Broken People Read Online Free PDF Page A

discuss them in the next session?” She stood and slowly walked toward me, pen in hand.
    “Yes. I would prefer that. I feel cold. I am ready to leave.” I tried to hide my armpits. I still felt the br eeze of the fan. I walked toward her, meeting her half way across the office. As always, we shook hands. She watched me as I turned to walk to the door. Reaching the door, I turned back to her, smiled and waved. She smiled.
    I walked to the parking lot to get in my car, wishing we would hug at the end of the sessi ons. I would really like that, a hug. Hugs were like Coltrane’s music. Hugs healed the soul. At least for a little while, but heal they did. I bet John Coltrane hugged people. I bet he did. I straightened my pants, and looked for my car. I feared that it had been stolen. I feared calling the police more, so I continued to look. I finally found it, certain that it was parked elsewhere from where I had left it. Brain hemorrhage. I was certain.
    I drove the entire way home in a trance. I did not even remember the drive. My brain often fails. I vaguely remember thinking of Paul, and how much I liked him in the dream. He sure was a fantastic friend. I always felt guilty for feeling as if he may be gay. I always told myself it wasn’t feeling as if he were gay, it was hoping . I cherished him as a friend. He was splendid. I had very few male friends, and always felt somewhat intimidated by them. Paul was different, he would allow me to just be me, and never question me. He was a true friend. I remember once he told me, “If we can’t be ourselves, why even be?”
    I always wondered if there was an underly ing reason for that statement, if there was some hidden meaning. I had always ended up dismissing my thoughts, feeling as if it was merely hope. Hope that there was someone that could reassure me that I was normal. That this was okay, and that one day, one day, I could possibly find love. True love, from someone that appreciated me for being me.
    Me being me. The thought was laughable.
    Pulling into the driveway of the house, I came out of my trance. I knew that my parents weren’t home. Realizing that it was almost three o’clock in the afternoon, I regretted not stopping at “Cups”, the frozen yogurt place. I loved that place. The yogurt was so good. And the toppings; almonds and peanut butter cups. Sometimes, on special occasions, I would get red gummie bears. I loved almonds. My mouth watered as I pulled into the garage and parked.
    Getting out of the car, I considered getting back into the car and going to Cups for a yogurt.  Maybe Michelle and her friends would be there. She was always there on Saturday afternoons. She was so nice, so considerate, and so off limits. She was Egyptian. I often wondered if she knew I was gay. She se emed so intelligent, street-wise, and such a bitch to most that approached her. I respected her for having the guts to be an individual. She wore combat boots to school every day, and took shit from no one. Seeing her with her friends always made me comfortable. It was the way she looked at me. Her eyes were inviting. The eyes never lie.
    As I stepped up the step from the garage into the house, I stumbled. I realized that I was tired, and that a nap was my best option. As I turned the handle from the mud room door to enter the house, I thought of my father.
    God hates fags.

Chapter 3
    I’m worried about the Beaver

FAT KID . Driving home from the coffee shop, I began to think about Shellie. She had continued emailing me regarding having thoughts of suicide. She had reached a point that the pain of living life, to her, was unbearable. Her resources for coping with her pain had been exceeded by the pain itself. I had not heard from her in a few days, and was considering emailing her to see how she was doing. Feeling. Thinking.
    Threats of suicide were something I did not take lightly. In fact, I lost a girlfriend to suicide. I had gone to her house to see her one day. Her father