4. Hunter
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.
She lets it go with another soft nod, as though my silence is just another valid feeling.
By the time the session ends and they herd us back to our rooms, the rage is sitting so heavy in my chest I can barely breathe around it. I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, wrists throbbing under the gauze, shoulder screaming, Robby’s voice still whispering in the back of my skull.
Maybe I am crazy. I probably belong here with the rest of these people dealing with their own demons. I sit with that idea for hours.
The door opens again later. This time it’s not a nurse.
A doctor in a white coat steps in, clipboard in hand, the same one who sounded so damn cheerful about my new scars earlier. He gives me a polite nod as if we’re old friends.
“Mr. Hale. Good to see you sitting up. I wanted to go over the treatment plan for your burns before you’re discharged.”
I don’t bother sitting up straighter. “Yeah? Let me guess. Keep it clean, change the dressings, do the PT exercises, don’t be a dumbass and rip anything open again. Did I miss anything, Doc?”
He doesn’t even blink at the sarcasm. “Essentially. The new burns on your shoulder and upper arm are second-degree. You’ll have increased scarring layered over the old tissue, but with consistent physical therapy you should regain full range of motion.
We’ll set you up with outpatient PT starting next week.
Three sessions a week minimum. You’ve been through this before, so I assume you know the drill. ”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know the drill. Stretch, strengthen, don’t scream too loud when it hurts. Got it. Anything else, or can I go back to staring at the ceiling and contemplating my life choices?”
The doctor sighs, sounding tired but patient. “We can prescribe something for the pain if you need it. And I’d strongly recommend some sort of mental health support. Burns like these…they don’t just heal on the outside.”
I run my tongue over my teeth and look away. “Right. Because talking about my feelings is definitely going to make the skin grow back nicer. Thanks for the tip.”
He doesn’t argue. Just signs something on his clipboard and heads for the door. “We’ll have the discharge papers ready shortly. Try to rest, Mr. Hale.”
I sit in silence for a long minute after he leaves.
Recovery is long and painful… and I’m not sure I’m up for the process for a second time.
Changing my bandages alone, making sure they don’t get infected before they heal, using my shoulder even though the skin healing makes it pull tight and uncomfortable.
All of it doesn’t feel worth it, not if at the end of it I’ll still be the same fucked up person I am now.
What’s the point of healing the outside when the inside is already ash?
I drop my head back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling tiles until I’ve lost count of the little holes. My shoulder throbs in time with my heartbeat. The gauze on my wrists itches under the fresh wrapping. Everything hurts, and none of it feels like it will ever stop.
Maybe I should let it fester. Let the scars pull so tight I can’t lift my arm anymore. Let the infection set in. Let the whole damn thing go to hell.
At least then I’d have an excuse to stop pretending I’m still a firefighter. It’s tempting, and I contemplate it until the door opens again.
This time it’s not a nurse or a doctor.
Officer Ramirez steps in, the same cop I’ve run calls with for years. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“Hale,” he says quietly. “Judge Tallman wants to see you at the station. Right now.”
I sit up slow, my whole body protesting the movement. “The station? They are letting me out now?”
“Yeah, hold is up. But I have to take you to the station.”
“What the fuck for?”
He shrugs, but his eyes are careful. “I don’t think they are playing after what you pulled on that five alarm.” He tosses my shoes and a bag of clothes on the end of my bed. “Get dressed. I’ll give you a minute.”
Every second of getting dressed is agony. But I welcome it. The nurse pops in and awkwardly leaves my discharge papers on the bed. I fold them small enough to slide into my back pocket.
By the time I open the door to my room, sweat beads on my forehead. And I feel like I need a nap. Ramirez doesn’t cuff me. Small fucking mercies.
He doesn’t say much on the ride to the station. Just drives with the radio low, windows cracked as though he knows phantom smoke still clings to me. I stare out at the Brooklyn streets blurring past and try not to think about how close I came to never seeing them again.
They take me straight to her small office. Judge Tallman is already waiting behind her desk—silver hair pulled tight, blue eyes clear. She doesn’t smile.
“Mr. Hale,” she says, voice even and final. “Sit.”
I drop into the chair across from her. My shoulder screams at the movement, but I welcome the pain. It keeps me grounded.
She opens a folder, scans the top page, then looks up at me without blinking.
“After reviewing the incident report from the five-alarm in the East Village, along with your recent psychiatric hold and the documented history of trauma following the death of your partner six months ago, I’m issuing a court order.
You will attend bi-weekly sessions at the New Light Support Group for trauma survivors.
This is mandatory. You will participate meaningfully.
You will not miss a single session. Failure to comply will result in contempt of court and possible revocation of your ability to return to active duty with the FDNY after your physical therapy is finished. Do you understand?”
I clench my jaw so hard something pops. The rage is back, thick and choking. “You’re ordering me to go sit in a fucking feelings circle like that’s going to fix anything?”
Judge Tallman doesn’t match my energy. “I’m ordering you to get help, Mr. Hale, before you kill yourself or someone else. The department has already recommended this. Consider it a lifeline, not a punishment.”
I laugh once. “A lifeline. Right. Because talking about how I left my partner to burn while I crawled out is really going to make everything better.”
She slides the signed order across the desk. “Sessions begin tomorrow evening at the New Light community room on 28th Street. First violation and we’ll be back here under much less pleasant circumstances. You’re dismissed.”
“Do you know how far that place is from my apartment?”
“It is a good place for trauma survivors to heal.”
“How long do I have to do this bullshit?”
She sighs. “Until you stop calling it bullshit.”
Ramirez is waiting outside the door. He doesn’t say “I’m sorry” or any of that bullshit. Just walks me out to the curb and hands me a MetroCard like I’m a civilian now.
“Try not to fuck this up, Hale,” he mutters before he turns away.
I stand on the sidewalk for a long minute, the court order crumpled in my fist, shoulder throbbing, wrists still wrapped in gauze under my sleeves. The city noise presses in—horns, sirens, people laughing like the world isn’t on fire.
I hate this fucking city.
The subway ride home is a blur of too-bright lights and too-loud voices. Every jolt of the train sends fresh fire through my shoulder and down my arm. By the time I climb the stairs to my apartment in Astoria, I’m sweating through my shirt and my legs feel like they belong to someone else.
The second I push the door open, the smell hits me like a backdraft.
Vomit. Stale tequila. The whole place reeks of the night I hit rock bottom. The crusty patch on the carpet where I passed out is still there, dried into a dark, ugly stain. The empty bottle lies on its side under the futon like it’s mocking me. A couple of flies buzz lazily around the mess.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I should leave it. Let it rot. Let the whole fucking apartment decay around me the same way I’m decaying inside. But something stubborn and hateful kicks in—the same part of me that kept me crawling out of that burning house when I should’ve stayed with Robby.
I force myself to move.
Every bend, every stretch of my arm to grab paper towels and cleaner sends white-hot pain ripping through my shoulder and down into the fresh burns on my upper arm.
The gauze pulls and sticks. Sweat stings my eyes.
I scrub on my knees until my wrists scream under the bandages and the carpet is raw and damp.
The smell only gets worse before it gets better, thick and sour, crawling down my throat until I’m gagging again.
When the worst of it is gone and the bottle is in the trash, I drag myself to the bathroom and flip on the light.
The mirror doesn’t lie.
I look like shit.
Dark hair, messy and too long, sticks to my forehead with sweat.
My hazel eyes are bloodshot. Three days of dark stubble shadows my jaw—patchy in places where it never grows well, heavier along the chin where I usually keep it clean for the job.
I look older than thirty-two. Tired. Mean.
The kind of man people cross the street to avoid.
I peel the gauze off my shoulder and upper arm slowly, hissing through my teeth as the tape rips away.
The burns stare back at me.
Raw, angry red flesh mixed with patches of shiny, puckered scar tissue from six months ago.
The new damage overlays the old like someone tried to rewrite the map of my failure.
Blisters have popped in places, leaving wet, weeping spots that glisten under the cheap bathroom light.
The edges are already starting to scab, ugly and uneven.
It looks exactly like what it is—skin that got too close to the fire again and paid for it.
After I wash my hands, I trace one finger along the worst patch and immediately regret it. The pain flares bright and clean.
My reflection stares back with hollow eyes.
The stubble makes me look like the kind of guy who doesn’t give a shit anymore.
Maybe I don’t. The dark circles underneath make the hazel look almost brown in this light, like dead leaves.
I used to think Robby liked my eyes—said they reminded him of the woods we grew up near and the freedom we had as kids. Now they just look empty.
I leave the stubble. Fuck shaving. Let it grow until I look as rough as I feel.
I press a fresh bandage over the worst of the burns, tape it down too tight on purpose, and kill the light.
The apartment still smells faintly of vomit and tequila, but it’s better than it was. I collapse onto the futon in only a pair of sweats, shoulder screaming, wrists throbbing, the court order crumpled on the coffee table like a death sentence.
Tomorrow night.
New Light on 28th street, the instructions to get into the building a little sketchy.
Some circle of strangers waiting to pick at the scabs I’ve spent six months trying to keep closed.
I close my eyes and let Robby’s voice whisper in the dark again.
Save yourself.
Too late, baby.
Way too fucking late.