Homecoming

Albert marched along the railroad tracks, oblivious to the howling November storm, the sting of the snow doing nothing to quench the fiery, haunted look in his eyes. He did pause however when his boot kicked something solid that rang as it bounced off the rail. Stooping down, he picked up the object, a rusty railroad spike. He stood for a moment, fascinated by the still sharp chisel end of the spike, then continued his relentless trek, his knuckles white around the cold metal of his new treasure.
 
Albert thought back at how his parents had laughed at him as the men from the county hospital dragged him away so many years ago, glad to be rid of him. He remembered how they called him a freak, and crowed about how he’d be locked in a padded cell, how the doctors would throw away the key. But fifteen years is a long time to learn how to play their game, and budget cuts made them more and more willing to declare someone cured, if he knew the right things to say, and kept his true dark thoughts buried deep.
 
Albert let a ghost of a grin touch his face as he turned away from the tracks, cutting through the fields and yards he’d known so well. He finally spotted his goal: a rundown little house, the paint nearly gone from years of neglect. He stepped quietly on the porch, and retrieved the key he knew would still be under the pot on the porch, the flowers long since dead. He let himself in silently, pausing just long enough to note that little had changed since he left, then gripped his spike tightly as he headed down the hall to his parents’ room, to let them know he’d come home.