Made To Be Broken

Prologue

“When the visions around you, Bring tears to your eyes
And all that surround you, Are secrets and lies
I'll be your strength, I'll give you hope,
Keeping your faith when it's gone
The one you should call,
Was standing here all along.”

- This I Promise You,N'SYNC

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Sounds in the night mingled with the boy's dreams and he wasn't aware the noise was coming from outside his dreams until glass shattered on his bedroom floor. He jerked out of his sleep, heart pounding, ears ringing as he listened intently. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust somewhat to the darkness in the room, using the faint light of the street lamp to aid his sight.

A shadow of a figure was squeezing through his half open bedroom window. He always shoved a stick on top so it couldn't be opened any wider from the outside. His bedroom was on the second floor, so he'd never really worried about someone trying to sneak into the house this way.

The intruder accidentally kicked another item to the floor which hit with a heavy, solid thud, then swore softly as they worked the rest of their body through the half opening then tumbled in onto the floor.

The boy gasped sharp and grabbed for his lamp, his hands shaking. He fumbled for the switch but knocked the lamp over instead. It fell from the night stand with a loud crash and he whimpered, sucking back on the bed, his back pressing against the headboard as the intruder crawled to his feet and came towards the bed.

Just when the boy was about to scream for his parents, the newcomer whispered, “It's me.”

The boy's pulse shuddered then slowly began to calm. “Patrick?” His voice shook from his sudden fright. “What're you doing here? How...how did you get here?” His voice was a bare whisper in the dark.

“I ran away.” Patrick whispered. He crawled onto the end of the bed and the boy could make out his hooded sweatshirt, but his face was lost in shadows. There was a strain to his words that, for some reason, frightened the boy.

“Ran away from where?” he asked. “Where were you?”

Tears filled Patrick's voice. “My parents...they sent me to a place to...fix me.”

“Fix you?” The boy frowned. “What do you mean? What place?”

“I'm...” Patrick started to cry. “I'm sick. I tried to get better but...but I can't. And my parents...they don't want me to come home until I'm not sick anymore.”

Sick? Anger began to simmer then boil the boy's blood. Over a month ago, in school, Patrick had confessed to him that he was gay – and his church was getting him the help he needed to be healed. At that point he really had looked sick; gaunt features, pale skin. He'd lost a bunch of weight and was even throwing up at times. The stress and guilt and fear of what he was had taken its toll – not without the help of his parents and church who had thrust him into programs that were meant to 'heal' him, but which only seemed to make him hate himself more.

“You're not sick, Patrick.” The boy insisted quietly, but he knew it was no use. Still he tried. “There's nothing wrong with you. You can't be fixed because you're not broken.”

“Yes I am.” Patrick cried. “My parents...hate what I am. God hates me.” He choked on a hard sob. “I'm going to hell!”

The boy grabbed him and pulled him into a tight embrace, hugging him close, his face against his throat. “No, Patrick, you're not!” He hissed tightly. “God don't hate you. You're beautiful, and amazing, and so good. You're not going to hell.”