I was hoping to get this up yesterday but ran out of time:
He had walked four blocks since making his escape from the abandoned building, making furtive glances over his shoulder in case he had been followed. Giving in to the pain in his ankle he lowered himself onto a porch step, "Least I'm out of that dive," he thought to himself as he took in the neighbourhood. It was by no means a desirable area to live in but it looked slightly higher market than 56th Street. He took a moment to catch his breath and take stock of what had happened, he closed his eyes and hung his head in shame as he recalled the look on Andy's face. "He hates you," he told himself. "Look at what you've become; you're no better than the Malucci's."
He sat on the step until he heard the sound of sirens in the distance, he knew it was unlikely that they were coming for him but decided it would be better to be safe than sorry. Moving his right ankle in a circular motion to test its reliability he stood up and carried on down the street and out of sight.
He had no idea where he was going, he wandered around the streets for hours trying to clear his head and justify his actions over the last few years. Agent Collins had given him the freedom to do whatever he had to prove his loyalty to Frankie and Benny. He surprised himself at the lengths he had gone to keep his cover intact. Coming up to a convenience store he stopped and peered through the window, recognising the owner he put on his game face and walked in.
The shopkeeper recognised him easily, "Mr Kelly, please come in," the elderly Indian man shuffled nervously to the counter and stood behind it. "I have only just paid my monthly fee, no?" The old man's hand hovered above the register, ready to hand over his hard-earned takings for the day.
Walking over to the beers and spirits section he gave the shopkeeper a quick glance before picking up a bottle of scotch. "Relax, Mr Aftab. I'm not here for your money." He limped up to the till and placed the bottle on the counter.
The other man saw the grimace that crossed his face, "You hurt, Mr Kelly? We have aspirin, painkillers of every sort, sir." He waved his hand across the front of the counter.
"No, thanks. Just the scotch." He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and opened it before the shopkeeper raised his hands up.
"Mr Kelly, you take it. Please." The elderly man gave him a nervous smile, "I keep you and your bosses happy, yes?" he looked at him hopefully.
"That you do, Mr Aftab," he responded as he picked the bottle up from the counter. "Much obliged, have a good evening." He left the shop feeling worse than when he had walked in, only a few short years ago he had been helping innocent victims of extortion and now here he was striking fear into a feeble, elderly man and taking advantage of him. He knew appearance and perception was everything if he were to remain under cover, should it be blown he knew that the Malucci's would keep coming after him until they were sure he was dead.
He finally made it back to his sparsely furnished apartment just as the dark of night had begun to colour the sky above him. He found it ironic that he still lived in Queens, only a few short blocks from where his old apartment was. After his arrest he had moved out, knowing that Lori and Robin would come looking for answers. He knew he wouldn't be able to tell them what they wanted to hear, "It's better this way," he told himself as he closed the door and headed for the kitchen area. He knew the people he had sworn to protect hated him right now, they would not understand why he made the choice that he did. He felt terrible for leaving their lives without so much as a goodbye or a reason why, the less they knew about what he had become involved in the safer they would be.
He had kept a close eye on his apartment for the first few weeks since his fall from grace. At first Robin and Lori had come almost every day trying to track him down. Each time he saw them walk from the apartment building in tears he felt another piece of his heart break away and harden him. Even James Martinez had come looking for him, he knew the young detective idolised him and it killed him to see the look of utter devastation on the poor man's face. Slowly the visits of his friends and family became less until they stopped visiting at all. He told himself that they had moved on and forgotten about him, getting on with their lives with him no longer in it. "If only they knew," he whispered out loud. They might have forgotten about him but there was not a day that passed by when he didn't think about them.
He shrugged his leather jacket off and threw it on the counter, opening a cupboard he reached for a glass tumbler before unscrewing the bottle of scotch and pouring himself a large amount. With a sigh he threw his head back and swallowed the alcohol in one mouthful, grimacing as it burnt the back of his throat. Drinking was meant to numb the pain but it had yet to take effect, picking up the bottle and the glass in one hand he moved into the living area. He sat down wearily in the armchair and poured himself another glass of scotch, he winced at the pain in his ankle as he carelessly pulled his shoes off and threw them across the room.
He downed his second glass much as he did his first and poured himself another, pinching the bridge of his nose. As he opened his eyes again his gaze fell on the worn and folded photographs on the small table beside him, he picked them up and caressed them softly with his fingertips as if touching them would keep him a part of their lives. A stray tear ran down his cheek as he looked at the pictures of himself with the people he cared about, they all looked so happy and carefree back then. A million miles away from the car crash his life had become.
Sinking his third glass of scotch he told himself that he would keep drinking until he fell asleep or he reached the end of the bottle, whichever came first.
He came back to awareness slowly; the last thing he remembered was protesting his innocence to Andy and the young guy that was with him. Everything became a blur after that, his body giving in to exhaustion as his muddled brain struggled to process the random bits of information it had been receiving. He still didn't fully understand what had happened and he hoped that Andy could help him fix the holes in his memory. He was relieved to find that he felt marginally better than he had yesterday, no longer continuously fighting the urge to vomit.
He opened his eyes and looked around the room and was disappointed to find he was alone, the beeping of the monitors the only sound in the room. He felt so tired and alone, much as he had in his dream. "Except it wasn't a dream," he told himself, "You did those things, you made them hate you." He knew the when and the why but still had next to no idea of things he had done. Suddenly he felt the overwhelming rush of self-loathing and knew he had experienced it before, he had become something he despised and yet had no idea why. He needed to talk to Andy; he needed his help to make sense of what had happened to him to make the other man hate him so.