and rubbing my shoulders and she said that I should join them. I wanted to slap that bitch for even fuckin’ saying it but the fuckin’ shoulder rub felt so good. So anyways, I did, and we are all now in the bed, fuckin’ and stuff. So my buddy starts rubbin’ my back and shit, and then I’m like ‘what the fuck, I ain’t gay you fuckin’ faggot’. So I says to him get your fuckin’ hands off me or I’m gonna punch you in the fuckin’ eye, right? But he says I should just go with it, and I’m like no fuckin’ way, no fuckin’ way. But anyways, he’s fuckin’ me in the ass and I’m like not okay with this, but I’m pushing back and shit, trying to prove to this asshole I ain’t gay, and he and I start meeting up on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I’m still trying to tell this motherfucker I ain’t gay, but he’s insisting on all this fucking shit, I realize that he’s got some kind of faggot spell on me, like he’s got me in some fuckin’ trance and it’s giving me anxiety and shit. So I started coming here, and now I can control the anxiety and I don’t have the problem with that asshole anymore.”
The people in the group kept eating, some nodded without looking up from their food.
“I never get tired of that story,” said Tom.
“Thanks for telling us that again, Grant,” said Sylvia, “very generous.”
After hearing that, and seeing no reaction from the group, I knew I was home. I could be honest.
“Greg,” said Sylvia, “are you feeling comfortable enough that you want to share with us. Tell us what brought you here?”
“I’m a murderer.”
The group immediately stopped eating and stared. A couple of people dropped their chopsticks on their plates. The woman close to me held her spiderweb of rice noodles between her sticks, it hovered in front her mouth without any sign of going in. I realized I had misspoke.
“Wait, no. I’m not a murderer. I said that wrong.”
A few of them relaxed.
“I killed a man…um…I killed a man…with…”
Sylvia spoke up. “Well, Greg, why don’t you tell us the story so we can understand what you mean?”
“I killed a man with my negligence.”
“So you feel responsible for an accident?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do, Greg?”
“I work as a traffic reporter and I didn’t tell a man about a car in his way. He died because I wasn’t doing my job.”
A couple of people’s hands went to their mouths.
Tom held up a hand. “Was it a bad crash?”
“Well, someone died, but it wasn’t the worst I have ever seen. The really bad ones are when people are trapped in a burning car. That’s the worst. The firefighters can’t even break you out of the car. If they break the window, oxygen will rush into the car and the explosion could risk everyone around. They just have to wait. The people who drive around the scene say they can’t forget the sound of hands slapping against the windows of the burning car for at least a couple of weeks after that.”
I looked up from the table. All of them had their mouths hanging open. One person had left.
Sylvia cleared her throat, “So…um…you have been feeling anxiety…since this crash you feel responsible for?”
“I always feel anxiety but now I see the ghost of the driver. He appears to me covered in blood with chunks of meat missing from him. He appears standing in a large pool of blood and screams at me. He says that I was responsible for what happened to him.”
I looked up again. Half of the group was gone. Tom was getting up from his chair. “That’s really too bad, Greg,” he said as he threw a few dollars down on the table and hurried away.
The few group members that were still there stared at me for a few seconds more before also getting up and walking out. Only Sylvia remained at the table and she was writing something down. She tore a paper from her notebook and handed it to me.
“You need one on one help,” she said, “call me at this