Spin Spin Sugar (Gerard Way)

Chapter 39: Froot-Loops

An opaque morning fog kept me from seeing too far ahead, but I could see them- the skyscrapers- up there in the distance. Dawn's fragile glow accentuated their edges, like tall and proud mountains scratching at the clouds with strings of light poking from each side.

Mystery buildings, in this mystery city. Do you remember I used to know you like the back of my hand?

Not anymore, though. I've come a long way, too long, even, that I forgot parts of my life.

As I drove down George Washington Bridge, the eery feelings settled, and I entered the gigantic city at last. Most streets were empty- every shop looked deserted, and there were no birds, no passengers, not even a horn in the air. My heart clenched. Listen here, I hate horns, but at that moment, it might've been comforting. I don't know why but, that morning, I expected someone, or at least something to show me a sign. But there was... nothing. I just didn't want to be alone.

What am I doing here?

Am I even doing the right thing?

I kept asking myself those questions repeatedly as I recognized the buildings of my dull neighborhood. I mean, coming back here had always been the plan, but now, pieces of me were scattered all across the country, and although my luggage had missing items, it was me that felt incomplete.

I parked the van behind my apartment complex next to that huge dumpster bin that sometimes reeked in the warm summer nights. Long time no see, smelly dumpster.

I turned the keys and hurried to get out, then closed my eyes as a fresh breeze hit my face. Of course, the smell of the dumpster quickly took over, but for a second there, it felt nice. I dragged my feet in between cracks of the pavement, reaching the trunk to gather all my stuff. Well- just my bag. Which was all I had.

I walked to the entrance, searched for my keys longer than I should, then finally made my way in. Jeez. I didn't remember the door creaking so loud. Not from memory, for sure. But I guess that's not something I should rely upon anymore. Anyway, I ran up the unending hollowed stairs until coming face to face with my apartment door- chipped violet paint, rusty lock, number 37 engraved in the middle. Yep, that's the one.

Inside, nothing had moved. And when I say nothing, I truly mean it. Even my slippers on the floor were angled in the same way I had left them. I don't know why I remembered that particular detail, though. I simply did. Funny how the brain picks and chooses what you can and can't remember. I wish I had a say in that, sometimes.

Oh, well. My stomach growled, so I threw my bag and rushed to the kitchen. But- there was nothing in the fridge. I checked my cupboards- I saw one pack of ramen. Okay, um, that would do it? I guess. I boiled water and poured it over the pre-packaged noodles, then sat on a chair, contemplating the steam that leaked from the broth.

This was it. The dream was over. I was back in this apartment where nothing happens. This place I should call home. This place where- not so long ago, I forgot ever existed.

*

It had been almost a week since my return, and I'd just been sitting on my couch in this lumpish position.

Darkness had just arrived, and the anchorman on TV sermoned kids who got caught using fake IDs to buy alcohol at a local store. I sighed, then bend over to my coffee table to grab a couple of leftover Froot-loops I found in the back of my cupboards. Frankly, I'm surprised they were still edible. I wished I had milk, though.

Anyway, I zapped through some more channels and ended up picking an old black and white french movie. I didn't understand a darn thing, but so far, the images captivated me well enough to maintain this brain-dead marathon I had going on.