Kai
Something cold pressed against my face.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I flinched, eyes snapping open to a blur of darkness and streetlight shimmer. Rain. My cheek was against the wet asphalt, the taste of dirt and metal coating my tongue. I feel like I'd been hit by a truck.
I pushed myself up, arms trembling. The street was empty, the hum of rain against the pavement was somewhat smoothing. Weirdly enough.
"Not again…" I whispered, my voice barely rising above the downpour. This was the third time it had happened, waking up in some unknown place with no recollection of how the hell I got there. Maybe I should've gone to a doctor, a hospital. But that thought vanished as quickly as it came. They'd only confirm what I've been trying so hard not to accept.
And yet, I can't find any other explanation for the blackouts.
Especially since two out of the three times… there was blood.
And the worst part? The blood on my clothes wasn't mine.
A faint hmm buzzed from my pocket.
I froze. Then felt for it; the zipper, the fabric, the familiar shape beneath the damp cloth. My phone. Cracked screen, still glowing. At least something still worked.
Notifications flashed across the glass, distorted by raindrops.
Messages from my coworker. My manager.
[Where the hell did you go?]
[You can't just leave mid-shift, man.]
[Call me.]
I exhaled, a shaky breath clouding the cold air. Working as a bartender at a semi-prestigious bar in the city had been a blessing. Especially for someone fresh out of high school.
Now I am about to lose it all. Six months of holding it together, gone.
Just what I needed.
Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. I pocketed the phone and kept staring at the empty street, trying to remember how I ended up here.
Nothing.
What the fuck is wrong with me…
…
It took me almost two hours to get back to my shitty studio.
From what I've heard, a Host used to live here, before the SFAH caught the bastard.
Not that I gave a fuck who lived here before me. I'm just happy I got it for that price.
Two flights of stairs. That's all that separated me from what passed as home.
I checked the mailbox on my way in, empty. The nameplate still read [Mike Dickinson]. What a dick name. I still hadn't changed it to Kai Young. Probably never would.
The lease runs out in three months anyway, and I'll be completely broke long before that.
Whatever. I shouldn't think like that, I'll figure something out.
Right now, I just needed to get upstairs and call my manager, beg him to let this slide.
I started up the stairs. My legs felt heavier with every step, but the soreness in my body faded quicker this time. Quicker than the last two times, at least.
By the time I reached the second floor, my hands were shaking again.
From the cold, I told myself.
The hallway lights flickered, buzzing like dying insects. The same smell of damp concrete and mold greeted me, home sweet home. I fished out my keys, thank goodness, I still had them in my pocket, shoved one into the lock, and pushed the door open. Home sweet home.
The place was exactly how I'd left it, dim, cluttered, lifeless. Perfect.
A cracked mug on the counter. A jacket thrown across the couch.
The faint sound of rain dripping through the window frame.
I dropped onto the couch with a dull thud.
"Goddamn it," I muttered, rubbing my face.
"I still have to call my manager."