The address on his driver’s license was an apartment block over in Humboldt Park. 745 Coolidge Avenue, Apartment #654. Dom stood on the sidewalk across the street and stared at the block with trepidation in his heart like it was an old haunted mansion or The Munsters’ getaway. It was dark, grimy, barely a light burning. He checked his watch: it was two am.
He sucked in a nervy breath of cold air. The journey over from the basement he’d just escaped from was a mishmash of déjà vu, anxious uncertainties, and a whole bunch of loneliness. He took the bus, using the few dollars he had in his wallet. He sat near the back, turning that driver’s license over and over in his hands like it was some ancient relic that held clues to who he presently was and who he’d been. It told him where he’d been living before he ended up the victim of a vampire, and that was about all. It was all still a haze.
As the bus cut through the streets of Chicago, and he watched the Windy City buzz by, thoughts and feelings began to stir inside him; old memories, places he’d been, seen, places he’s always wanted to see. It was totally the wrong time for that; right then he wanted to fit all the existing pieces into the jigsaw, not create new ones that had no place in the old him.
He sat there, a bag of raw nerves, biting his dirty finger nails, semi-conscious of the junkie-esque state he was in: trembling, clammy, twitchy. The last thing he wanted was to get pulled by any cops looking to make a cheap arrest, right then he was prime meat for that. And the paranoid state he was in was no help. But one thing was clear: he needed shelter, and he needed a place to gather his thoughts and work out his next move.
The bus finally pulled into Humboldt and that déjà vu went into overdrive. He stepped off the bus, lightheaded like he’d been drinking. Neon signs bathed him in an artificial glow, reflecting off the wet sidewalk. It had been raining on this side of town. Over to the left, a few hobos were sleeping on benches, huddled up against the cold. For a moment, Dom thought he recognized one or two of them, but then supposed it could just be his mind playing tricks on him in his desperation to regain some kind of sanity.
He checked the local map pasted to the station wall, running his finger along the drawn streets, working his way back to Coolidge Avenue. While he did, his memory began stirring, kicking into gear the more he stared at the map. He’d known these streets like the back of his hand; that hand was just a bit rusty right then. He nodded his head, his instincts beginning to switch into gear. He knew he had to make a right at the end of the street. And that’s where he went. Head down, he passed the few hoods and hustlers that were obligatory on the night streets of Chicago, hoping they wouldn’t bother him. A few girls were offering services; Dom moved past them like they weren’t there. Clouds hung in the night sky, threatening to unload on the ground below. There was an icy bite in the air. He kept on walking.
The more streets he moved through, the more his memory slotted into place. He found himself going down streets without thinking, his instinctive navigation system taking control. The closer he got to his apartment, the more apprehensive he became. He wanted to be off the streets, get back home, and get his head together. He made it to the KFC drive-thru that marked the top of his street. The sign read: Coolidge Avenue. His heart skipped a beat. He was almost there. He passed by the Iranian minimart where he always bought his bottles of Bud and toilet roll. A hobo was propped up against the front of the store, his legs splayed, paper bags dotted around him. Dom nodded his head: Old Harry. It was Old Harry sitting there; the guy he’d throw a few quarters if he had any spare. Good to see nothing’s changed...
He marched along the sidewalk, leaving Old Harry behind, knowing he was so close to his apartment. He scanned the area with wide eyes and then it was there. His apartment block, sitting there, waiting.
He stopped and watched with baited breath, a weird sense of dread and relief flooding him. Something about the block was off. Just nerves, buddy, he told himself. Just nerves...
He wanted to get off the street and into shelter. He sucked in a breath and stepped up to the stairwell. It was quiet. Well at two am on a weeknight that wasn’t unusual. The engine of the odd car on the street below punctuated the buzz of the fluorescent lights in the stairwell. Dom remembered his apartment was on the third floor. So, up he went, his feet scratching on the cement steps. He made it up the first two stairwells, the familiarity now enveloping his mind more than the venom. He looked out onto the second-floor landing to see the small bikes belonging to the twins that lived in the apartment directly below his. The ones with the perma-pigtails and grins. He felt a grin emerging on his own face at the sight of them; it was a relief against all the horror and anxiety of breaking free from his chains.
He moved into the stairwell once more and jumped up it two steps at a time, his heart stopping dead. Excitement was now surging through him. He jumped out into his landing and he squinted his eyes. He could see the slanted angle of his front door. A navy blue that looked even darker in the night. He nodded and ran his hands through his hair. He puffed his cheeks. You made it, buddy.
He grinned as he strode along the corridor, going past all the other doors; the elderly couple who always said ‘hi’ on the odd occasion they saw him. The cute brunette, Eloise, who always had a beaming smile, and not forgetting the moany old bastard who lived in the end apartment, who Dom was now struggling to name...
It was all like a bucket of cold water in the face. His head swam with memories.
When he got to his front door, he stopped and turned to face it like a soldier saluting his sergeant. It stared back at him, dumb. Dom licked his dry lips and nodded. “Welcome home, buddy,” he whispered. He went to enter, when a horrifying thought struck him. Oh, Christ, I don’t have a door key.
He stuffed his hands in pockets in a panic and rummaged. He found his wallet again, and... his fingers touched metal. He pulled his hand out to see his keys dangling from his grip. He closed his eyes and exhaled deep.
About time I had some luck...
He fanned the keys out, seeing one was for a Ford (I got a car? Shrug. Cool...). He picked the one that most looked like a door key, hoped for the best, and then pushed it in the lock. It slotted in smooth. He turned it and the door popped open, releasing the darkness beyond. He hesitated, took a peek into the slit he’d created, and then pushed the door open; he stood in the doorway like a phantasm. The dark hallway beyond stared back at him. He quickly stepped into the gloom, his feet landing on something soft. He looked down and saw the stacks of post underneath his sneakers; junk mail and letters addressed to him. Bills, statements, that kind of other junk.
He chuckled and threw the door shut behind him. The faint musk of unaerated room hit his nostrils; the AC hadn’t been switched on in who knew how long... His sinus quickly adjusted and his hand instinctively moved to the section of the wall where the light switch was located. He found it and flicked it on, his eyes wide, his breath baited. The light came on and illuminated the hallway. Now, his head swam with memories. He was finally home, away from the madness; he’d be safe now.
He staggered through his hallway like he’d just come back from a nightclub. He made it past the kitchen to the doorway on the right. He swung it open and flicked on the light inside. It was his bedroom, just how he left it. The first thing he laid eyes on was his bed; unkempt. There were clothes all over the floor, a set of dumbbells amongst them. He stared at everything in confusion. How did I end up in that basement? Who took me there? How did I find it?
He wiped his grimy face and shook his head, unable to answer right then. He stepped back into the corridor and headed for the lounge. He pushed the door open and flicked the light on. His home. Just as it was. The TV, the sofa, coffee table, a laptop. His house plant needed watering. More bouts of déjà vu began smacking him from all angles and with it were fragments of life before the basement. Times he’d spent in this room, watching TV, surfing the web, eating lunch, drinking Bud. It became overwhelming. He went over to the sofa and collapsed into it, the weight finally off his feet. He rubbed his eyes. There were too many questions in his mind and not enough answers.
Man, I could do with a drink...
He got back to his feet and staggered to the kitchen. A pile of dirty dishes clogged the sink; empty takeaway packets lined the counter. He went to the fridge and opened her up. Waiting for him inside was a cold bottle of Bud, a rotten head of lettuce, long gone off bacon, and a half empty bottle of ketchup. He reached in, grabbed the Bud and held it up to his clammy face. It was cold, nice. He snapped the cap off with his teeth and took an immediate gulp. His taste bud memories were now racing as the cold beer flowed over his tongue. Man, how could he ever have chosen vampire venom over a cold Bud? How?
He gasped at the refreshing taste. He nodded his head and held up his bottle to the grimy kitchen.
“Welcome home, buddy,” he said with a rueful smile.