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When she asked me, “Why are you so cold towards me?”

I said, “I have to. It’s like an igloo. Icy cold blocks creates a wall; a cold wall to keep the inside warm. And the inside is my heart”.

Without looking straight into her eyes, I walked away. Trying to go far away, as far as my lethargic mind could take me.

Alas, it was lost.

But they say that the best photographs are inside your memory.

Words of self-comfort.

That night was especially dark. The dark figure came closer. I knew who that was. An old man that I used to know riding on an old and rusty Raleigh Superbe Roadster. The bicycle squeaked softly as it was approaching me. The front tyre was slightly twisted but not enough to make it wobble. I then could clearly see the rifle on the old man’s shoulder, balanced perfectly as if it was tightly tied to his clavicle.

Then there was a strange smell. A musk-like odour. The bicycle screeched gently to a halt just beside me. A sudden gust of chilling breeze went through the openings of my shirt. Bitter. It was then that I could see three mouse deer carcasses at the back of the bicycle, one tied on top of the others on the bicycle’s iron grill.

“What are you doing here? Wandering in the middle of the night”, the old man asked.

I tried looking directly at his face but could see nothing. I was not sure if it was because of the darkness or because my vision was weakening or even because if he had no face at all! But I’m pretty sure it was that same old man, the old man I used to know from long ago.

“I’m going back to my grandparent’s house, just a few yards ahead. I live there now since my grandmother is staying there all alone”, I answered.

“Ah, I met your grandfather a few days ago”, he said.

Right after his statement, I felt like trembling. Cold sweat began to drip from the back of my neck. I forced my feet to be sturdier on the ground. I braved myself.

“Where are you from?”, I asked.

As if there was an invisible grin on his face, he answered, “I was from the hill, hunting. Then I made my way back here through the rubber plantation.”

He lowered this right arm from pointing north-east. I could see his old, skeletal hand with a little help from the nervous moon light.

Something was obviously not right. The last of the rubber trees were cut down more than twenty years ago. The old man was pointing at the current hillside condominiums and luxurious bungalows area; a socially gated community. I was anxious. I wanted to end all this.

“Why are you here? Really. Why?”, I asked in a somewhat insolent manner.

I could feel an intangible sigh from the old man.

“I am a hunter and will always be one. In the land where I came from, there is nothing to hunt. Everything is already dead!”