Free Broken People by Scott Hildreth Page A

attempt at being an adult. I picked out my clothes for the day, and got dressed.
    I walked i nto the kitchen, remembering the discussion with my family from the night before. The more I thought about it, the more I didn’t want to think about it. Filled with disgust, I opened the pantry. I had intended, as always, to prepare breakfast before school. I stood and looked into the pantry. For some reason I was no longer hungry. I decided I would just go to school without eating. I turned, went to the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of water. Headed for the door I thought: Today, no breakfast.
    Fuck Oatme al.
     

Chapter 6
    She took my heart

MARC. Growing up without a father was second nature. It was not, however, easy. A collision on his way home from college took his life. He was killed instantly. He wasn’t wearing his leather jacket. My then pregnant mother cried for a year. My first recollection of realizing that I didn’t have a father was when I was four years old.
    “Why do n’t I have a father?” I asked.
    “You do have a father, Marc. He was killed in a car wreck. But. He is still your father,” my mother responded. She placed her hand on my shoulder when she spoke. I cried. I found a way to make all of that make sense in my head. That was the last time I cried. Fourteen years have passed. No tears. I do feel emotions. More than most, I imagine. Yet, no tears.
    My mother completed college, and went to work for a local hospital as a nurse. She ha s worked there my entire life, helping others. She never remarried. She loved one man. According to her, giving herself to someone else would not be fair to them, my father, or her. She could give herself, but she could not give her love, she had no heart. My father had her heart. Her love existed for one person only. She remained in love with my father.
    “I can not love your father and love someone else at the same time,” she had told me once. I do not recall my age at the time, but I was young. When I was older, maybe thirteen, we talked again. About love. She placed her hand on my shoulder. “Marc, you don’t give someone your love. They take it. Love is taken. And, when someone takes your love, you will know it. Do you understand ?” she asked. I did not understand. I nodded. She smiled. We had this discussion often. The taking of love . Last year, she placed her hand on my shoulder. She said nothing. I looked in her eyes. I was seventeen. “Yes,” I said. “ Yes what, Marc,” she responded. “Yes, I understand,” I smiled. We embraced. She smiled. It was summer. My mother. My best friend. “Yes, mother, I understand,” I said again. She smiled. Again.
    Britney took my love. The day we met. A piece of me remained. In Macy’s. I walked through the store to leave. I held the door for a family that was walking in. I looked back into the store. I watched her through the glass as she walked away from where we were standing. And as she walked away, a piece of me walked with her. She had taken my love. And yet, she was unaware.
    I started walking to the car. I thanked God for having an opportunity to meet Britney. Winter was hanging in the air. I zipped my coat, grateful for the warmth it offered me. The coat was my fathers. He believed it to be good luck. It was a Christmas gift from his father. He was not wearing it at the time of his accident. When I was sixteen, my mother gave the coat to me.
    “I want you to have this,” she said. “It was your father’s good luck charm,” she smiled.
    “I know,” I said. “I’ve been waiting, thank you. I love you mother,” I smiled.
    “I love you back,” she promised.
    I wore the coa t when I drove. Or, I placed it in the seat beside me. The coat provided me with what it could not provide my father that day. Protection.
    Outside Macy’s, I sat in my car, bewildered. Something was missing. I stuck my hand in my pocket. Nothing. I stuck my hand in my other pocket. Empty. My inner coat pocket. Void of