Page 11 of Hunter

I leave the stubble. Fuck shaving. Let it grow until I look as rough as I feel.

I press a fresh bandage over the worst of the burns, tape it down too tight on purpose, and kill the light.

The apartment still smells faintly of vomit and tequila, but it’s better than it was. I collapse onto the futon in only a pair of sweats, shoulder screaming, wrists throbbing, the court order crumpled on the coffee table like a death sentence.

Tomorrow night.

New Light on 28th street, the instructions to get into the building a little sketchy.

Some circle of strangers waiting to pick at the scabs I’ve spent six months trying to keep closed.

I close my eyes and let Robby’s voice whisper in the dark again.

Save yourself.

Too late, baby.

Way too fucking late.

Chapter 5

Hunter

I’m late on purpose. Let them wait. Let them stare.

The door bangs open harder than I meant it to, the cheap metal frame rattling against the exposed brick like it’s personally offended. Every head snaps toward me. Six or seven of them, same tired, hollow-eyed bunch as always. I let the silence stretch for a second, enjoying the way the room feels suddenly smaller.

It’s 6:17 now, and the last of the sunset has bled out through the big warehouse windows, leaving everything washed in a ugly mix of warm floor-lamp glow and the cheap overhead fluorescents. The drop ceiling sags in places, water stains blooming like old bruises. Ugly tile floor catches the light in weird patches. Mismatched chairs sit in a sloppy circle. Where did they get the funding for this place?

Off to the side, a table holds a sad spread of a half empty box of glazed donuts and burnt smelling coffee, next to styrofoam cups, and a sad stack of powdered creamer packets. The place smells like coffee, sugar, and that faint mildew scent that always seems to cling to old buildings in the city.

I step inside, letting the door swing shut behind me with a dull thud. My eyes drag across the circle until they land on the empty chair waiting for me.

And then on the kid sitting directly across from it.

Golden curls. Soft, light-blue eyes that are almost gray, like smoke after the fire’s gone out. Clean-shaven face that still looks like it has never needed to know what a razor is for. Black eyeliner. Chipped dark nail polish on the fingers currently resting on his ripped jeans. Fishnet peeking out from under the tears in the denim. And a baggy sweater that swallows his whole frame, making him look even smaller. Younger.

Too fucking soft.

He looks like someone who’s never had his skin melt off in a fire. Like someone who cries at sad songs and thinks the world can be fixed with talk and hugs and fucking nail polish.

I hate him on sight.

I drop into the empty chair, legs spread wide, arms crossed tight over my chest so the fresh bandages pull. The pain flares hot and good. I might be becoming addicted to it.

The facilitator gives me a warm smile; he’s a man who appears to be in his late to mid-forties. He has short brown hair, neatly styled, and a clean-shaven face. He honestly looks like he could be mixing his own kool-aid. “You must be Hunter. Welcome. I’m Tim Peterson. We’re glad you’re here.”

I scoff. “Yeah, I bet you are. Court-ordered and everything. Real thrilled to be part of the club.”

A couple people shift. The soft blond kid across from me doesn’t. He only watches me with those smoke-blue eyes, head slightly tilted, as though I’m some fucking puzzle for him to solve. It makes my skin crawl.

He doesn’t rise to the bait. “We don’t focus on how anyone got here. Only on what they need while they’re here. Would you like to introduce yourself?”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and let my voice come out low and mean. “Name’s Hunter. I’m a fireman. I lost my partner in a fire six months ago that I wish killed me too. Last week I tried to make it happen. Now the court says I have to sit in this circle and pretend that talking about it is gonna unfuck my life.” I jerk my chin toward the blond kid. “That about cover it, or you want me to cry, too?”

He lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow but doesn’t respond. His painted fingers twitch once on his thigh as though he wants to reach out and fix something on me. And it pisses me off.

“Thank you for sharing, Hunter,” Tim says, still calm as ever. “We’re not here to perform pain. This is only a space to feel it before releasing it.”