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Seventeen
Hunter
It wasn’t his nudity that he cared so much about when he dove out of Skye’s window and took off under the morning sun.
It was the marks all over his body.
The scars, burn marks and bruises. He was unsightly. His skin was forever marred by some kind of fucking forever mark.
His mouth still tingled from Skye’s lips, and he wondered just then as he cupped his privates in his hand, ignoring the vicious remarks and laughter from neighbours— “savage”, “you better pray my kids didn’t see that”, “ugly fuck”—if she seemed disgusted to touch him. Was there apprehension in her lips when they pressed against his? He felt like he had devoured her.God, he had. But then again, he felt the needy press of her lips against his, like she wanted to be consumed by him.
She did things to him.
He didn’t understand them.
He found himself dreaming about her, thinking of explicit things he wanted to do with her.
Thatthinginside him behaved around her, lulled by her touch, by her voice.
She did things to it, too.
How could she not? She was gentle, beautiful, soft—she was everything he was not. And she had been like that since he saw her making that flower tiara he still had tucked away in his bedroom somewhere. She had never once turned on him like all the others. Never made him feel less than. Always embraced him when he showed up broken and bruised at her window.
God, he loved her—
He really loved her so much, it made his heart ache when it beat, made his ribs feel like a tight cage; if that muscle burst free, it would run back to her.
He was out of breath when he reached his door. He vaguely noticed the muddy footprints all over his yard (he’d been taught lately how to track). He couldn’t necessarily stop to observe them, and he didn’t want to dig for the key under the mat to unlock the front door—there would be no bending down in his current state—so he hurried to his bedroom window, slid it open and climbed inside.
His bedroom was a bombsite. He’d need to clean it up because Skye hated mess. He searched the pile of clothes for a clean set of underwear and pants and pulled them on. He had a harder time finding a shirt because Skye was always stealing them—
A noise caught his attention.
He jerked upright, ears straining.
Heavy footsteps and a manly cough.
For a brief second, his spine went rigid, and an overwhelming surge of fear ran through him. He sucked in a ragged breath, fisting his hands, as he was transported back to a darker time—
“He’s dead,” Hunter whispered to himself, trying to swallow. “He’s dead.”
His dad was dead, gone, a bunch of scattered bones in many random holes around town.
It wasn’t him, he repeated to himself, inhaling sharply as he walked out of the room, following the sounds to the kitchen. He stopped at the threshold, peering in at the large, muscled figure rummaging through the fridge. Roy was in just his briefs, his long hair around his shoulders in messy tangles. His beard was short, black, sprinkled with some random greys.
“You need more food,” he murmured, aware that Hunter was there, though he hadn’t turned to look at him. “Your ma’s too skinny.”
Hunter didn’t respond. His heart pulsed erratically, lips trembling as he thought of last night. He swallowed again, trying to rid the lump in his throat, attempting to talk.
“Roy,” he started. “I didn’t mean to hurt him—”
“What’s done is done,” Roy interrupted, pulling out a carton of eggs. He settled it on the counter. “Where’s the frying pan?”
“I don’t know.”
Now Roy twisted around to give him a shocked look, brows raised. “Youdon’t know?”
Hunter shrugged, saying nothing.
