02. Love

I'm afraid that I may never understand someone like Ben. The sheer purity of his love for Charlotte is both inspiring and disheartening. I'm afraid that, were she responsive, she wouldn't be able to love him as he deserves. Maybe, in some twisted sense, that is the reason for the current state of things.

Charles knocked on the manor door with a heavy heart. "Ben?" He called. "Ben, it's Charles. Please let me in!"

After a few moments, Charles hung propriety and let himself in. He found Ben in his study alone with his thoughts and an empty bottle of liquor. His eyes were red and bleary, whether from the alcohol or his recent loss, Charles couldn't be sure. He assumed it was both.

In the year that he had known Ben, Charles had never once seen him drink or appear disheveled. He was always proper to a fault, clean cut, and cheerful. Charles couldn't say that any of those three were true of him at the moment.

He stopped in the doorway and stared at his closest friend completely at a loss for what to say. "Ben. . ." He started, but found nothing more to add. He walked into the study and sat in one of the plush armchairs, waiting for the other man to register that he knew he had even entered the room.

"I'm going to see Charlotte today, Charles. It's been over two years. Two years, my friend. Can you believe that? Two years apart and she's been faithful. You know, she didn't even know if I'd make it home in one piece and she still waited for me. That's love, if I've ever seen it. I'm a lucky, lucky man." Ben looked up at Charles with a glimmer in his eyes and a smile on his now-ruddy face. "I haven't sent word that I'm coming home. I think I'd like to surprise her. Do you suppose that's wise?"

Charles swallowed the lump in his throat as he replied, "Yes, Ben. It's very romantic. She'll. . . She'll love it. She loves you, after all." The role he was playing stung him deeply. Since Charlotte's death one week ago, he had been replaying the same day in his mind endlessly--the day he came home from the war and found Charlotte in a vegetative state. That had been five years prior to the day Charles met Ben.

Ben had never let go of her. At great personal expense, he had moved her into his manor, kept a doctor on call at all times, and had personally seen to her every need. For the better part of six years, Ben had kept up hope where others could not. He'd been waiting for a miracle, but hadn't received what he'd expected. Instead, he got extra time with her, he said.

It pained Charles to see the cheerful way that he had always said those words. He had been sincerely grateful for the Charlotte he had come home to. Charles had never quite understood why. He figured that he never would.

And now, she was gone.

Unable to view the scene any longer, Charles excused himself and went home, swallowing his tears and praying silently for the strength to help his friend. He wasn't sure where he would find it, but he was sure that if he sought it diligently it would come.

He stared, not for the first time, at the letter he had found while going through Charlotte's possessions after the funeral. Again, Charles sobbed as he read the letters words and thought of his dear friend, Ben. He had never known Charlotte, but after reading the contents of her unsent letter to Ben, he knew all he would ever need to know: Charlotte hadn't waited for him.

She had, in fact, become all but engaged in his absence--a state that, sadly, only ended after the accident that led to her comatose state. Her betrothed had left her side shortly thereafter; he hadn't cared much for a veritable vegetable, it turned out. Charles hadn't yet had the heart to tell Ben.

He had, however, resolved to make the truth known to him at their next meeting. It only seemed right.

Maybe it was too little, too late; Ben's manor was naught but ashes the very next day.

C.R.E.