It was one of those unfathomable evenings you normally would get in Chicago. From my apartment window I didn't get the best view, but the kind at least people could accept. You could see the next building across the street and in the background a classy purple color painted on the horizon of the sky. I was almost tempted to reach out through the glass protecting me from the cars below, and grab hold of forever. At that moment I needed forever, the pressure of everything was crashing on me, I don't even know why I even bothered to call, why would this time be anymore different than the others? Making contact with my father isn't so simple anymore, asking the secretary nicely is one step, and then when he answers the phone is when it hits me.

"Why the fuck are you calling me faggot? I told you last time to stay the hell away from me." Always the same open, loving hello that rips through my stomach, it's this that lets me know, somewhere deep in there, wherever it was, he cares about me. I usually try to reason with him, imitating the same husky voice of his as my own, but this day I didn't want to sit and wait for it any more. I rest the phone back onto the receiver and breathe in a deep sigh.

Now I'm here in a vacant apartment, boxes waiting to be opened and unpacked, and dishes piling high in the sink. I'm here staring into forever dying to get a hold of it and to fight back the tears I hesitate to let loose. For a change though I couldn't seem to brush it off, usually I think to myself that my father is sick and he's just seeking help, he'll get through it and it'll be the same way a father-son relationship would always be. This time however, it grabbed my attention just like the sunset would take people away from troubles; this time told me it wasn't him it was me, I took my father's boredom and alcohol intakes and turned it to hatred. I took over his mind just like a parent's would be taken by their child, and it was something I did to turn that love into anger, I took his time from him when he felt alone himself. That was how my father loved me, breaking the inside as well as the outside of me.

I remember every night at age 15 when I wished and begged for a way out of it, anyway out. I even specifically remember a knife on the counter and slicing through my wrists like you would butter and collapsing, in tears, blood, and relief. I remember waking up in the hospital to a worried mother, a brother who's always there and a father not attending. It took me forever in the group therapies, separate therapy, and living in a room sanded down from over-protective nurses so that no one can get hold of something considered sharp. I remember the California beaches and stores right outside my window and the bones broken from twisted sanity So why was this time different? My father can't harm me from the distance and securities between us, I guess each week I try calling it hits me a little bit harder than the last. What made me want to crawl back into my faded covers, pull them up to eyes and stare out into the dangerous open?

That is when I call you, you who I found at a difficult period in my life, you who happened to be in the same club the night I was, you who comforted me the second you noticed I was a mess and not into the music at all.

"Hey Jeffrey, what's up my little buddy?" Always the same open, loving hello that holds together my ripped, tattered stomach, it's that which lets me know you care about me. The silence you leave, urges me to pour everything, every thought, every piece of me that hurts, and every part of me looking for protection into you. I want to tell you about it all, but when my mouth opens, I'm unsure how to say it. You notice my lack of words almost as if it was a second nature to you; ask for me to come over to your place so we could talk and without a slight second of thinking I hang up and grab my coat, not even leaving you with an answer. I walk down the steps of the rusty apartment complex, out the door of the entrance and call the nearest taxi I can spot from the cluttered roads. After a slow 10 minute drive I'm at your door knocking desperately. Not even a second passes and already I'm impatient, I know it was rude, but I didn't want to be alone anymore, I wanted someone right there with me. I grab the key under your welcome mat and stab it hard into the lock; I kick the door in and remember searching frantically for you. You were in the kitchen deciding on something to satisfy your thirst and surprised you jump a little at the sight of me.

My hair was not brushed and my scarf looked tied hurriedly around my neck. Everything about me was a mess and you seemed to notice immediately. You take 3 hesitant steps toward me ignoring the refrigerator door hanging wide open. It looked as if you were afraid to touch me, but I needed you too, I wanted you to hold me tight for hours, I wanted to be with you and no one else. I'm not sure if you figured it out by then that I was falling in love with you hard Adam, though some part of me didn't really care if you hadn't felt the same. All I wanted was you in my life a part of me whether friend or boyfriend I didn't care, I just want you.

At that I closed the space between us hanging my weight onto your skinny frame, you stumble back a little then gather your strength to drag me to the couch. You sat me down and went back into your kitchen to close the door. When you came back you hand me a beer and you take yours, I scoot closer towards you and you didn't seem to mind. We sit in silence admiring the quiet as our secret way of communication, I look up at you and it all just comes out. The conversation with my father, the hurt I felt, how the stress keeps adding up. I'm up off the couch pacing almost as if any minute a heart attack is about to happen. You stop me so that you can get in a word or two which in the end you know I won't remember, but giving a shot was the best thing you probably had over done for me.