Page 7 of Hunter

“Love you, too, disaster.”

She blows kisses in my direction before she bounces out the door. After she’s gone, I head for the showers. The hot water feels amazing on my sore muscles. I scrub off the sweat and let the water run an extra few minutes while I contemplate life and how it can change for the better, even when you think you’ve reached the lowest of lows.

Then I slip out and dry off, before pulling my cropped hoodie and ripped jeans back on. I reapply a little eyeliner because it makes me feel more like me and leave the small hoops in my ears. The chipped black polish probably needs a touch up. I’ll do it later.

By the time I step back onto the street, the city has shifted into full mid-morning mode. The people who actually slept are on the streets, rushing to work or grabbing coffee, and the air is thick with street food that makes my stomach rumble. I stop by a vendor and pay for a hot dog, topping it with everything he has at the stand. I take a huge bite, smiling with mustard at the corner of my mouth.

God, I love this city. Every messy, loud, beautiful inch of it. Hot dogs for a late breakfast… the south could never.

I wipe mustard from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and keep walking, the morning sun warm on my face even if the breeze off the East River still carries a bite. The nightmare tries to creep back in as I cross the street—the dim prayer room, the weight of adult hands on my shoulders, the low chant of “deliver us from perversion”—but I shove it down with the last bite of hot dog. Not today, Satan. Not when the city is this loud and alive around me.

I’m here. I’m completely myself. I’m wearing eyeliner at eleven in the morning, and nobody’s staring like I’m about to burn in hell. That alone feels like winning.

I head for my part time job at the art supplies shop. Honestly, I only work for Mrs. Lovelady because she gives me the damaged art supplies for free when she marks them out. Sometimes I think she marks good ones out because she wants to make sure I have all the colors to choose from. She’s sweet and lonely. So we get along well.

The hot dog sits heavy and perfect in my stomach as I push through the afternoon, the city’s chaos wrapping around me like a too-tight hug I never want to let go of. By the time the sky starts bleeding into that bruised orange of early evening, I’m dragging my feet up 28th Street, the bite of the East River breeze cooler now that the sun’s dipping low. My eyeliner’s probably smudged to shit from the long day at the shop—Mrs. Lovelady slipped me a half-used tube of cadmium red and a bent pack of charcoal sticks on my way out, like always—but I don’t care. I feel real. Alive. Not like the ghost they tried to exorcise out of me back home.

I slip down the narrow alley behind the old brick building, the kind of forgotten corner most people walk past without noticing. The New Light community room is tucked back here like it’s ashamed of itself, which is fucking ironic for a place that swears it’s all about “light.” Small creaky elevator or not, I take the stairs again—three flights that smell like old coffee and something sorta wet—because the thought of that rattling metal box closing around me still makes my skin crawl. Too many memories of small, locked spaces and adult voices praying over my “perversion.”

When I push open the door to the third floor, it’s already 6pm and the room feels heavier in the dimming light. The large warehouse-style windows let in the last slants of sunset, cutting across the ugly tile floor and the drop-ceiling with its water stains. Exposed brick walls soak up the warm lighting from a few cheap floor lamps someone dragged in years ago. The circle of mismatched folding chairs—some metal, some plastic, one with duct tape holding the seat together—looks the same as always, half-full with the usual crowd of tired faces. Tables off to the side hold the donuts and coffee Tim always brings; the cheap kind, glazed and sprinkled, the coffee burnt but strong enough to keep you from nodding off during the heavier shares.

Tim Peterson, the therapist, glances up from adjusting a chair and gives me that same gentle smile he always does, the one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes tonight. “Charlie. Good to see you. Grab a seat—coffee’s fresh. Well… fresh-ish.”

“Thanks. You too,” I say softly, taking my regular seat and crossing my legs so the ripped knees of my jeans show off my kneecaps. A couple regulars nod at me—Marcus with his quiet intensity, Elena who still clutches her coffee as though it’s a shield. I offer them a small, genuine smile. “Afternoon, fellow disasters. Did we all survive the week, or are we just pretending again?”

A few low chuckles ripple around the circle. It feels easy. Safe.

The low chuckles die down as Tim clears his throat, the sound scratchy like the old radiator in the corner that never quite works right. He’s got that clipboard balanced on his knee again, the one with the faded New Light logo peeling at the edges. “Alright, let’s get started. Charlie, you’re up first tonight if you’re ready.”

I uncross my legs, the ripped knees of my jeans pulling tighter across my skin, and lean forward. My heart’s doing that stupid flutter it always does right before I open my mouth in this room. But I shove it down.

“Yeah…I’m ready,” I say. “The week was good. Mostly. I worked, painted, did pole class with Luce. But the insomnia is starting again. I can sleep for a couple hours, and then I’m awake staring at the ceiling. And last night one of the usual nightmares hit pretty hard,” I admit, tracing one chipped nail with my thumb. “I was back in the prayer room and hands were everywhere. Woke up shaking and in a cold sweat. But I went to pole anyway, danced until my legs burned more than the memories. So…I’m still here. Still moving forward, even if it’s one sweaty spin at a time.”

Tim nods warmly. “That’s real progress, Charlie. Taking care of yourself instead of letting the nightmare win.”

A couple people murmur agreement. Elena even reaches over and squeezes my wrist for a second.

The rest of the session is quiet work. We talk about triggers and small victories. I share how the city still feels like medicine some days. How just walking down the street with music in my ears can drown out the old sermons. I don’t mention the part where sometimes a man’s deep voice commanding me to my knees for things other than prayer still makes my stomach drop.

I keep that one locked tight inside.

By the time we finish the circle and start putting chairs away, the sunlight has fled to give room for the moon, and my chest feels a little looser.

I step back out onto 28th Street feeling…okay. Not perfect by any means, but I think every day I spend here helps.

The city is still buzzing around me, taxis honking, someone blasting reggae-ton from a speaker somewhere, the smell of roasted nuts mixing with exhaust. I pull out my phone and text Lucy a quick selfie, highlighting the mustard stain on my favorite hoodie.

Me: Maybe if you kept your word and took me to lunch this wouldn’t have happened.

Lucy: Baking soda on that asap. How was group?

Me: No new adoptions if that’s what you’re asking. Hot dog for breakfast was elite though. No regrets. I’m going to pick up pizza and head back to my apartment.

Lucy: Text when you get home and lock your doors.

I smile at the screen, slipping my phone back into my pocket as I head toward the R line.

My apartment is a little pricey, but between the money my grandmother left me and what I make from my art, I can afford it. Granted, it’s a small studio and almost too small for me and Sofia. But once I found her on the streets, I knew we were made for each other. One stray to another; we have to stick together.