The Hunting Party

by Lucy Foley

The first time is the worst, but with each death the soul is wounded further. After a while there is nothing left but scar tissue.

Remove all of the distractions, and here, in the silence and solitude, the demons they have kept at bay catch up with them.

Surviving, existing—just. Not living. That is a word for those who seek entertainment, pleasure, comfort out of each day.

But in friendship, as in love, opposites often attract. Extrovert and introvert, yin and yang.

Some people, given just the right amount of pressure, taken out of their usual, comfortable environments, don’t need much encouragement at all to become monsters. And sometimes you just get a strong sense about people, and you can’t explain it; you simply know it, in some deeper part of yourself. That’s the lizard brain, too.

Here is a person held together by tape and glue and prescription-strength sleeping pills—the

I’m not saying that I have a drinking problem; I don’t. But I don’t ever drink for pleasure. I do it out of necessity. I use it as another painkiller: to blunt the edge of things, to alleviate the chronic, aching torment of memory.

That’s when I am most myself, without the weight of everything upon me.

New Year’s Eve. The loneliest night of the year, even if you’re with people. Even before my life fell apart I remember that. There’s always that worry that you’re maybe not having quite as much of a good time as you could be. As you should be.

forgetting that trying to get drunk to assuage loneliness only ever makes you feel lonelier than before.

Wounds inflicted at that sort of raw, unformed time in our lives tend to cut the deepest—and leave the worst scars.

Sometimes I positively hated her. But I did love her. That’s what happens when you have known someone for such a long time. You see all their faults, yes, but you know their best qualities, too—and Miranda had so many of those.

Old friends don’t challenge us on our faults.