Dream of the Red Haired Chamber

He sat. Engulfed in a veritable ocean of white bedding. Maurice's insistent licking, the slap of waves hitting the hull of a forlorn ship. He stared at the ceiling, vaguely aware of the thickening air of the apartment. The sheets clung lifelessly to him, crowding his body, swelling around Hunter’s inert form. “Jesus” he moaned. The cat’s saliva finely motivating him to peel himself from the vast white expanse. Hunter shuffled through his apartment, deciding somewhere in between leaving his bed and tumbling over a rather precariously stacked pile of books, that he should take a shower. The kind of shower reserved for people who still have the taste of ash, cheap beer, and espresso in their mouth. The kind of shower he almost certainly deserved, and more than certainly needed.

Hunter stepped into the single room of his studio apartment. The freezing drops of water spilling down his back were silenced by his surveil of the room. In some way Hunter though of his barely-health insured, sparsely thinged life, as a slight way of registering a rejection-of conformity, of middle-class convention, of not just acquisitiveness but of the overwhelming idol of  “Security”. This thought of  his almost rebellion comforted Hunter as he realized that he would most likely have to go to work today, because he did in fact need the money despite his rejection of acquisitiveness. He grabbed his coat from the hooks adjacent to the heavy oak door.

The main wall was a rustic gold wall full of nearly empty or bursting slots. It lined the wall directly across from the grim filled double doors. He liked to think it was a pleasant reminder of the extravagance of the past, and not simply a relic reflecting the lackluster efforts of the building. In front of the mail wall stood a sullen looking redhead who he believed was named Syria.

Hunter had always thought she was slightly shallow. Not a bad person by any means, no, but the type of person to quote Rainbow Rowell and market it as deep, or some philosophical brilliance intended for only those open minded persons with a willingness to ‘feel’. Hunter had no issue with those who had the higher capacity to experience life's emotional turmoil, or those who exposed the raw truth of being. In truth he loved these peoples various works and theories that so perfectly encapsulated the complexities and subsequent simplicities of living. He found them thought provoking and intriguing.

No, Hunter loved philosophical and brilliant literary minds, he simply disliked people who were phudo-deep. People who wanted to be brilliant. People who acted as though they were enlightened for some kind of praise.

The Young Man and the Sea

The drenched cat sat, stoic across from him. Illuminated by a single lamp set atop a pile of yellowing, coffee stained books. “I’m sorry,” He said. Once more apologizing to the angered cat. “Look, I’ll leave the window open from now on.”, “Scouts Honor”. The cat remained motionless, staring at him accusingly; it’s eyes narrowing slightly. “Look cat,can I call you cat? It’s raining. You don’t normally come by when it’s raining.” His own dumb joke reminding him he needed a name for the currently very wet cat sitting in front of him. Hunter bent down to the stiff cold floor and reached out to the cat. The cat moved forward, begrudgingly head bumping Hunters outstretched hand. “Hemingway”, the cat looked at him, and then proceeded to wipe his wet body on Hunter’s hand. “I’ll take that as a no.” he muttered. “Fitz” The cat didn’t even bother with that one. “Alright I get it. Maybe you’re a more whimsical cat. What about Seuss?”  No response, “Dahl?” The cat stepped back looking genuinely offended. “Not a Dahl fan. That’s okay, he’s not for everybody.” the cat gave Hunter one last glance of contempt before going back to purring loudly into Hunters now fur caked fingers.  

Hunter began to sit up, wiping the gray fur from his George Town T-shirt. The smell of coffee wafted lightly through the apartment, prompting him to re-fill the mug. He slouched onto the shabby brown leather couch, setting his mug onto a beaten copy of Maurice. The cat jumped lightly onto the couch and purred, running his tail effortlessly against the edge of the copy. “You an E. M. Forster fan Cat?” the cat tilted it’s head and continued purring. The scars on the cats nose shining pink against the cats muted gray face.

Hunter smirked moving forward to take his steaming mug off of the worn print. He picked up the book, opening the the cover to show the small blue scribble inside. “Ce qui est merveilleux à propos de la grande littérature , c'est qu'il transforme celui qui le lit vers la condition de l'homme qui a écrit.” He read softly, translating for the cat. “What is wonderful about great literature,” he paused “is that it transforms the man who reads it, towards the condition of the man who wrote it.” Hunter leaned back, staring at the smudged blue ink. He looked to the cat who seemingly inspected him. “Maurice? You like it?” the cat purred and curled up onto Hunters lap. “Fuckin’ figures..” he said under his breath, smirking. Hunter turned, upsetting the soon to be slumbering cat. He looked at the window where rain still rhythmically pounded the glass, casting fleeting shadows across the floor. The rained poured heavily into the alley, almost making it look like a vast and ever expanding sea. A sea of dull muddy waters, filled with the downfall of a once great town.

He reached for a cigaret, he almost never smoked. “Nasty habit” he used to say. But every time he read that pretentious, aggravating inscription, he couldn’t help it. He would let it get under his skin. Hunter took a deep drag, letting the smoke swirl into his lungs, and closed his eyes. Allowing the darkness to engulf him. A slow release.