself" a pleading voice urges you to stop and it almost shocks you when you realize that its Ben telling you to stop because what difference does it really make? He never was careful with you before so why should he care what you do to yourself, especially when it will never compare to what he has done.

He's scooping you up, reworking your limbs until he is holding both of your wrists in just one of his hands while the rest of your body is settled in the warmth of his legs. You don't fight, you never have, and you hate yourself just a little for being so weak. There are calming words whispered into your ear, but you can't quite pick out there meaning. Ben's trying, you know he is, but that ship has sailed and its too late to ever call it back.

Ben leans forward to place a kiss on the top of your head, and he says something into your hair but he's speaking so quietly you can't even hear the murmur of his voice, but you can feel the soft movements of his mouth. You feel a shiver creep up through your body because you never will know if what he said was a simple reassurance or an admission to something no one will ever hear.

You can hear voices now, soft and laughing, and you don't even have to be told to know that Jack and Megan are upstairs doing stuff that you would rather not even think about right now. You have never understood how Jack can always be there when needed, blank faced and grim, nonjudgmental of the situation. Ben is the golden boy, and apparently always remain that way, outliving the rest of us, lurking in someone's memory.

Its strange to think that you have been staying at Ben's house and that everybody else makes appearances so often, they might as well be living there too. Its almost a joke to you, to think of all these grown people living under the same roof, all pretending to be in their own perfect bubble of a world when life will never actually mirror that fantasy. It's a choking, deafening feeling to live like this, trapped between anything resembling reality.

When you were younger, you were positive that you were going to be a firewoman or maybe a detective. It was simpler when you thought in terms of 'when I grow up...' and made a whole list of unattainable objects to enhance your future life. You remember a dizzying amount of dresses, pools, and mansions and all the fantasies ended with a husband, usually resembling your Ken doll. That fantasy life has morphed into a mirage of light and color that spin around in your mind until sometimes you don't even want to imagine life going on in this way. Or in any way at all.

You want to tell Ben that you need to get out of here, away from him, away from all these memories that just won't ever stop. You lean back into him until your head is resting lightly on his chest, and you can faintly hear his heart beat. It scares you, and you stop breathing for a moment, when you realize your heart and his are beating together. You think of dead bodies hanging from rafters to scare yourself, knowing that your heart will begin to race and lose whatever connection his has with yours.

There's a memory, that you think of often, involving you and Melissa talking in her bedroom. She had been hollowed eyed and scared that day, and in that low, whispering voice of her's she asked you if you thought that sometimes your soul mate died before you ever got a chance to love them. Melissa was a romantic and you knew her fears were the aftermath of Charlie, a boy who was a grade above you and had died that week after crashing his car into a tree. You and Melissa talked for hours about your theories on soul mates, and maybe how it was possible to never meet your's or for a person to just not have one. Although Melissa never resolved her fears of never being loved, you both agreed every person has to love another person and that no one can help who they love, even when the love is not returned.

It scares you now, more than you would like to admit. Growing up, everyone, teachers, your parents, Ben's grandfather all predicted that you and Ben would be eternal, soul mates even. You held hands with him and he made promises you know now that maybe no one can ever really keep. You want to rip the feeling right out of your chest, because you know that maybe Ben is the person you were destined to love and no matter how much you see or what you know, you will always love him. It's a gut wrenching thought that makes your stomach tighten and your head pound. In his own way, you are pretty sure, he loves you too. This makes you want to press your face back into the cradle of your knees until the world just decays away into a mass of cobwebs and love is just a fading memory.

Ben is still there, holding you, and his arms tighten around you and he rocks you back and forth. Its strange, but it reminds you of the first time you parked with him one summer, the way he kept looking up into your face as if to ask permission before taking things one step farther. His hands had rested, hot and slightly rough on your stomach while he asked "Is this okay?" while his finger tips just brushed the edge of your bra. There was something about his face when you had your hand down his pants and in the way he said "C'mon, oh fuck" in a voice you had never heard and it made you feel full inside to know that someone wanted you this badly. You turn your head slightly towards Ben, and you try to formulate several words to say to him, to ask him if he remembered that time in early August. Things would be so much easier if you could go back to that time.

There's a noise, a loud banging noise and you see a flash of red from the corner of your eye. Your immediate reaction is to pull away and duck, but Ben is stronger than you, always has been, and he keeps you anchored in place. He doesn't laugh, but he makes an amused sound in the back of his throat and you realize it was just Jack jumping down the stairs to the landing. Megan walks gracefully down the stairs and puts on a show as her dress swishes around her knees. They both act as if they hadn't just been fucking upstairs and you think they should feel just a little bit of shame or embarrassment and not be flaunting around downstairs. Jack calls over his shoulder that they're going to some benefit concert at the park and to not wait up and you secretly hope that they go back to their apartment and leave this house alone for a while. Megan stares at Ben and you for a moment, then shakes her head, muttering something about how you're crazy kids.

After you hear the door slam, Ben lowers his face into your neck and breaths gently onto your skin. "I'm sorry" he says "about earlier" and he licks a clean line from your jaw to your collarbone because you've always liked that. You get up, and stretch, your legs slightly cramped from sitting all day. You hold hands with him and go upstairs and you know things are never going to change and the apologies will just keep on coming. You hear your mother's voice, telling you that you should be happy, because Ben never lays a hand on you like your father did to your mother. Sometimes the pain that Ben causes you is worse, but you know without a doubt that you are trapped into this love. You take your summer dress off, and lay it neatly on the chair next to the bed and smile up at him. You already know that it never gets better.