Going Home

…

…I'm out in the cold, this act's getting old
feel myself starting to slide
never felt so alone
I'm going home…

(lyrics excerpt – 'Going Home' written by Jason Wade/Jude Cole/Kiefer Sutherland)

…..

Warnings: drug/alcohol use/abuse, depression

…

"Ah, shit!"

Sitting up in bed, the man wiped a hand over his face, breathing out slowly to calm his racing heart. Grunting, he got up out of bed slowly, shuffling to the on-suite. Ruffling his short cropped, pale hair he used the toilet before turning on the water at the sink, letting it run till it was warm, bending to splash his face several times. Grabbing a towel as he stood up, he stared at his reflection, gazing deeply at the craggy, stubbled countenance that stared back. Walking back to the bed, he sat down with a weary sigh.

He grabbed the neck of a large bottle sitting on the nightstand and a few pills scattered around, swallowing and washing them down before putting the empty bottle back. It was a long-standing habit, drink till he fell asleep, waking sometime later, shaking with broken memories and nightmares.

The scattered pieces of his now-distant past always claimed him as he slept, teasing with almost-glimpses of lost warmth, friendship, family before dissolving into frightening, painful silence, cold, too-bright lights and a final, aching sense of abandonment. As usual, he was alone, unable and unwilling to connect with anyone more than superficially, as means to end, be it work or what passed for pleasure.

He glanced at the guitar cases littering the bedroom, but felt no urge to pick one up, or pull out an instrument to fiddle with. He was bone-tired, worn thing from vomiting up of pieces of his soul. Aching and drained by the grinding cycle of tours where he poured out that poetry set to music for the entertainment of strangers.

The latest tour had finally ended, and instead of celebrating with the band and crew, he retired to his room, where bottles of whisky and bottles of pills waited to keep him quiet company. This was the only time he felt at all comfortable, alone in darkened solitude.

He sat in the deepening night, curtains and balcony door open to let the twinkling lights shine in, feel the breeze whisper through the darkened rooms. It felt like a cave, almost. It felt like home, almost, if he even really knew what home felt like. The breeze carried the scent of the ocean tonight, and something bittersweet broke in his chest, a feeling so much like those haunting echoes of a shrouded past, a forgotten sense of belonging buried deep.

In his desolation, pieces of his past came flooding back with intensity, threatening to break him down. The bright, cold lights of the small hospital he'd apparently been dumped at, endless rounds of questions by doctors, psychiatrists, police on who he was, where he'd come from, how he'd been impaled and almost killed. Questions he never had an answer to.

Whatever his youth had been, it was nothing but a hazy fog now, filled with welcoming darkness, bubbling, sensuous warmth and sparkling lights, a family at once both intimately close and frighteningly vindictive. All of it completely intangible, unreachable, hidden behind an impenetrable wall impervious to his efforts to extract faces, names, anything that might provide an answer to his origins.

Even with the help of a sympathetic social worker, it had taken several years to establish an identity, become an actual person with something like a sliver of a place in this unappealing world. He'd wandered for years, decades really, falling in and out of trouble, aimless and unnoticed till he'd picked up a guitar, started putting his aching melancholy and cynical humor to song.

Still something of an underground sensation, he'd managed some notoriety, the music and ticket sales enough to let him and his crew enjoy themselves. He supposed he was happy for them, no reason they shouldn't have some small joy for their efforts, with or without him.

This last tour, though. The nightmares and sleeplessness had worn him thin. Faces that seemed so achingly intimate in his dreams, were nothing but hazy blurs when he woke, leaving him empty and wanting to howl in pain and loss, only the unwanted attention it would draw holding him back.

He was sure that's why he'd been almost hallucinating over the last few weeks, seeing hauntingly familiar faces in the small crowds, flashes of recognition that vanished as soon as he tried to focus. He'd lost his place in a song more than once, saved by the swift pickup of his band.

The after-show fan greets had been even worse – not just glimpses of faces but voices calling him out, clawing at hidden memories that never resolved into anything tangible, leaving him scanning the groups fruitlessly, oblivious to anything or anyone else.

He'd once caught a flash of …something… long blonde… or was it dark, hair? Maybe curls? A certain laugh? A flash of color? Something just at the corner of his awareness, and he'd walked away from everyone, trailing off after a ghost, ending up near an empty alley staring blankly like some lost puppy, till he was collected by one of his band-mates.

He had a feeling they were glad he'd declined tonight, probably grateful he'd be out of their way, and not have to be watched like some toddler in danger of wandering off. Well, let them party in peace, they'd earned it.

He leaned over to grab the pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and firing up the lighter, only to have it blown out by a sudden wind gust from the open balcony door. Frowning, he looked up, glancing towards the outer room, but saw nothing. He sparked the lighter again.

There was whispered laughter…from behind him? He glanced at the mirror, seeing no one. Turning slowly, he found the room empty, but shadows seemed to move in the outer room.

"Someone there?" His hushed voice barely broke the silence.

Getting up, he made his way to the main room, glancing around at the kitchenette, the sofa, lit only by the glittery lights pouring in from the main drag outside the hotel. Nothing seemed out of place, though he couldn't shake the sense he was not alone.

Walking to the small balcony, he stepped out, resting his arms on the rail and letting the ocean breeze cool his face, blow softly on his bare torso. Closing his eyes, he bent, letting his head drop to rest on his crossed arms; listening, feeling, the sounds and pulse of the night washing over him, touching that hollow in his chest that lingered, aching for some unnamed respite.

Soft rustling behind him broke his reverie. He straightened and turned, gaze still finding nothing. Shaking his head, he went back in to the bathroom, determined that a shower might help clear his mind, let him settle down and sleep again.

Flicking the light as he entered, he looked himself over in the mirror, sighing deeply. Ages of sleeplessness and hard drinking had carved deep bruises under his eyes, left valleys across his forehead and down his cheeks. Despite his recent fame and subsequent excess, he was still lean, though the pale hair sprinkled down his chest was more white than blonde now.

"Hey man, you gonna stand there all night?"

He whipped around to see a young man with blonde, curly hair smiling wickedly at him, soft eyes shining with amusement. Turning back to the mirror, he saw only himself, visibly paling as his mind spun. He looked again at the boy, who chuckled lightly, wiggling his fingers in greeting.

"Something up? You look like you've seen a ghost." The youth smirked, and his light green eyes turned red-tinged gold, face warping, teeth lengthening as he watched. The boy hid his toothy smile behind his sharp-nailed hand, worrying at his thumb.

Something broke inside the older man, tearing him wide as white-hot pain and endless, engulfing grief crashed through his empty heart and cracked open his fragmented mind. Too much, all at once, and velvet darkness reached up to embrace him as he broke apart.

"Shh…take it easy!"

"He's waking up, let me get closer!"

"I'll knock both of your heads together if you don't settle down!"

The sounds of arguing felt achingly familiar, something so natural and right, and he clung to it as he crawled back to consciousness, mind still spinning with an ocean of images and feelings that threatened to suck him down, drown him again. He couldn't repress a groan, reaching to rub his forehead.

"You look like you could use a drink." A low, masculine voice broke through his fog.

He cracked an eye, daring to glance around. Three young men sat on his bed, effectively surrounding him, faces painted with concern, tension thick in the air.

Sitting up slowly, he looked closer at the group. Recognition hit like a steamroller, taking away his breath and leaving him shaking, heaving as broken pieces of memories coalesced, became scenes and experiences, full of emotions he'd thought himself long incapable of.

"I…know…you." He panted out. Concerned faces turned joyful, eyes bright with relief.

He shook his head. "You…died…" He gripped his own chest. "I…remember…everyone…died…I did too…almost?" Painful images flashed, blood pouring and screams rending the night as everything seemed to dissolve in flames.

The one with long dark hair answered. "We did. And you did too, but not like us. We died before him, real death, but not true death. Only he died a true death. It took us so long to come back. And even longer to find you, even though we knew you survived."

"How am I…not like you?"

"It was all him. His death left you mortal again. Far as any of us can figure out, you survived your injuries, and the bastards dumped you as they left the state."

His mind was swimming again, events, places, people falling into place even more. He covered his face with his hands, needing time to let everything sort out. He felt a cool hand rub his back gently, the body attached inching closer to finally grasp him in a side hug.

Sighing, he let his arm reach out, gather the curly-haired boy closer. A little bit of peace settled into his long-empty heart, and he rested his head on the youth.

"Youth, hmm? You know I'm over a hundred now, right?"

He huffed. "I'm still older."

"And now you look it!" the other blonde exclaimed, laughing.

He felt the body chuckling under his arm, matched by the sound from the dark-haired man.

Something almost like happiness bubbled up in him, the feeling so unfamiliar it left his eyes stinging, throat tight. He squeezed his curly-haired brother, felt it returned with a strength that left him gasping a laugh.

"Easy, tiger! I'm an old man!"

"Not for long."

He turned towards the raven-haired man; eyebrow raised in question. His dark brother transformed, savage face considering him serenely.

"Ready to join us again?"

He glanced around, to see all his lost family in fierce visage, smiling with joy and hope. He laughed.

"And give up show biz?" Ferocious faces paused, frowned; pain and rejection writ large in golden eyes.

"Why not join me? Tour the country, only play after dark, leave a trail of bodies as we go. It's perfect, really."

Relieved laughter then. "HELL YEAH!"

Bodies moved closer, cool faces nuzzling his warm skin, cool tongues tasting, sharp teeth grazing to set his heart racing, alight with feelings, sensations long lost. Someone paused, the others following suit reluctantly, bodies tensing in anticipation.

"I just have to ask…why did it have to be COUNTRY music?"

Groans of relief and soft chuckles wafted over his skin, raising goose-flesh, making the return of tongues and teeth, the touch of gentle hands, even more electric. Fire was rising under his skin, burning away the desolate cold he'd long suffered, sending a dark and joyful laughter bubbling through him.

As the first set of razor teeth broke his skin, he finally found home.