Disclaimer: I do not own Rambo, the concept was originally David Morrel's, and then along came Sylvester Stallone and the film industry...
Author's Notes: Based off Rambo, the new movie, not the fantastic book entitled First Blood by David Morrell (obviously, considering how in the book Rambo's real father was a shit head, and Rambo kinda bites the bullet along with Sheriff Teasle…)
"Home Never Changes, Just the Soldiers Going Back"
By C.K. Blake
He remembers walking down a similar road once long ago, being hassled by the local sheriff, making a stand in a world that had become unfamiliar, that called him baby killer and spat on him for his struggle to survive in a conflict that his country had insisted on getting involved in, and the result of that? Nothing was ever really resolved. Things are different this time around, coming home. There are no picket lines. No damn protesters.
He's still a wanderer, driftless, doesn't know how long he'll stick around. He only knows this is necessary, part of accepting who he really is, reconciling it with all he's become over the years.
The road behind him is long, dusty, and drenched with blood, and here he stands at the end of a small dirt road that leads to his home, his father's farm. He's staring at a beat up mailbox. R. Rambo scrawled on the side of it. He takes in a breath, wonders what awaits him at the end of this old, familiar and altogether new road ahead of him. He shifts the pack further up his shoulder and takes that first step onto the dusty dirt road.
Each step becomes easier. It's a long walk, a fair stretch for his legs, but he's used to walking. He's used to a lot of things, running through trees, crawling through underbrush, swimming through bloody swampland, dodging bullets. There isn't much that he hasn't seen and done in his time. He carries the scars, and he's haunted by the nightmares.
This bright, sunny stretch of peaceable land, it's more foreign to him than Vietnam or any jungle ever was. He can't help the wonder that fills his gut, because he should remember this land, this life, from his childhood, but he's a man, and he feels as though he was born a man, his childhood long snatched and burned away from him.
He soon finds himself standing at the wooden steps of his childhood home, the front porch stretching along the front of the house, a wooden swing hanging from the rafters. That seems new to him, even though it's obviously weather beaten and worn.
He steps up onto the porch, the boards creaking beneath his feet, and a few minutes later the front door is pulled open, and there's a kid, maybe ten or so, a boy with shaggy hair hanging in his eyes, looking out curiously through the screened-in storm door. He rubs at his eyes like he's just woken up.
John looks at the kid, remembers a time when hair worn that long on a boy was damn near a crime. Times have certainly changed. A smile tugs at his mouth. A woman in her mid to late thirties comes up behind the boy, her hair dark and peppered with some gray, her face worn with age and maybe a few hard times, and she pulls the boy back against her and looks up at John.
He tilts his head, wondering who this woman could be, and who the boy could be for that matter, especially since the mailbox still reads R. Rambo.
"May I help you?" she asks, suspicion hovering in her voice as she notices the bag slung over his shoulder.
He smiles and nods as he drops the bag at his feet, and says, "Yeah, I'm looking for my Dad. He used to own this place. I grew up here."
The woman's dark eyes widen, and her mouth falls open as she stares at him in shock. It takes her a moment to shake her head to clear it and then she says, "Johnny? You're Johnny? But Daddy always said you were dead. You died in that war, Vietnam."
John looks at her in confusion for a moment and says, "Yeah, I'm John. Is Raymond Rambo here?"
She licks her lips and nods. "Yeah, Dad's out back with the horses, still active as ever. I'm Karen, your sister, and this guy right here, he's my son Michael. Daddy used to tell me stories about how you were growing up and how he lost you to the war, and then he met my Momma and I came along."
"He's right. He did lose me in the war. I lost me in the war. It's been a long time since I've been to the states. At first I didn't think I was welcomed here. I caused a scene once, landed in prison, then I ended up back in Vietnam, and figured I'd stay."
"Well, I'm glad you found your way back home, Johnny. Dad's always talked about you. He was always proud of you. He missed you, and he'll be glad to see you. Just come on round back," she says, and then she leans down, whispers something to Michael and the boy gives him a curious look before he disappears into the house as she steps out, the storm door creaking behind her as she leads him around back to their father.
He doesn't really have much to say as they round the house, and then he sees the old man leading a horse out from the barn toward the corral. Something tightens in John's chest. His dad's gotten older, but then again, so has he.
He doesn't know how to approach his father, this old life that he never got a chance to have. All he knows is fighting, blood, conflict, endless killing. How does he come home when there's so little left of his humanity?
His father turns around at Karen's shout, and John doesn't have it in him to just turn around and walk away, to meld into the wide-open scenery and disappear. Not with the way his father is looking at him. Shock, hope, and even wonder in his rheumy eyes.
Rambo thinks maybe this is how the P.O.W.'s felt in coming home and being claimed by their families. Something breaks inside of him as his father approaches him and the old man's arms close around him, tight in a firm, proud, grateful embrace.
Maybe Trautman had it right. You're not whole until you accept who you are and find your way home. This old man weeping for him, for the son he thought he lost and found again, this is home, and it doesn't matter whether or not he leaves or he stays, he's found a part of who he used to be still remains. That's enough, there's a part of him the scars don't touch. That's more than enough. Home never changes, only the soldiers that come home do.
End.