Broken People Read Online Free PDF

answered the door, handed me a poem, and shut the door. I never recovered from that loss. I probably never will. Survivors of suicide are often consumed with guilt for not being able to prevent the suicide, and I was no exception.
    “She left this for you,” h er father said, handing me a folded sheet of paper.
    “Where is she,” I asked.
    “She’s gone. Suicide. While you were away,” he said. And he shut the door.
    Suicide is tough to digest, and all of those exposed are affected. I didn’t want anyone to ever feel the pain and loss that I felt. Dealing with natural death is difficult, but eventually, we all recover. Suicide passes the pain from the victim to the survivors, and that pain, to the survivors, lasts a lifetime. A lifetime of trying to make sense of something that never will.
    A recent series of problems with Shellie’s family and her boyfriend had prompted her initial email to me. She had felt alone and as if she did not know where her life was headed. Not that any sixteen year old knows where her life is headed, but she was worried. Typically when I assisted people over the internet, I requested a personal photo shortly after the initial correspondence. I was surprised at what her photo depicted. I deduced the photo was taken in the winter, as the trees were without leaves, and the people posing with her were wearing sweaters. She appeared to be a hundred pounds at best. She wouldn’t give me her weight, but that was my educated guess. She said she was five foot seven, and for sixteen years old, she was tall. She had a dark complexion, and smooth skin. She was, or would certainly be , gorgeous. The people posing with her were school mates, and they truly looked worried. My initial surprise came from the worry. The worry on the faces of the two people in the picture, standing next to the otherwise beautiful waif, was the same. It appeared to be genuine and not some form of theatrical pose. They were sending a message.
    Help. This. Girl.
    Few people were ever allowed to know the extent of my ability, but since I was a child, I had an ability to look at someone, and see inside of them. See who they were. Not what they are, but who . The sum of their character defects, character traits, strengths, and weaknesses all rolled up into what appeared to be, to the layman, a normal human being.
    Define normal.
    I wasn’t always capable of performing the “trick” as many called it, with just anyone. Some people I could “read“, and yet others I could not. It was not uncommon for me to mentally critique people as they walked into or through a restaurant or as they walked into the coffee shop. This gift allowed me to categorize people as I met them, and often prevented me from allowing myself to meet someone that wasn’t necessarily appealing to me.
    I allowed few people into my world, and tried to maintain that posture. I had no part-time friends, only full-time friends, as I called them. If someone stopped talking to me, communicating with me, or caring about me, I deleted them from my address book entirely. It wasn’t uncommon for me to receive a rambling text message from an unidentified number that included two or three well phrased paragraphs, to only have me respond, “Who the fuck are you” I always made a big issue, right then and there, about them being excluded from my life. They knew the rules coming in. If they couldn’t live up to their end of the bargain, they were out. Kaput. Gone. Sayonara. Bye. “Yes, this is Fat Kid, and you are excluded from my life. You aren’t allowed to speak to me any longer. You made this decision, I didn’t. Good bye. Do not text me or call again….”
    Shellie had not, for fear of exposure, told me where she lived, but it was obvious that the location had definite seasons. Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter. Her physical location was not important, but I always wondered . I needed details in order for things to make sense in my head. The more details, the better