Simon's Home

The alley was dark.

Random bits of trash and empty cardboard boxes lined its edges. The occasional car would zip by on either open end, but other than that, there was near complete silence. The bright full moon above provided most of the scarce light that actually did reside there. Under this moon sat a lone man, seemingly a pile of rags.

The man had a thick, shaggy beard, and equally long and unkempt hair. They were both a dull red. He wore a thick denim jacket over a stained white t-shirt, baggy, torn jeans, and held in his hand a slightly cube-shaped bottle. Over the Jack Daniel's label, there was a strip of duct tape stuck diagonally across. On it, written in dry permanent marker, was the name "Simon".

The bottle was on the ground, and so was the man's gaze. He stared at a single point in the blackness, as if all the answers to all the problems he faced would spring forth from it, in one brilliant display of light and sound.

A woman's voice rang out in his head. It was echoing and sharp, a memory.
"It's been three months Simon, have you even been looking for a new job?"

He took a long drink straight from the bottle, and the sharpness dulled, and the echoes stopped. His eyes were closed now, only partially because of the burning the liquor caused as it made its way down his throat.

After a few moments, the man coughed briefly, his breath visible in the near-frigid air. The mist from his mouth danced in the air for a moment, entrancing him. It was gone as soon as it had appeared. Soon, there was once again a noise stirring from the depths of his mind. The alcohol had not suppressed it, but enhanced it. This time, the voice was much younger, that of a little girl:
"Daddy, why are you crying?"

The drink he took was longer this time, and much more vigorous. The memory burned at the edges, and moved to the back of his mind, but it didn't leave. It refused to leave. It stood there defiantly, staring him in the eyes like a dog that had just been struck. Both pleading and threatening.

He looked up. The moon was surrounded by stars, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was a crisp, clear night. While it was without even a breeze to guide it, the cold air hung over everything like a thin, intangible fog. It made any movement taxing and hardly worth the effort. The cold settled onto any still surface, and just generally made life unbearable for all underneath it.

The man closed his eyes. Another memory began to flash through his head, one he could not stop, even if he tried.

A tear drops onto the picture below, spattering against the glass. There isn't a light on in the front room of the apartment, but there is some coming in from the windows and the clear liquid reflects some of it, marring the glare on the glass.

There is a man, a woman, and a young girl in the picture, a family photo. The man is in the middle of the two, his right arm resting across both of his wife's shoulders. His left hand is gripping the little girl's right shoulder. She had bright red hair, and green eyes. Her mother had brown hair, and shared her green eyes. The man's face iss obscured by the tear.

The two girls are smiling.

The man holding the picture sets it back down on the mantle. He had already kissed his daughter on the head, and his wife on the cheek. They are both in their respective beds, sleeping. It’s very late.

Without looking back again, and with tears in his eyes, the man walks to the door, opens it, and softly closes it behind him as he quietly steps out.

Simon took the longest drink yet of his whiskey, but when he was done, he found that this memory did not fade. It was prominent, and burning in his mind. It weighed like a concrete elephant on his soul.

It had been nine months since he'd ran away.

No longer able to pay the bills, no longer able to find a job, and no longer able to avoid his alcohol problem, Simon had decided that it would be the best thing for his family, and himself, if he just left.

He had no idea how wrong he'd been at the time.

He brought the bottle to his face and stared at it. He stared at it for a long time. He could smell it almost unnaturally clearly through the cold air. The scent dug its way into the deepest catacombs of his nose and took up a residence there, scratching and clawing at the walls to make room, and erase the memories of everything and anything else.

His name covered the label on the bottle, but he knew that wasn't really the truth. If anything, the label should've been over his name.

Once again, he closed his eyes, and one last memory flashed before him:
Simon walks into the liquor store, holding what was left of his money. He walks up to the counter, holding a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey. He has just enough for the bottle, and little else.

He blinked his eyes open. The bottle had never left its position. He kept staring at it. The tape was already peeling at the edges. There was still some liquid in the bottle, leaving it about a quarter full. Just one last drink and the pain would just dissolve, he figured.

He brought the mouth of the bottle closer to his lips. He hesitated. He closed his eyes, and the little girl and the woman came into view. They were in the same position as they were in the picture, but they were no longer smiling. He was absent as well.

His wife had a worried and melancholy expression. His daughter had tears coming down her face.

His eyes jerked open. Simon raised the bottle across his head and tossed it across the alley, where it shattered violently against the brick wall. The man stood, somewhat unsteadily, using the wall as a balancing post. He clenched his fist, panted, and looked up at the moon.

No. No, I'm not running away again. He thought as he started off down the alley.

Simon stumbled along the streets. There was an odd confidence to his stride, which was still hindered slightly from the whiskey. He struggled to stay balanced but at the same time tore almost aggressively through the broken and chipped sidewalks. Any onlooker would think him just another bum, wandering about aimlessly in the night. But they were wrong.

They were dead wrong.

For once in his life, Simon knew exactly here he was going, exactly what direction he was heading, and exactly where he was needed, and wasn’t going to allow anything to stop him from getting there.

Simon was going home.