June 11th 2024 10:40 AM
The alarm blared again, chiming unnaturally loud in the silence of the apartment.
Hunter wasn't asleep.
He lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Tracing the faded stripes in the paint. Like they might shift into something else if he stared long enough.
Eventually the noise cut through the fog in his head. He reached out and slammed the snooze button.
Turns out, chronic insomnia made alarm clocks pretty useless.
What little sleep he managed to get the previous night, had come in dribs and drabs.
He'd collapsed onto his bed in his work clothes.
It was about as comfortable as sleeping in gravel.
The sound of his stomach rumbling dragged him to the kitchen. There wasn't much in the fridge. It didn't matter.
Everything tastes the same.
Like nothing.
He reached for the bread and switched on the coffee maker. It was a daily ritual performed by muscle memory. Not hunger.
He ate because it was necessary, not because he enjoyed it.
Only six months, huh.
It felt more like six centuries.
His mother's friends had arranged a small memorial. They said it was to mark the half-year. To "honor her."
A small gathering at her grave.
Because grief, apparently, could be boxed up into neat little milestones: one month, six months, one year.
It felt so hollow, so pointless. Who even does six-month memorials?
When something is new and fresh, everyone remembers. People who never called when she was alive now post quotes about loss.
Grief becomes a performance, and everyone plays their part. For a while.
Let's see who shows up in six years.
And another six after that.
Assuming he's still around to watch.
Lost in the swirl of his thoughts, he had made his coffee without even realizing. Staring down into the mug, he let out a long sigh.
It was just like him. Bitter. Burnt.
In some strange way, that thought was comforting.
At least he could still taste the bitterness.
Without so much as a glance in the mirror, much less dressing for the occasion, he downed the coffee in one go and left.
The summer sun scorched the roads. It was the kind of heat that clung to your skin and weighed everything down.
In the car, it was worse. Stale and suffocating.
Good thing I wore my finest sleeping suit. Formalwear's optional when you're half-dead inside.
He wiped his face with the back of his arm, brushing sweat-damp hair out of his eyes.
Fortunately, the cemetery was only a short drive away.
It was well-maintained. Neatly trimmed hedges, carefully tended grass. An attempt to make death feel less cold.
To Hunter, it still felt like something out of a haunted graveyard. Just with better landscaping.
He came because she would've wanted it. Everyone she loved, together. The place didn't matter. The occasion didn't either.
Sighing, he made his way to his mother's grave.
This was his first visit since her burial.
As expected, there were only a handful of people gathered. Kat's circle was relatively small.
He glanced at his phone. 11:21 AM. Twenty minutes late. Anyone who planned to come was probably already here.
As he approached, the chatter quietened down into a murmur, before trailing off and ceasing completely.
Oh, subtle. Definitely didn't notice that.
Internally he rolled his eyes, taking a quick glance around. There were some faces he recognized, and others he didn't.
The first person to greet him was a middle-aged lady with short curly hair. He hadn't seen her in over a decade, yet immediately recognized her.
"Hello, my dear, oh it's so lovely to see you! I am so sorry for your loss!" She reached out to hug him, her eyes damp with tears.
"Hi, Aunt Sheila. It's been a while. Good to see you." He patted her back awkwardly, but his words were sincere.
Sheila was their neighbor in the house he grew up in. She had kept in touch with Kat even after they had moved away.
"If there's ever anything you need, dear, don't hesitate to ask. Your mother was like a sister to me."
"I know, aunt Sheila. You were a wonderful friend for mom, one of the very few. I deeply appreciate it."
"Who might this handsome man be?"
The voice floated toward them like it belonged to someone arriving at a party, not a memorial.
A woman stepped closer, standing out like a sore thumb. She looked much younger than his mother's age, with sleek blonde hair that caught the sunlight and oversized sunglasses that did nothing to hide how out of place she looked.
"This is Hunter, Kat's son. And you are?" Sheila asked, her tone polite but stiff.
"Gertrude," the woman replied, with a fake smile. "Kat and I worked together, though she was more like family. A real mentor. Always so generous with her time and advice. I miss her terribly."
She turned to Hunter, removing her sunglasses slowly, like a dramatic move she'd deliberately practiced.
"It's so nice to finally meet you! She spoke about you all the time. And wow, that hair color? It's gorgeous."
Hunter blinked.
"Funny, I don't think she ever mentioned you." He quipped, willing himself to hold back any biting comments, but still letting his lack of enthusiasm drip through.
If she noticed, she didn't show it. Clearly, it wasn't enough to deter her.
"It's… hard," she said, her voice dipping into a rehearsed softness. "Losing someone. I lost my cat last spring. Not the same, I know, but grief is grief, isn't it?"
She paused, waiting, maybe for agreement, or for a sign she'd said the right thing.
"Anyway," she fumbled in her bag and pulled out a business card, holding it between two fingers like it was delicate. "If you ever need anything. Even just to talk."
Flirting at a memorial. Amazing.
Before he could tell her what he really thought, Sheila stepped in like a guardian angel.
"Hunter, dear, would you mind laying these flowers down for me? I'm afraid my back isn't what it used to be."
She passed him the bouquet and gave him the faintest wink. He took it without hesitation.
"Sure thing."
He didn't need to be told twice. With a silent nod of thanks, Hunter seized the chance to get away.
There was an impressive collection of flowers at Kat's grave. All different colors and types.
He stared at her name engraved into the tombstone.
It looked foreign. Like it belonged to someone who hadn't sung lullabies while tucking him in, or told the worst god-awful jokes.
The memories continued to surface, blending together with the conversations around him.
"—it's not the way things should have been—"
"—he said so, and here's the crazy thing—"
"—clearly just some drugged-up drifter, honestly, they should've locked him up years ago."
The memory slammed into him with the same force it had when it happened.
The sentencing hearing. How the homeless man pleaded so desperately.
"I didn't do it! I swear!"
Those helpless eyes, full of tears, looking right at him as he was led away.
"Please, believe me!"
Hunter shook himself out of his thoughts. It never sat well with him. Those eyes, that voice that echoed in his mind, did not feel like a murderers'.
He chalked it up to his own grief clouding his judgement. Maybe he had been overthinking. The police were confident, there were no other leads or witnesses.
Again, he let it go.
"Sorry I'm late!" a voice boomed, too cheerful for the occasion.
Hunter didn't need to turn around to know who it was. David's hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing a little too tight.
Hunter bristled. David had always rubbed him the wrong way. His mother's childhood friend, always around like an unwelcome shadow.
He didn't know what his mother saw in David. Too much talking, too little substance. It was like David didn't know when to leave people alone.
Even now, with a bouquet of azaleas in hand. Kat's favorite flowers. It felt wrong, like he thought he knew her better than anyone else.
"Hey, buddy. How's it going?" David asked, voice too loud, too casual.
Hunter gave a half-shrug. "It's going."
Kneeling at the grave, he placed the azaleas at the very top of the pile.
"Hey, Kat. I miss you every day. Don't worry though, they got the bastard who hurt you, and Hunter's in good hands as long as I'm around!"
Everything's always gotta be about you, huh. Jackass.
The memorial progressed, with small speeches given by some attendees, finally concluding with a minute of silence.
It felt so much longer than a moment.
As Hunter said his goodbyes and turned to leave, David's hand landed on his shoulder again, as annoyingly persistent as ever.
"Hey, champ, you mind giving me a lift to town? It's on the way, it shouldn't be too much trouble for you, right?"
Hunter wanted to tell him to shove off, but instead he gave a tight-lipped nod. The last thing he needed was more of David's rambling, but here he was, forced into it anyway.
The ride was suffocatingly hot, and David's annoying voice made it worse.
"They offered to give me some time off... grieving leave. I couldn't let the company down though, so I didn't take it."
Hunter focused on the road ahead, ignoring the steady stream of words flowing from David.
Hunter was not in the mood to talk. Least of all with someone who never shut up and clearly lacked basic empathy.
He would have preferred an awkward but peaceful silence during the drive.
Instead, he had to endure the egotistical rants of someone whose presence he never truly got used to.
Hunter tugged at his collar, taking a deep breath. He hated the heat. It had a tendency to make him feel dizzy and slightly disoriented. Definitely not what he needed while driving.
Not sure which is worse still, the heat in this car, or this guy's constant jabbering.
His lack of responses didn't seem to discourage David, as he pressed on.
"I hadn't seen Kat for months before she died. Still can't believe it." He sighed, looking out the window but not really paying attention. "Some nights, I can't sleep. Nightmares..."
He adjusted his sunglasses, too quickly, like he was trying too hard to look cool.
"I keep seeing her. I couldn't believe it when I heard where the police found Kat's purple purse, my heart sunk. A homeless bum, of all people."
Hunter blinked.
Wait a sec. Purple purse?
A prickling sensation ran up his spine. How does he know that?
He glanced at David, who seemed completely oblivious to the weight of the moment.
Hunter's pulse spiked. His knuckles whitened at the wheel.
Maybe I'm reading too much into this, Hunter told himself, trying to shake the feeling of unease. But something about the way David said it didn't sit right.
He swallowed hard, willing the suspicion away.
Hunter shifted in his seat, trying to push the thought away, but it clung to him like a shadow.
He'd just said he hadn't seen her in months, but he knew about her new purse? Maybe she had mentioned it to him…
"Yeah, right? So, when was the last time you spoke to her?" Hunter enquired, masking his growing suspicion with practiced ease.
"The day I saw her of course. I invited her to the opening of that new café."
It doesn't make sense. She bought that purse just a couple of weeks before she was murdered, saying how the color reminded her of Hunter's eyes.
How the hell does he know that?