Finch.

“I know you love her Nick, but why is that a reason to leave me?”
That is what Benjamin is asking me. My first real relationship with a boy. An older boy. And though I’d told him about how Eleanor got on the bus, he didn’t see. He didn’t know I’d dedicate my life to her. For this I was sad. But not now.
“You’re leaving state anyway. Your year off is almost up. You’ll leave Chicago and go to Colorado like you planned. You need to leave. It’s better for us to just leave now,” I say. His short blond hair is sticking up. His brown eyes searching for something in my face. The nineteen year old is struggling and I simply can’t help him.
“But don’t you get it?” Ben says.
“Get what?”
“I love you.”

So many men and women have told me that, that now if I hear it, it’s some excuse. It isn’t truth. I ignore it. I can’t discover which is worse and which is better. When a woman tells me, or when a man tells me. I suppose it shouldn’t matter. I think it might be worse if it’s a woman, because they all remind me of Birdie. And then I just leave. And all the men remind me of Ben. But leaving him was always a choice, so it hurts a lot less.
I watch Louis, our second guitarist head to the kitchen, and William follows closely. He doesn’t look at me. I assume Jacob, our dirty haired drummer is outside smoking.
Birdie is saying hello to them all timidly, and William is exceptionally kind to her, smiling even. This is new for him. I wonder if he hates her, or if he is actually doing okay now.

“Elle, remember Ben?” I am asking, and I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because even after all this time, I still feel depressed when the thought of him enters my head.
“Benny Greene?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, he was lovely,” Eleanor whispers.
“Yes he was.”
“It’s a shame, what happened to him. Benny, Benny. Little Benny.”

I am looking for Benjamin. He left my house two days ago and then I never talked to him. I ring the bell at his loft, but he isn’t answering. I decide to take my own key out of my pocket. I unlock the door and head up stairs.
One stair, three, six, twelve, twenty stairs.
“Ben?” I call out. It’s completely silent. Too silent. I’m a bit worried. I call his name again. Is he out? No, no, because I see his keys lying on the kitchen counter. I pace the room, then head to the bedroom. I’ve been in that bedroom with him many times. I know the feel of the sheets. I sit down on the bed. I call out his name again.
Heart racing. Bump, bump, bump. I’m too young for this.
What is that dripping?
I walk to the bathroom, where the light is on and the door is just cracked. I can’t do it, but I force it. I force the door open, and it slowly creaks open. And then I can’t make a noise, but I let out a choke.
“Ben…” I whisper.
Ben is not Ben. Ben is dead. He’s in a blood filled bathtub, and his wrists. There are marks on his wrists that I cannot stand to look at.
And then I am making all these strange noises I can’t decipher. I vomit on a white tile floor. My back is against the wall and I simply fall against it and slide down it. I see a note, but I can’t read it yet. I’m so afraid it will say my name on it.

The note did say my name on it.
“It is a shame,” I agree.