The Long Way Home
You ever hear those stories about a homeless guy who walks the streets, never begs, but folks say he’s rich? Every town’s got one. Most times, it’s just talk. Legends people spin when they’ve got nothing better to do. But Scott Thompson? He’s the real deal. Now, Scott’s an alright fella, who, once upon a time, made the sort of mistake that a lot of people never come back from. And like the rest of us, Scott has to learn the hard way that the hardest people we ever forgive in our lives are ourselves.
He’s spent the last 13 years out there every night, carrying his shame like Sisyphus, endlessly pushing his rock up a hill—almost reaching a point where he can unburden himself, only to have it crash right back down the hill to the bottom. In Scott’s case, his rock is a rusty shopping cart full of worthless things, Rascal, his dog, trailing beside him. He never asks for anything. People notice that. They see him, but no one really knows what to make of him. To most, he’s just another face in the crowd, another ghost wandering the streets. But every now and then, folks whisper. They’ll tell you he had it all once—money, a family, the whole picture—but something happened, something bad, and now all that’s left is this broken man who walks the same streets over and over again.
Most of those stories? Just that—stories. But Scott, he’s different. He’s real. And so’s his past.
Scott wasn’t always like this. Back in the day, he had a name. His father was the kind of lawyer who could make or break you, and his mother—well, she was the face of every charity event in the city. They were golden, and so was Scott. He grew up with everything handed to him, but when you’ve got the world at your feet, sometimes you forget to watch your step.
It didn’t happen all at once. The fall took time. Late nights turned into hard mornings, and Scott was always one drink too deep, one decision too careless. But there was that one night—the night. The one that took everything away.
Scott had been at the country club, drinking like always. His parents had told him to stay put – – that they were on their way to collect him, probably expecting another argument when they arrived. But Scott didn’t wait. He climbed into his car, refusing to let them “control him,” laughing to himself as he sped off into the rainy night.
The road was slick, and Scott’s vision blurred from the alcohol. He rounded a bend too fast, his tires slipping. In the distance, headlights cut through the rain. Another car. He swerved, but it was too late. Metal met metal, the impact shattering glass and sending Scott spinning. His head slammed into the steering wheel as the sound of crumpling steel filled the air.
He crawled out of the wreckage, dazed, the rain pounding down on him. Then he saw the other car—flames licking at the hood, smoke rising into the night. Panic set in, and Scott staggered toward it, realizing, too late, who was inside.
His parents. They’d never even known he was driving himself.
He tried to get to them, to pull the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. He screamed their names, but the fire spread, the heat pushing him back. He watched, helpless, as the flames consumed the car. He saw the gash in his father’s forehead —heard their screams until there was nothing left but the roar of the fire and the crackle of burning metal.
The police came. Lawyers followed. Scott’s father had too many connections, even in death. They twisted the story, turned Scott into a victim of circumstance. The DUI stuck, but it didn’t matter. He spent a couple of years behind bars, but it wasn’t real justice—not for what he’d done. When he got out, the estate was still his, the empire intact. The business manager kept it all running like a well-oiled machine, waiting for Scott to return. But Scott never wanted it. There was no home left for him.
Now, he walks. Every night, through the streets, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him. He never goes back to that house, except on the anniversary, when he stands outside the gates, staring up at those dark windows, wondering if the ghosts inside still remember him. But he never crosses the threshold.
Tonight, the fog rolled in heavy over La Mesa. The air was thick with it, and the streetlights barely cut through the haze. Scott moved through it like he always did, Rascal trotting beside him, the dog’s nose to the ground, sniffing at things only he could smell.
Rascal stopped, circling once, twice, before settling down on the wet pavement with a groan. Scott paused, kneeling beside him, running his hand through the dog’s scruffy fur.
“You tired, boy?” Scott’s voice was low, rough. Rascal groaned in response, his eyes half-closed, and a second later, let out a fart that broke the silence.
Scott huffed a short breath, the corners of his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “You stink, you know that?”
Rascal looked back at him, eyes half-lidded, as if to say, Yeah, because you smell like an Irish Spring commercial yourself, pal.
Scott snorted, as if the dog had actually spoken, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” Rascal thumped his tail once, then rested his head on his paws. Scott scratched behind the dog’s ears for a moment longer, his gaze drifting up to the dark silhouette of the mansion on the hill. It stood there, looming over the town, waiting. Always waiting.
Scott stood, pulling his jacket tighter around him. “Not tonight,” he muttered to himself, tugging Rascal’s leash.
The fog swallowed them again as they moved on, disappearing into the mist.
But that’s the thing about Scott. People see him, but they don’t really see him. They talk, they whisper about the man with a fortune he doesn’t touch, about the mansion left to rot. They don’t know about the fire. The guilt. The fact that Scott walks because if he stops, he’ll have to face it all.
Up ahead, Scott noticed something different. Two men, hunched over, were harassing an old woman carrying a grocery bag, probably on her way home from a late-night shift. She was clutching her purse, trying to brush past them as they blocked her way, laughing and pushing her back.
“C’mon, lady. Just a little cash, huh? You can spare it,” one of the men sneered, grabbing at her arm.
“Please, I don’t have anything,” the woman stammered.
Scott’s heart raced. It would be easier to keep walking. He should keep walking.
But something inside him shifted. He couldn’t let this happen. Not again. He couldn’t stand by and watch someone else suffer.
Scott stepped forward, Rascal growling low at his side. “Leave her alone.”
The two men turned, sneers twisting on their faces. “Oh, we got ourselves a hero, huh?”
Scott didn’t back down. His hands were shaking, but he held his ground. “You heard me. Let her go.”
One of the men lunged at him, swinging wildly. Scott ducked, instinct taking over. His fist connected with the man’s jaw, sending him stumbling back. Rascal barked, sharp and menacing, as the second man pulled out a knife.
Scott grabbed the old woman’s arm and pushed her behind him. “Go. Get out of here.”
She hesitated for a moment, but then she ran, disappearing into the fog.
The man with the knife slashed at Scott, but Scott twisted, catching the man’s wrist and slamming him into the wall. The knife clattered to the ground.
And then the rage hit.
Scott’s vision blurred. He wasn’t here anymore. He was back on that rainy road, the fire roaring in his ears, his parents’ screams echoing in his mind. His fists flew, connecting with flesh, but he wasn’t seeing the men. He was seeing the wreckage. The fire. The destruction he caused.
Rascal barked again, cutting through the haze.
Scott blinked, breathless, his heart pounding. The men were on the ground, beaten and bloodied, scrambling to their feet, stumbling away into the fog. Scott stared down at his hands, at the blood dripping onto the pavement and remembered the blood from that night, rushing down his fathers forehead as the flames spread, and his mother screamed. For the hundred thousandth time since the accident, he replayed that night in his head, and for the first time since that night, he began to sob, to cry, and then to weep.
He dropped to his knees, the weight of everything crashing down on him all at once. The guilt. The fire. The screams. It was too much, too heavy. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, his vision swimming as he fought to hold on. And then, as tears fell from his face into the dirt, in his grief, he finally let go.
Rascal whined softly, pressing his nose against Scott’s cheek, licking at the blood on his hands. Scott closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the dog’s fur, the warmth grounding him, pulling him back from the edge.
Slowly, his breathing steadied, his hands stopped shaking. He looked up, past the street, past the fog, to the dark outline of the mansion.
It stood there, waiting. It always had.
Scott stood, wiping the blood from his knuckles, wincing at the sting. He scratched Rascal’s head, the dog wagging his tail weakly. Over the Horizon jutting out from a break in the fog, the Mansion— His mansion. Scott took a deep breath, made a decision and exhaled forcefully before speaking.
“Let’s go home,” Scott whispered, his voice quiet and tired.
And right then and there, for the first time in thirteen years, Scott Thompson, took his first step back—leaving his shopping cart for the next guy who needed it.