Chapter 02

The traffic light opened and, between daydreams, I didn't see it. I could only see the green flashing when a car behind me honked its horn, making me hit the gas pedal until I got home.

I pushed the melancholy thoughts to the bottom. I could not allow myself to lament, repent, or anything else related to my egoism. I made a choice and she was helping me a lot.

—   Good evening, Greg.

I greeted the doorman of the building with a smile on my face and he greeted me with another in the same way.

I loved it here.

I loved my city. That was a positive side of my job. He allowed me not to go far. I could visit my sister at one time or another and she would come visit me too. Besides, no one would have guessed that Angel Backer lived in the suburbs of town.

I was pleased.

It was a simple, inexpensive building that supported my peaceful lifestyle. It contained plants at the entrance, some glass windows, and a very friendly doorman who always bid me good morning.

I liked the place, even if some technical imperfections insisted on wanting to spoil my days. It was here that almost no one knew me, here that I was nothing but a normal person.

I took the elevator a little hard because of its tiny size and walked down the hallway of my little home with a few bags in my hands.

However, I suddenly froze.

Right in front of my door, in totally dark clothes, a man was knocking on the wood and trying in every way to turn the doorknob.

Who was it?? Did he want to come in? What was going on?

Two strong kicks were deposited in the door.

My eyes widened and my breathing cut off. By his stature and the way he dressed, I was sure I had never seen this person in my life.

Who was that asshole who wanted to break into my fucking house? The only place that's just mine? Was he a drunk, an employee, a lunatic? A fan?

Some fans had already done crazy things, but none knew where I lived specifically. Not to the point of being so close to me without any security. Why did Greg let him go up?

God.

What should I do in this situation? What would James say?

—  Run, Angel, like in training!—   His stiff voice echoed through my brain. However, I never listened to him. I always hated the orders the security guards gave me, I felt like a baby. And I wasn't.

An uproar of anger and  fear mingled in my blood, but the anger stood out, giving me the courage to drop all my belongings on the floor (a few bags and a notebook) and approach with smoke billowing from my nostrils.

The man stopped trying to stick the key into the doorknob suddenly and stared at his own feet, thoughtful. That scared me.

I almost hesitated. Almost.

Should I do that? Should I confront a stranger who might be a psychopath?

I stopped after the questioning, braking my feet at once.

James would tell me to run, but the hooded man kept trying to open my house. My home. The only place I felt like a person and not a piece of aesthetic.

Fuck it.

—   Shit! — the bass of his voice echoed down the hall.

He looked angry.

But I was more! No one has the right to try to break into my house!

I worked up courage after a gust of air and walked in brisk strides. I already missed my oxygen pump.

—   Hey! —   I shouted at the unknown man, but he didn't turn to look at me. —   What do you think you're doing?

It wasn't until I was standing next to him that I realized how tall and muscular he was.

Maybe I was making a mistake. I totally facilitated his attempt to kidnap me.

Fuck, where's my phone?!

—   Who do you think you are to just mess up other people's homes like that? — my throat burned so that those words came out without shaking.

Please don't kill me.

—   Don't you have a clue in your head to respect the property of others?

Don't hurt me, I can't have a black eye in a magazine.

—  What kind of education did your family give you?— 

That it was enough not to kill a person.

The stranger was paralyzed. His loose back was the only sight I had.

—   Are you deaf, by any chance?

Shut up, Angel.

I don't know where the courage to say those words came from, but regret hit as soon as my brain processed them.

He turned around at once, staring at me with an enigmatic, static, cold, yet familiar look.

His features were slow to be processed by my consciousness. The details on his face, the thick eyebrows, the brown eyes, the big beard, the small scars on his forehead and cheeks. To top it off, after the meddling wind passed through the nearest window, its smell became everything I could think of.

My body froze as I finally identified the familiarity of those details. A familiarity buried four years ago, years before my life even collapsed.

He was a piece of memory. A piece of the good times.

It was Ian. An older, stronger, taller and more... strange. But it was Ian.

—  I'm not deaf,—   he said in an icy tone, as if he didn't recognize me. —   In case you're trying to decipher.

I curved my eyebrows, shifted my body weight to my left foot. All to give my voice time to stabilize; Time to reason if it wasn't a hallucination.

—   Why... Why is it in my apartment? — I almost stutter. Almost. —   What are you doing here?

My eyes couldn't stop seeing that distant, older, more tense face.

—   What? —   was harsh, barely looking at me. —   It's my apartment!

Was this a dream? Those dreams that we think have found our home, but that, in fact, nothing is as it should be? Nothing is in place?

I gave myself a pinch.

—   Au!—   I grumbled when the sharp pain assured me I was awake.

Ian... Well, the person I thought was Ian had a totally confused expression.

—  Are you going to stand there staring at me or do you have something better to do?—   —   It was rude. —    Didn't your family educate you to know that it's ugly to treat people like that?— 

He used my phrase against me!

—   What? —   I didn't hold back my surprise. —   What do you think you're talking about?!

—   Is the neighborhood of this building that messy?

I was stunned.

What a jerk! Were you calling me a meddler? And you didn't even recognize me?

Son of a bitch!

—   Oh! — my mouth opened, perplexed. —  You almost break down the door to my apartment and still question me?—   Who do you think it is? I'll call the security guard!

I look to my surroundings for help.

He moves, parsing the number on the door. Apparently my words had an effect.

—   Your apartment? Isn't this 206?

I stopped looking for my phone inside the bags to answer it.

—   That's 208! —   I spoke in a loud and clear tone, filled with anger.

I was right!

Ian took a step back and pulled out the key he was trying to put on my doorknob.

—   That's 206! — I pointed to the door in front of  mine, on the left side of the hallway.

A silence stopped after a puff of air came out of his fleshy, red, and... Get out of it!

—   Right. Thank you.

The asshole turned his back on me and smoothly managed to open the front door. He didn't even have to kick and went in.

He didn't apologize to me.

It didn't help me with the bags.

He didn't recognize me.

Ian Caccini reappeared in Boston after four years and was weirder than ever.