Fight Club Dialectical Journal

Two days later...

Having endured an hour-long grilling from Fuller about Booker’s disappearance, Tom exited his superior’s office feeling more than a little dispirited. Astute enough to know something had happened at the fraternity, Fuller had badgered him relentlessly about the hazing case, but Tom had remained stubbornly tight-lipped and had revealed only the bare facts, much to his captain’s indignation. But there was a reason behind Tom’s reticence. Without Booker by his side, he had come to acknowledge his rape as his own private hell and not something he could readily share with his friends. It was the source of his social withdrawal during the day, and a nightmare he relived in vivid color when he closed his eyes at night. But

“She said you started crying.”

Heat flamed Tom’s cheeks, and he shuffled uncomfortably. “That’s bullshit,” he mumbled, his eyes refusing to meet his friend’s inquisitive stare. “She’s a fucking liar.”

“Is she?” Penhall asked softly.

The genuine concern inflected in his friend’s voice completely caught Tom off guard, and he could feel himself losing control. Choking back a sob, he turned and stumbled toward the door, but before he made it halfway across the room, two muscular arms wrapped him in a tight embrace. He immediately struggled against the unexpected contact, but Penhall held him firm, and eventually he gave up the fight. With a sob, he collapsed against his friend’s broad chest and allowed all his pent up pain and torment to flow through his tears.

Shocked by the level of Tom’s distress, a rush of clumsy platitudes tumbled from Penhall’s lips. “It 's okay,” he murmured into Tom’s sweet-smelling hair. “Whatever’s wrong, it’ll be okay. Let it out, man, just let it out.”

But Tom knew it would never be okay, and as hot tears spilled from his tortured eyes, he could not dispel the thoughts of suicide that were beginning to infect his