Reconstruction: the formation of a poetic heart
By S. J. Graham
DISCLAIMER: J.J. ABRAMS AND MATT REEVES OWN THE CHARACTERS IN
THIS STORY. THE POETRY IS MINE, HOWEVER. NO INFRINGEMENT
INTENDED. PLEASE DON'T SUE ME. I'M REALLY POOR.
"Elena, I need to talk to you."
Ben stood outside her apartment door, a pained expression marking
his
unusually handsome face. His eyes were darkened with anguish, and
yet his
mouth was set in a determined, firm line. Elena gave him a
scathing look and
rolled her eyes.
"Ben, I don't think that there's anything we have to talk
about. You nearly
destroyed my best friend. Trust me, you wouldn't want to hear
what I think
of you right now."
"But I do. I want to hear what you have to say. You're
closer to Felicity
than anybody else right now, and I need to know what to do. I
think I've
made a horrible mistake."
"Damn right, you have."
"Can you just let me in? I need to talk. Please." He
asked quietly, his
eyes intense and pleading.
She sighed. Felicity had been through so much shit because of
this immature
guy, but throughout it all, Elena knew that her friend's feelings
had
remained the same. Up until yesterday, she thought.
Felicity had called her last night, telling her about the
conversation with
Ben on the street, and how she had decided to move on with her
life because
she was sure that Ben would never be able to handle the emotions
involved in
it all. Elena had been proud of her. She realized that saying
goodbye to
Ben was probably one of the hardest things that Felicity had ever
had to do.
But it had been right. And then there was the hair thing, but
Elena had yet
to see the results of that. She couldn't wait to see her friend's
new look.
Elena motioned Ben inside with a wave of her hand and stepped
aside, "Fine.
And don't worry about Noel. He's over at the dorm helping Richard
with his
new computer. He should be gone for awhile." He headed into
the living room
and she closed the door behind him. They sat down on the long
couch and Ben
leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and pressed his warm face
into his
hands.
Elena looked at him curiously. It seemed odd for Ben to be having
this
reaction to Felicity's decision. He had given some strong
indications that
he wasn't interested in pursuing a relationship with Felicity.
And now, here
he was, sitting on her couch and looking like a Mac truck had hit
him.
"Ben, listen. Whatever you have to say, I can't guarantee
that I won't tell
Felicity. I mean, she's my best friend. There are certain things
that I
can't really keep from her."
He looked over at her, nodding, "Yeah, I realize that. But
chances are that
she might not want to hear anything about me, even if you did try
to tell
her. Right?"
"That's true." She agreed with a solemn nod.
"Anyway, what I need to say is that I think, no, I'm sure
that I've made a
big mistake. I mean, Felicity was right in calling me a
coward." He gave
her a glance, "I suppose she told you that."
"She left that part out, but I must say that I'm glad she
said it."
He nodded, "I am too, actually. I guess it sort of woke me
up." He ran his
fingers through his hair and continued in a ragged, tired voice,
"She was
completely right. And I'm not ready for a relationship. But
believe me,
when I say that I want to be. I need her, Elena."
Her eyebrows rose slightly as she looked at him.
He took a deep breath, "I can't always express myself the
way that she can.
I've just never had to. I feel like those feelings are there,
underneath.
But I have no idea how to get to them and bring them out, you
know?"
She thought about that for a minute. Guys were never very good at
expressing
themselves. Even she knew this. Noel was probably the one
exception to the
rule. But Ben, well she had never really figured him for an
emotional guy.
As she took in his appearance, though, she realized that she may
have been
wrong.
"I see what you mean. Well, have you thought about maybe
instead of talking
about it, you should write it down?"
"Write it down?"
"Yeah. I don't mean that you need to write her a letter or
anything, but
maybe just a journal or something like that. Don't put any
pressure on
yourself to be a good writer. Just write down what you're
thinking."
He smiled slightly, "I'm not really great at writing
anything."
"Try it. Maybe you'll surprise yourself. But Ben, if you
really want her,
you're going to have to reach out to her on her own level. You've
tried to
do it your way. It didn't work, and she's not going to wait
around for you.
She's determined to move on."
"I know, I know. But I have to try."
Ben sat on a bench in Central Park, staring at the blank white
page in front
of him. What could he possibly write? Writing wasn't really his
thing.
Swimming and running, now that he could do. But not this. He
crossed an
ankle over one knee and leaned his head back. He didn't know
where to start.
The park was still brightly lit by the afternoon sun, but did not
hold the
warmth that he had hoped it would on this brisk September day. It
wasn't
deserted, either. He had hoped for that as well. A few children
ran past
him, giggling cheerfully and he smiled at them.
Kids are funny, he thought to himself. They see the world as this
huge place
to simply explore and rarely let obstacles get in their way. His
eyebrows
rose quickly, and the green depths of his eyes brightened for an
instant.
The tablet on his lap seemed to glare up at him, in its stark
ivory shade.
And the pen in his hand slowly lowered to the paper. With a
trembling hand,
he started to write.
He paused for only scant moments at a time, in between long
sentences and
stared at the script before him. Then, the thoughts would come
back. Newer,
fresher and ever more important. And then the hand and pen would
return to
the paper in a greater fever of activity. He continued until dusk
began to
settle on the park, and the shadows around him had become
menacing in their
gradual growth.
Finally, he stood. Looking around, he seemed to notice things
that he'd
never really chosen to see before. He realized, as he looked at
the shape of
the trees, and the light pouring through the yellow and red
leaves that he
could write all of this down. Describe every minute detail. And
then he
smiled.
"Hey, what's up?" Julie asked Ben as she threw her
backpack down on the
sofa.
He looked up from his place at the kitchen table and closed his
notebook.
"Not too much."
She smiled, "What are you doing with that? Is it for some
class or
something? I see you writing in that thing constantly." She
settled herself
in the chair opposite his and reached out to steal a French fry
from the
cardboard McDonald's carton in front of Ben, "Mind if I have
one?"
"No, no. Go ahead." He pushed the fries towards her and
got up, taking the
journal with him.
"You didn't answer my question." She reminded him
casually, her dark eyes
fixed on him as he threw the carton from his Big Mac into the
trash can.
He turned slightly and lifted the journal to his chest, smiling
at her, "Uh,
the notebook. It's no big deal. Not really for class. Just for
me, I
guess."
"Okay, okay. Well, are you going over to Epstein's later?
I'm playing
tonight."
"Um, sure. Yeah, I've got a little more writing to do and
then I'll head
over there." He turned and headed up the stairs, his mind
racing. So many
ideas. So many words that seemed to come out of nowhere, and they
were just
begging to be put on paper.
Ben himself was stunned at the change in his direction. Writing
for his
classes was no longer a tedious chore, but a welcome relief from
the agony of
hearing a professor's lecture about history or economics, or
whatever.
Writing was his drug now. And he had even begun to keep a smaller
notebook
by his alarm clock because so often, he woke up in the middle of
the night,
needing to write down images from some strange dream.
And most of these dreams centered around a beautiful young woman
whose face
was so familiar to Ben that seeing it seemed to inspire more
words in him
than seemed humanly possible. Of course, when he awoke and began
writing,
sometimes very early in the morning, he knew that these words
would never be
spoken to her. These silly, sappy words were more for his mind
than hers.
He sat on the edge of his bed and flipped through the notebook,
feeling
rather than seeing the pages which were filled to capacity with
thoughts and
ideas that had been conceived both in recent days and long
forgotten ones.
Some were centered on his father and their tumultuous
relationship. Some
regarded his mother, and the anguish he still felt for everything
she had
been through.
But few of these hastily penned words involved his feelings for
Felicity. It
confused him that he could not conjure up a sentence to describe
her.
Describing everything else in his life had been easy, these past
few days.
He opened the journal to a fresh page and pulled his pen from the
wire ring
that bound the precious notebook together. He once again stared
at the page,
trying to develop something inside him that would inject
something of
Felicity's character onto the paper. And then he wrote a few
short words.
Then a few more under those.
Inside her burns a flame so bright,
It stuns me with its vivid light.
It rocks my restless, empty soul,
To see the brilliance in her glow.
He stopped. It was hard, to write these things. It was hard to
just think
about her. But he felt he needed to do this. Not for her. For
him, and him
alone. But where was she, he asked himself. And what would she
think of
these words he's fashioned together, produced by him and inspired
by her
spirit?
Ben closed the notebook and stood, staring at himself in the
mirror over his
dresser. There would be more, he knew. More things to write and a
hell of a
lot to think about. But would all of this make a difference to
her in the
end?
He hoped so.
THE END
STAY TUNED FOR PART 2
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