Alec Hardy has a long list of things he hates.
He hates the air, the sand, the never-ending sky.
He hates this small town where everyone's eyes are on you all the time.
He hates how this investigation is dredging up secrets that should never be exposed. He came to Broadchurch with secrets of his own to hide, hoping no one would recognize him. So much for that hope.
He hates knowing there will be no easy solution to this case. No matter who the killer is, the knowledge will tear apart this close-knit community.
He hates Miller's cheeriness and her ridiculous rustly orange jacket. Her happy family just reminds him of what he's lost. He envies her ability to still feel everything, the job made him callous long ago.
He hates his body, and has turned self-neglect into an art form, stubbornly ignoring the need for food, sleep, or comfort. Pretending to be singlemindedly pursing Danny's killer, he's really just fleeing his own demons.
He hates the pain in his chest and the lightheadedness that are becoming familiar companions. He hates that his malfunctioning heart might prevent him from solving the case, and that his medical condition is now one more secret to hide from the citizens of Broadchurch.
He hates worrying about dying. Even worse, though, he fears surviving. While he desperately needs to finish this case, he can see no future after it. What's left for him? No family, no friends, no career, not even a place to live other than a temporary room at the Traders. Really, what good is he?
Yes, Alec Hardy has a long list of things he hates. And at the very top of that list: himself.
