Free Heart of the Hunter by Chance Carter Page A

smirk.
    “Ugh,” he said. He picked up his backpack and jokingly stomped his way out to the front porch.
    “Let me get dressed and I’ll be right out. Get started on that homework.”
    “Fine. Why are you showering in the middle of the day anyway? It’s basically dinner.”
    I turned away and started to walk to my room to put some proper clothes on.
    “Just a busy day. Had to kind of hit the reset button.”
    “Good busy or bad busy?” he asked with his head tilted to one side.
    He liked to think he looked out for me as much as I looked out for him. I guess in a way he did.
    “Just busy is all. Go outside and I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
    I heard the screen door slam behind him and I went into my room, shut the door, and began to cry. I was responsible for raising a person, it was the most important role in my life, and I had spent the day living out a schoolgirl fantasy with some sort of psychopath.
    What was wrong with me? How did I lose myself so badly? And for what?
    Goddamn you, Hunter. Please, please just leave me alone.

Chapter 14
    Hunter
    I FLICKED MY CIGARETTE INTO the middle of the road and caught a disapproving look from some white haired woman across the way.
    Fucking relax yourself, lady. Don’t want to work up a heart attack. I’m a bigger stain on this place than one goddamn butt on the road.
    The room I was crashing in was a shit hole, but it did the trick. Denny had hooked me up after I got the job. It sat above one of the few bars in this goddamn town and he was in with the owner. Shit breakfast and shit beer were his two vices and that’s where he sank any money he made from the auto shop. Suited me just fine.
    As I climbed the stairs I could hear the same shitty music blaring from the jukebox on the other side of the wall. These were barely people and I couldn’t fucking stand them. They did the same shit everyday with the same people and would until the day they checked out of their useless lives. How the fuck did they do it without sticking their head in the oven? I would be impressed if it wasn’t so pathetic.
    I unlocked the door and walked into my one room palace.
    Shower or whiskey, motherfucker?
    As was usually the case in my life, whiskey won. I walked over to the cot that I was pretending was a bed, sat down, and grabbed the bottle of Jack from the table next to me. I unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. I could feel the booze warm my entire body as it poured down my throat and settled in my stomach. I needed that fucking drink.
    I swung my legs up on the cot, rested my back against the wall as if it was a headboard, and felt the whole thing slide forward and fall to the ground.
    Fuck you. Can’t even let me relax with a drink, you uncomfortable piece of shit.
    I sat up on the side of the mattress, took another strong pull from the bottle, and stood back up, making my way across the room to the old and broken fridge holding nothing but stale, lukewarm air. Ripping the cord out of the wall, I kicked it on its side and it cracked the hardwood when it fell.
    Who gives a fuck?
    I pushed the toppled hunk of metal that was supposed to be a fridge across the room, stuck it in front of the cot, and pushed it all against the wall.
    Now stay put and let me fucking drink.
    Crashing down on the mattress with my hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, I slid back up against the wall and nothing moved.
    Much better, asshole.
    I took a drink and rested the pint on my knee. I could feel everything settle, my stomach, my head, the air. Everything was still and calm.
    Mr. Daniels, you make a fine product.
    I grabbed my cigarettes and lit one up, watching the cherry grow as I breathed in. I looked out the window to my right and listened to the godawful music from the bar below echo through the floorboards. It was about as relaxing a life as I could imagine and I tried to enjoy it for what it was worth. No fucking people around me, save the yahoos drinking their paychecks away downstairs.