Chapter 1

I changed out of the white pyjamas I'd lived in for the past five years, and put on the clothes I was told were mine, which I barely recognised—blue jeans, a white shirt, green military style jacket, and cowboy boots. After so long in the same outfit, this almost seemed like fancy dress. I stared at myself in the small mirror on the wall of the room that had been my home. The only thing I recognised about myself was the mohawk, which I'd insisted the barber keep styling for me every time he cut my hair. It was the only thing that was still me.

The next hour passed almost like a dream—signing forms, receiving keys and an address for the place I was told would be my new home. I was given an envelope, too, which apparently contained something to help me start up again in the real world, and a bag with medication inside. I barely registered what the doctor was saying.

Suddenly, I was outside on the damp street, staring back at the closed door of Arkham. I fingered the scar on my neck, only dimly aware of how I came to have that. It seemed so long ago—shooting, being shot, waking up with my wrists cuffed to the sides of a hospital bed, while they pumped someone else's blood into me. I'd often wondered why the system would bother to save me, when it cost them a fortune to keep me locked up and medicated, counselled and fed for so long. A few more minutes and I'd have been dead, and they could have saved all that money. Now they were paying for housing for me, too. At least for six months.

I looked at the address on the folded paper in my hand. I had no idea where it was. I knew nothing about the city I now resided in. I started to walk, gazing about me at the dirty streets, bags of rubbish rotting in the gutters, homeless people sitting in doorways. It was worse than New York.

I kept walking, trying to remember what the doctor had told me. A couple of miles east, high rise apartment buildings, long flights of steps up. I didn't even know if I was heading east, but tall buildings were visible in the distance. I kept going and passed a couple of boarded up stores, failed businesses that had left their premises to be looted and smashed up. Farther along the street, a music store was about to suffer the same fate. A clown danced out front, holding a sign to announce a closing down sale.

I stepped off the footpath into the street to pass him, taking in the bright green wig and painted fake red smile as I walked by. He glanced my way and green eyes surrounded by painted blue diamonds met mine. He faltered in his dance and took a step back, then looked away and lifted the sign above his head, spinning it around.

I walked on, scuffing the heels of my boots on the cracked concrete. What would I do now I was out of the hospital? They seemed to think I would make it, but what was the point? I had nothing. I had no one. Even my one friend, Wizard, was in another city, probably still driving his yellow cab. He might not even remember me now.

It took me a couple of hours to find the apartment building. Eventually, I stumbled upon what looked like an endless flight of steps leading up to the heavens, and I trudged up them, assuming they would lead to my destination. At the top, another dirty, rubbish-filled street led to the towers with their graffiti-covered lower walls and boarded-up ground floor windows. It looked like a hell-hole. Something I had plenty of experience of.

I walked in and stood in front of the lift door. I didn't bother to press the button—the car could be heard whirring and clanking as it travelled either up or down. I waited, until eventually the door slid open. A young woman with a little girl stepped out, eyed me warily, and hurried out of the building. Shrugging, I got in the lift, checked the paper in my hand, and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

The corridor was dark and gloomy, with at least half of the lights blown, and no windows to let in any natural light. I unlocked the door of the apartment I'd been allocated, and flicked the switch on the wall inside. A bare bulb suspended from the ceiling clicked on, showing me a threadbare carpet and an equally worn couch. A couple of wooden units and a table completed the furnishings. I closed the door and looked around the rest of the rooms—a bedroom with a double bed, a folded pile of old but clean bedding on the end of it; a bathroom with bath, sink, and toilet; a small kitchen with a fridge, a cooker, and a few cupboards. A quick investigation revealed a small number of plates, bowls, and mugs, some cutlery, and a few old pans.

The place was no worse or better than my place in New York had been. At least it was bigger. In New York, I'd had a studio—a single room with everything crammed in, attached to a tiny shower and toilet room, barely big enough to turn around in.

I sat on the couch and looked in the bag I'd been given. There were the two journals I'd been writing in, a couple of pens, and some orange pots with white lids, containing my medication. I put it aside and looked at the brown envelope I'd been given, which had my name scrawled on the front in untidy lettering—Travis.

I tore open the envelope and shook out the contents. A handful of bills fluttered into my lap and to the carpet. They were small denominations, totalling no more than a hundred bucks. Besides them was a bank book—mine, from before. There was also a cheque and a letter. The cheque was for two thousand and the letter accompanying it was addressed from a law firm in New York. My father, whom I'd had nothing to do with since before I joined the marines, had died while I was in Arkham. With no one else to leave his meagre estate to, I was the recipient. He was probably turning in his grave. He'd disowned me when he found out I liked boys as much as I liked girls.

After a few more minutes staring at the blank, dingy walls around me, I went out again. I had no specific plan, but when I returned to the apartment two hours later, I'd banked the cheque, and spent the cash on two bags of groceries and toiletries, some new socks, underwear, and a spare shirt, and a little black and white portable television. I plugged it in, found a show to watch, and made some cheese sandwiches.

I barely moved from the couch for the next several hours, except to refill my coffee mug and visit the bathroom. My insomnia was worse than it had been in the hospital. There, they gave me more drugs to knock me out and keep me quiet. Now, I had nothing but my anti-depressants and a weak sleeping pill that was supposed to help me sleep, but only made me drowsy. My thoughts kept me awake, as I started to remember all the things I'd forgotten over the past five years.

Eventually, I must have fallen asleep. I'd noted the time of three o'clock when the TV channel I was watching shut down for the rest of the night. After that, I didn't remember watching another show, but I opened my eyes and found myself half lying on the couch, my neck bent over the arm and painfully locked. The TV screen was hissing with static. I straightened up painfully and rubbed my neck, my thumb quickly find the scar. For the thousandth time, I wondered why they'd kept me alive. What use was I? What did I have to look forward to? I could have forty or fifty years left, for what? Going through the motions.

I made more coffee, pulled out my most recent journal and a pen, and began to write, short abrupt sentences describing my release from Arkham, my new apartment, and the blank canvas that was my life lying ahead of me.