Voice log: moving on

There’s a sigh when the voice note begins, barely audible as the creaking noise of a chair fills the stretch of silence. A throaty hrr-hrum, commanding attention, followed closely by another sigh, like they can’t collect the words.

“It’s, erm, Monday… The year is- ah, blasts, who gives a hoot? Sheesh. Ain’t nuthin’ but a load of scientific hubbub, I’ll dun tell ya what.”

The sound of scratching, his beard, most likely; a huff of breath pushed out through his nostrils.

“Karma, them doctors at the rehab center, now they wanted me ta, uh, record yer progress as ya grew into yerself. But I told ‘em ta mind their own, this was about yer… hrm,” He clicks his tongue, and distantly, his tail hits the floor with a thunk. “Journey, now that’s th’ word, journey, as ya got yer life back. What good of a support system would I be if I dun treated ya like a wild animal, huh?”

He clears his throat again, laughing under his breath. It’s a throaty noise, deep, the kind of laugh that rattles your chest.

“So I told ‘em ta mind their own tails, alright, that I did. And, boy, I’ll tell ya that I’m proud of ya.”

That laugh again, but it’s different now. Puffed out nervously, and the sound of him scratching his beard again fills the void where words once were.

“When ya came in… I’ll be honest with ya, son, I wasn’t sure. Ya had th’ worst past I dun ever seen… Not ta even mention yer damn arm, boy. I thought, ‘now how’s he gone an’ dun that?’, the moment I laid eyes on ya. And it was worse than I coulda ever thought up.”

He whistles, then, one solid note that cuts through. It’s so loud it blows the sound out a bit, crackling through.

“But look at ya now. A goal, a passion… A purpose. Boy, never let them blasted fools tell ya otherwise, ya got guts. Ya got th’ gumption. Yer handed the worst in life, right out tha get go… And yer still here. Sure, I’ll say it, sometimes yer a bit worse fer wear, ya lose yer head like nobody I ever dun seen before. But by god, boy, yer still here. Never let them take that from ya.”

He sucks in a breath suddenly, hard, laughing it out in a puff. It’s no secret, really, why Huckleberry was the perfect man for the job- friendly, fatherly, good. Everything about him is so good, so easy. He continues, still laughing a little around the words.

“So yer moving on, now. Can’t stay on th’ farm forever, but ya always got a place here.”

The chair creaks loudly as he rises, letting out a noise as he stands. When he speaks again, he’s closer, much closer.

“Yer always welcome to come home.”

The voice note ends out with a thud, followed closely by a swear, getting louder as Huckleberry bends to retrieve it. A lowly hissed now what ya gone and done that fer, ya big damn oaf, blasted phones, I dun hate these darn contraptions I’ll tell ya what, before a click.