1
It was chilly outside and he could feel the moisture in the air, taste the rain on his lips even though it must have fallen hours ago. The cold was creeping up his legs, spreading across his back and sliding down his shoulders onto his chest like hands in a clammy embrace. His vision was blurred, the well-kept gardens of the suburban road just a stretch of dark surfaces with the odd, glittering rectangular of a lit window here and there. It was quiet except for police sirens somewhere a few streets down. It had to be late.
He was limping, he noticed, dragging one foot to avoid the pain shooting up his leg whenever he put his weight on it. There was a sticky substance smeared acros his temple that he suspected was blood.
Andy Flynn didn't know how many drinks he had had or what they had been. His mind was too foggy for him to recall a single memory beyond dragging himself along this road to go home. He was oddly grateful for having such vast experience with being too drunk to do anymore than barely function, with suddenly snapping out of a drunken stupor somewhere and to finding his way home, because he knew that he would always find his way back to his house somehow.
And there it was, sitting at the corner of two streets with its slightly lopsided mail box that he had never fixed. First, when Carol had just moved out with the kids, it had reminded him of his son who had kicked his soccer ball against it, thus giving it its shaken appearance. He hadn't had the heart to repair the damn thing as it had served as a reminder of those times when his life had still been full. After a while he had simply gotten used to it. On a normal day, he didn't even see it anymore and he wasn't sure why it occurred to him today of all days.
Andy knew nothing much at all, he had to admit to himself.
He had been sober for such a long time, he thought as his thoughts began to become a little clearer. What on earth had made him drink? How much had he had? He tried to retrieve a memory, any memory of the evening, but he drew a blank. Suddenly desperate, he decided to try an old technique that had often grounded him after a night of excessive drinking that had inevitably ended in a major blackout.
What is the last thing you remember?
Panic began to grip him upon the realization that he didn't even know that. He was aware of the general, he suddenly understood, but of none of the specifics. There was no memory that felt recent and no emotion that didn't feel like a memory.
Maybe he was still too drunk to think straight, he tried to comfort himself. Maybe this was normal. Maybe he wouldn't even remember feeling like this in the morning. Maybe he had always been this confused during his drunken exploits; maybe he just didn't remember it. That had to be it. Relief flooded him, though only gradually. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Time trickled where it was supposed to flow.
He stumbled up the path to his front door, almost tripping over a toy car. Damn boy next door. His things always ended up on his front lawn somehow. It took him several attempts to get the key to fit into the look, but then it turned smoothly. He almost laughed at the idea that it turned a lot more smoothly than usual tonight of all nights when he was just a clumsy drunken bastard. He felt so ashamed for drinking again, but somehow this state of drunkenness was different. Sharper, more painful. All the edges were so hard as the world was coming into focus again around him.
He had a terrible headache and he suspected that he could feel every single one of his bones. Somehow he had injured himself, but his vision had cleared and he didn't feel sick. Even the stale taste of alcohol and decay was absent from his mouth. Maybe he hadn't had that much, he tried to reconcile the strange sensations. Maybe, after over a decade of being sober, he had had one drink and it had gone straight to his head.
Andy walked through his front door and felt his body protest even the slight exertion that it took him to hold it open enough to walk through. He would deal with his injuries in the morning, he decided. He was of no use to himself in this state. All he needed was his bed. Andy swore when he banged his already aching knee into a table in the hallway that he had no recollection of putting there. In his memory, it was a good six feet further down the hall. Probably the damn cleaning lady again.
He huffed and felt for the light switch, then winced when it came on before he had a chance to find it. His eyes hurt with the sudden brightness and he squeezed them shut, half-heartedly shielding his face from the light.
There was someone in his house, he understood. His brain was working very slowly, but at least it was working at all. But who would be inside his home in the middle of the night? Had he made a drunken call? He could feel shame rising like bile in this throat. He was a disgrace.
"Andy?" The voice seemed vaguely familiar, but something inside him insisted that this was not its usual tone. Too soft, he thought, but discarded the thought again immediately.
A woman.
Had he picked up a woman at a bar and taken her home? Had he then taken a drunken stroll around the neighborhood just to forget that she had ever been there? God knew, he had woken up next to a few women whose names he hadn't been able to recall back in the day.
He carefully lowered his hand to allow his eyes to adjust to the bright lights. When they had, however, he wished that they hadn't. Halfway down the stairs was no one other than the Wicked Witch herself.
What in God's name was Captain Sharon Raydor doing inside his home? How badly had he screwed up to find FID waiting for him upon his return? And why her of all people? Didn't she usually send out her minions these days? All he wanted to do was sleep.
She wasn't wearing her glasses, which was odd. He hadn't seen her without her glasses since the eighties, the old bat. A giggle made its way up his throat at the thought. He had known her for twenty-five years and had despised her for the best part of them.
"What the fuck," he groaned, too exhausted even to craft a more elaborate insult. He usually managed to flirt with her a little in a way that you only can flirt with someone you have no particular regard for, but he wasn't even capable of that right now.
To his great surprise, she wasn't carrying her little notebook nor was she wearing her arrogant little smirk that usually told him that he was doomed. It was that smirk that heralded punishment for his shortcomings and he had grown to hate it. Why did she have to be here in his darkest hour? Now that she was standing right in front of him, he could tell that she was also not wearing work clothes. She was in yoga pants and a sweater, her feet bare.
A wave of pure rage swept over Andy, aided along by his inability to apply simple logic to any scenario he was presented with. Anger was all he could feel. Anger at himself for drinking again, anger at the universe for having him find himself in this situation, but most of all, anger at Sharon Fucking Raydor having the cheek to show up at his place and make herself at home and most of all for looking concerned.
He knew that he was a despicable human being. He didn't need it spelled out for him. He didn't need her pity.
"Get the fuck out of my house, do you hear me?" He wanted to yell at her, but his voice wouldn't collaborate. It sounded husky. Weak. And it made him even more angry.
"Andy, it's me," she said softly, a note of despair in her tone.
"I know damn well who you are. If you are here to lecture me about whatever it is I have done again, save your fucking breath and come back tomorrow."
When she reached out for his arm, he shrugged her off with vigor.
"Get out of here!" Now his voice had gained some momentum and he winced at how loud it suddenly was.
The Captain's eyes darted towards the stairs which he found even more infuriating.
"Go or I swear I'll make you regret it!" he threatened her, well-aware that he was in no condition to be an actual threat to anyone. And as angry as he was, he wasn't stupid enough to hurt a superior officer. And a woman, no less, because as annoying as she was, she was still very much a woman.
She looked hurt, which he found a little ridiculous given their relationship. There was really no need to bite back tears, to look this devastated.
"Andy, something is wrong with you. At least let me call a doctor!" she begged him.
Andy couldn't take it anymore. With a step that had been supposed to be swift but ended up being more of a stumble, he stepped back and opened the front door.
"Out," he growled.
She raised both hands in a display of the easy diplomacy she was known for whenever she wasn't trying to rile up the rest of the department. Or maybe she was trying to talk him down. To give the wild animal a sense of security however false it may be.
"Okay," she said. "I'll leave in a minute. I'll be right back."
Before he realized what she was doing, she was halfway up the stairs and he was too tired to go after her. It felt as if his spine was twisted; he could hardly stand anymore and his head was pounding more forcefully than before. It felt as if his forehead was going to split in two, so he closed his eyes for a moment enjoying the soothing darkness.
When he opened them again, he was sure that he was hallucinating.
Raydor was descending the stairs carefully, a bag over her shoulder and a bundle of blankets in her arms, gently cradled to her chest.
A huge bundle that was moving.
A bundle that was making unhappy sounds.
He narrowed his eyes to sharpen his vision.
There was a little boy in her arms, clinging to her and at the verge of tears. Andy felt his temper deflate. Since when did Raydor have a kid that young? And what the heck was she doing inside his house with it?
The kid was maybe two, probably a little older, wearing pajamas adorned with airplanes. Andy didn't have the heart to yell at her again when she walked past him through the door and into the night. The kid, at least, wasn't at fault for being here with her. There was no need to disturb it any further.
She said his name again when she stood outside in the driveway, the little boy already half-asleep again, his head on her shoulder.
"I called an ambulance for you. You must have been in an accident."
He wanted to yell at her that he didn't need a doctor. He was just drunk. Absolutely shit-faced, judging from the awful headache. But then her words began to sink in. He couldn't detect a trace of alcohol on his tongue or breath, nor was there the sour taste that heralded an impending hangover. He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. Upon closer inspection, there was a bump on the back of his head that explained the headache.
He had just assumed that he had fallen off the wagon, but what if he hadn't? What if she was right and he was hurt?
But if he was, then why on earth couldn't he remember anything helpful?
Why couldn't he remember anything at all?
"Andy? Andy!" Her voice sounded far away and then faded as he gave himself over to the velvet darkness that was closing in on him.