James was disoriented as he hopped out of the taxi, throwing a vague wave over his shoulder in thanks as he began walking in the direction he guessed where his Aunt Clara lived.
James was fuzzy on the details, but as far as he knew, his apartment had been vacated while he had been undercover, which he hoped the NYPD would compensate for. The only family he had around this part of town was his Aunt Clara. His mom had died years ago, and he wasn't sure where his dad was. James guessed dead.
Catching sight of a telephone booth, James quickly rummaged in his pockets, coming up with a paperclip, two lumps of lint, and a couple of twenty-five cent coins. It was at least enough for him to talk to his aunt for five minutes.
His aunt picked up on the second ring, "James Edwards the Third! What happened to you? I invited you to dinner three years ago and you never showed up!"
James laughed, "Sorry, something came up at work."
"Well, tell me about it when you get over here, boy. I'm forcing you over here for dinner, whether you like it or not." He could tell his aunt wasn't actually angry with him, there was a smile in her voice.
"Alright, alright. I'll be over there in ten minutes– I don't have a car."
"Oh, be careful!" She piped up, "See you then."
James quickly said his goodbyes and exited the booth and began jogging down the road. James still felt (and looked) like a well-built machine. Perhaps even better than he remembered.
Color splashed the sky as it began to grow darker. James hurried down the street. Even as a police officer, he could be subject to pick-pocketing or attacks, which he didn't want to deal with on his day back.
James felt fine however– not at all stressed or in pain. Perhaps his back was a little stiff, but otherwise fine. Curiously, James only felt sort of... sad. It was an underlying feeling, something he could easily push out of his mind. He chocked it up to the trauma he recieved, and the memory loss that went with it.
Strangely, he didn't question the memory loss until he realized... four years? And not one single memory?
James shook it off, his mind denying anything wrong. He didn't feel wrong...
Those thoughts were set aside the moment James stepped through his Aunt's door. His aunt was a large woman, not fat but curvy and with a very warm aura around her. She quickly enveloped James in a hug and pulled him inside and proceeded to feed him second and third helpings, saying he needed "to get some meat on those skinny bones" and to "make up for all the dinners he missed".
The house was small and was filled with many knick-nacks and wall-paper that hadn't been updated since the seventies. In the living room his aunt had a TV almost as old, but luckily had color. The ceiling was stained with nicotine of the past owners, the kitchen was rather bare and small with a tiny corner filled up with a circular table and four chairs that barely fit into the space. Aunt Clara had to shimmy around her guests to get pans and pots as she cooked.
"You still make a mean meat-loaf." James grinned as he dug in. He hadn't had a home-cooked meal in ages, as far as he knew. This was delicious.
"You'd better have more then," She smiled, setting a bowl of mashed potatoes on the table. As James looked at the bowl, he could help but feel something was off. His head hurt badly, but ended quickly as it began. Luckily he didn't have time to make a face, but his Aunt noticed his staring.
"Something wrong with my mashed potatoes?" She asked.
"No..." James said somewhat vaguely, serving himself a spoonful. "It's perfect."
Aunt Clara smiled, "Good. So, where are you staying?"
"Oh, uh..." It hadn't occured to him to look.
"It's okay, boy, you can sleep the night here on the couch. I can help you look for an apartment in the morning, if you'd like." She offered kindly.
"I think the NYPD will handle it, but thanks." James smiled, and began stuffing his face once more.
Soon dinner was finished and James took the gentlemanly route by washing all the dishes like he used to do when he was twelve. He finished wiping down the counters around nine, and felt the overbearing weight of sleep tugging at his eyelids.
"I'm gonna hit the sack." He yawned, surprised at his lack of energy.
"Oh, goodnight. There are some blankets you can use on the couch." She replied before going up to her own room.
James quickly turned off all the lights downstairs before crawling onto the sofa which was a foot too short for him, causing his legs to fall over the arm of the chair. He was out like a light, his arm draped over the side while beams of light touched his skin where they peered through cracks in the curtains.