"One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don't come home at night."
- Margaret Mead
It's dark. The kind of dark that encroaches on his vision, lingering at the edges no matter where he turns his gaze. The kind of dark that only happens in the city, trapped in the shadows of towering structures while smog and light choke out the stars. He never noticed how dark it really was in this neighborhood. Maybe it's a new development; a streetlamp broken or burnt out. Or maybe he's never been in this neighborhood in the first place. He can't recall. It's hard to think. So hard. He just wants to sit down, but some disjointed thought screams at him not to. He can't think why, because it'd be so easy, so easy to just let his knees give out and to slide down the wall, and it would only be a moment, and he'd close his eyes and rest those too because his eyelids are just so heavy now...
He jerks up, gasps. The foul air catches in his raw throat, and he just barely keeps back a coughing fit that would only strip it further. Tears sting his eyes but they are open again. He spits the taste of copper from his mouth and lurches forward again, determination setting his jaw.
He can't stop now, so close. He's too proud to stop when his destination is in view, a glowing target at the end of the street, light at the end of the tunnel. It doesn't matter that the asphalt seems to stretch out forever between them, or that each step is a struggle and he's losing strength fast. He doesn't need to go far. Not far at all. Just the end of the street, and then he can worry about the next step. Ignore the too-bright trail on the redbrick where he's bracing himself for balance. Ignore the cold that's seeping into his fingers and ears and nose. Ignore the weariness that tugs at his limbs, urging him gently to just lay down and let it be over. Ignore the stumble as his feet mix up their signals. Just focus on the station. Focus on the red neon numbers announcing the ETA of the next bus. Can't read them, but that doesn't matter. Just focus.
3 minutes, the neon says, and it's right above his head. 12 line to Downtown via Charles, 3 minutes.
3 minutes. Eternity. He already feels himself swaying, footing unsteady on the flat cold concrete. He could just give in, just fall asleep. The station is empty, barren but for him. 3 minutes and more would pass so quickly if he just let his eyelids fall. What would it matter anyway? There is no one waiting for him. No one wondering where he is. No one at home. Just an empty apartment torn to pieces in a fit of ire.
And there's another voice, but it's quiet this time. "Home is where the heart is," it whispers. "Just look."
Eyes open. Focus. Blink the red into focus. 5 line to 36th via Kensington, arriving now. The faint murmur of an engine over the blood roaring in his ears. A smile tugs at his lips.
The door hisses when it opens, the driver doesn't look at him. He grips the bar too tightly, sags against the machine. Shaky hands draw out a token and feed it in, leaving red streaks in their wake. He sinks into a seat in front. There's no sound but for the hum of the engine and the shifting of the car. It's hypnotic. A lullaby singing him away the way his mother never did. He sighs, and it hitches and suddenly he's coughing, coughing and coughing and can't stop, and the scarf over his lips comes away carmine and he can taste nothing but copper again. It hurts too much to close his eyes now, and he focuses on that. Just focus.
The doors open again and he stumbles, falls to his knees on the sidewalk. They shut and pull away without a care, a machine without a human at its core. Just doing the job. He spits again, groans. So easy to just lay where he's fallen. The cold is eating into his skin again and he would just fall asleep, and someone would find him in the morning and maybe it'd be too late by then, most likely it'd be too late by then. So close and yet so far.
Too close. Get up. He's gone too far to give in now. Just a few paces more. He's never been there but he knows it anyway, 483 Kensington Road. He struggles to his feet and staggers, he's not just unsteady anymore, the ground is pitching beneath him like a ship in a storm, and it's dark again. His vision is tunneling, but his eyes are open. Focus, focus on a far-off number. On a house that's every bit as he'd imagined it, white picket fence and all. It's freshly painted. He hates to mar it. 483. Focus on making it up the front walk.
His hand weighs a thousand pounds but he raises it anyway, stabs until he hears the chime of the bell inside, lets it drop again like dead weight. He focuses on the lace curtains obscuring the window. No movement, no light. Not even the dog stirs to bark. He hasn't been heard.
No one's waiting. No one's missing him. No one's home, and the effort to keep his eyelids raised is becoming too much. He tries his arm for the bell again, but he hasn't the strength to lift it a second time. He can barely stand anymore.
Then there's light, flooding the hallway. Movement. A face in the window, suspicious blue eyes that widen in surprise and concern. The door is flung open.
"Holmes!"
Home is where the heart is. He's safe now. He finally closes his eyes and succumbs to the darkness.
Sherlock Holmes and related characters do not belong to me.
I'm not entirely sure this piece makes sense. I wrote it for my Creative Writing midterm portfolio, and sort of combined several different ideas with it. Critique is loved.