A Drug that Changed My Life - Cashby

Epilogue

A/N: Oh I forgot we had an epilogue, hope you guys enjoy :)

The energy in the car was weird. Alan was tense, looking out the passenger side window, fiddling with the old key he always wore on a long chain around his neck, his childhood house key. From where he was sitting behind the steering wheel, Austin knew the man across from him was trying to make sense of this idea, wanted to go back, but didn’t want to dig up all the memories he’d worked so hard to push down over the years.

“Alan... You don’t have to go back if-”

“Yes I do.” He cut the other off sharply. His shaking fingers dropped the key back against his chest with a light thump and he wiped his palms on his jeans. “Phil was right. I need to do this.”

It was an unspoken commandment that no one talked about what Alan had been through when he was growing up. Years and years had passed before he was even able to mention anytime before his freshman year of high school. The hills and valleys left by carefully done stitches in the skin on his arms, thighs and torso were proof enough of what he'd survived. One scar, on his right arm stood out amongst all the others, a long jagged vertical line, the edges of the tissue eternally stained the lightest color of purple.

The fans looked up to him for not hiding the self harm scars, but everyone in the band knew he HATED what he’d done to himself. They all vividly remember a night on the bus when he was sobbing until he couldn’t breathe in Austin’s lap about what he saw when he looked in the mirror, the rest of the guys and their manager surrounding the couch trying to comfort him. He’d known when it was going on that he would never be able to reclaim what he was before, but he’d done it anyways. It wasn’t everyone who was old enough to understand knowing what the white and red lines represented when they looked at him that he didn’t like. It was that people- no, children- actually looked up to him for what he’d done.

“Are you sure going back isn’t going to hurt you even more?”

The younger thought for a moment. “If I’m going to try and get better, I have to dig this shit up again. Closure or whatever the therapist said.”

A few minutes passed and the couple pulled up in front of a big but not too big house with slightly peeling grey paint and a lopsided porch. Alan just stared at it, not saying anything, his tight- lipped  expression not giving anything away. He took a breath, undid his seatbelt and walked up the path, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. The house was empty, the current owners on a week away in Vermont. That was planned, on his part. He needed to do this alone, which was why Austin stayed in the car.

Walking up to the porch, faded as terribly as they were, he could still see three sets of handprints on the stairs, one of them with “Alan Anthony” painted over the tiny royal blue hands in white script by his mother, the other two with “Mommy” and “Daddy.” That was the “project of the day” the Sunday morning they’d moved into this house. His father had held his wrists gently while his mom tickled the big paintbrush over his hands, then guided them onto the steps. “There. Now it’s officially our house.” Ever since then, every time he’d walked up those stairs, he gently tapped his handprints with the tip of his shoe, and today was no different. First step, second,  bump, third, and up to the door.

The screen door was falling apart, it looked like it hadn’t been replaced since he’d moved out to leave the house abandoned for five years. There was a note attached to the wooden door behind it: “Please wipe off your feet before coming in. Good luck. We’re rooting for you.” Despite his fear, he smiled a little at the note. The family had only recently moved into this place a few months previous, their two children were 7 and 10. He hoped they were making better memories in this house than he had.