Page 8 of Hunter

When I finally push open my apartment door, the first thing that greets me is an indignant meow. I set the pizza box on the small counter next to the sink and drop my bag before locking the door behind me.

Sofia comes streaking out from under the couch as though I’ve personally betrayed her by existing outside for more than five hours. She’s a small black void with white socks and the attitude of a queen who’s been kept waiting. Her tail lashes once, twice, and then she launches herself at my legs, clawing her way up my ripped jeans with dramatic urgency.

“Okay, okay, drama queen,” I laugh softly, bending down to scoop her up before she can ruin the denim completely. She immediately burrows into my chest, purring like a broken engine, her little white paws kneading aggressively against my hoodie. “I know, I know. I left you all alone with your thoughts. Tragic.”

She headbutts my chin hard enough to make me tilt my head back, demanding pets with zero shame. I carry her over to the couch, collapsing onto it with the warm, vibrating loaf of cat still glued to me. The mustard stain on my hoodie is now decorated with black fur, but I don’t care.

“Long morning, Sof,” I murmur, scratching behind her ears the way she likes. “Nightmare tried to drag me back again. But I danced. I ate a ridiculous hot dog for breakfast. And I sat in the circle without falling apart. So…winning?”

Sofia blinks slowly at me, then shoves her face into my neck, purring louder. It’s her version of “Good job, human, now shut up and worship me.”

I let the sound of her rumbling fill the quiet apartment, the city noise muted behind the closed window. The pizza can wait a few more minutes. Right now, this—the weight of a small, demanding cat who loves me exactly as I am, chipped polish, eyeliner, soft edges and all—feels like enough.

I press a kiss to the top of her furry head and whisper, “Yeah. We’re gonna be alright, you and me.”

Chapter 4

Hunter

I hate the smell of the hospital. It reminds me of my failure, probably because this is the exact fucking place I spent weeks recovering and breathing while they lowered Robby into the ground.

They finally took the restraints off this morning, but only after wrapping my wrists in fresh gauze to hide the bruising and the cuts I put there myself struggling against them. My room is bare as a cell. I’ve seen enough holding tanks down at the precinct to recognize suicide watch when I’m on it. No shoelaces. No cords for the blinds—and the blinds are solid plastic anyway. No medical tubing long enough to loop. Yeah, they think I’m a risk. Smart of them.

I shift on the bed, and my shoulder still burns under the new dressing. The doctor sounded almost cheerful when he told me I’d have more scarring but wouldn’t need skin grafts. Really, the dull, constant pain is just a reminder of where I am and that I’m still breathing when they should have left me to burn.

A quick knock pulls my attention from the window to the door. The nurse from the first day pops her head into the room. “Mr. Hale, your required group therapy will be starting soon. I can walk you.”

I hold back the scoff. It’d be useless anyway, she ignores most of what I say.

I gesture for her to lead and follow in the stupid no-slip socks that still feel wrong on my feet.

Group therapy turns out to be six plastic chairs bolted to the floor in a beige room that’s supposed to feel warmer than the rest of this sterile hell. A whiteboard on the wall has “Feelings Are Valid” scrawled in cheerful blue marker. I want to set the whole fucking room on fire.

I drop into the last empty chair, arms crossed so tight over my chest, it hurts the fresh burns. The facilitator gives me a gentle smile. Her name tag on the cardigan reads ‘Denise.’

“Welcome, Hunter. We’re glad you’re joining us today. Would you like to share what brought you here?”

I bark out a laugh that sounds more like a snarl, even to my own ears. “What brought me here? I walked into a fucking burning building after seeing the ghost of my dead boyfriend who died six months ago. And almost took two more of my brothers with me when the building welcomed me with open fucking arms. That good enough for you?”

Denise doesn’t flinch. The calm feels worse than if she yelled. “Language like that can make the space feel unsafe for others. Can we try to keep it respectful?”

I scoff, slouching deeper into the bolted chair. “We’re all adults here. I’m sure none of your precious ears are innocent. Half the people in this room have probably screamed worse shit while they were trying to off themselves.”

I know the words are cruel, but I couldn’t give two shits.

A couple patients shift uncomfortably. One guy with track marks up his arms actually looks away. Denise just tilts her head, that same infuriatingly patient expression on her face.

“We understand you’re in a lot of pain, Hunter. That’s why we’re here. To hold space for that pain without judgment.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Hold space? Jesus Christ. You people talk like trauma is a fucking yoga retreat.”

She chooses to ignore my ‘language’ this time, moving on to another patient. The rest of the hour drags by. I’d rather drag sandpaper over raw skin than sit here and share my feelings with a bunch of crazy strangers. They don’t have the same problem. One after another they spill their guts; overdoses, abusive partners who told them they were crazy long enough they started believing it, some with voices that won’t shut up.

Sounds like Robby in my head, because he doesn’t shut up, ever.

Through it all, I sit there stone-faced, jaw locked so tight it aches. When Denise circles back to me and prompts me again, I stare at her blankly.

Yeah. Not fucking happening.