Mama I Coming Home

Inspired by Ozzy Osbourne

The air in the sparse hospice room was thick with the sterile scent of disinfectant and the unspoken weight of finality. Ozzy lay small in the vast white bed, his once-muscled frame now skeletal beneath the thin sheet. The vibrant tattoos on his arms, once defiant declarations, were faded smudges on pale skin. His breathing was shallow, a frail rhythm against the oppressive silence.

Silas sat by his side, a stoic sentinel. He’d known Ozzy since they were teenagers, two scrawny kids with cheap guitars and a hunger for a sound that would rip through the quiet humdrum of their small town. They’d formed ‘The Vipers,’ played every dive bar and smoky club, then somehow, against all odds, clawed their way to grimy fame.

Ozzy’s life had been a screeching guitar solo: loud, chaotic, often off-key, but undeniably electrifying. There had been the roar of the crowds, the blinding flash of cameras, the blur of hotel rooms, a haze of substances, the fleeting warmth of strange women. He’d lived on instinct, a raw nerve exposed to the world. And through it all, Silas had been there �" the steady bassline to Ozzy’s wild, unmoored melody.

But the music had faded, the roar replaced by a persistent cough, the vibrant blur by a creeping darkness. The last few years had been a slow, brutal retreat from the world he’d conquered, into the confinement of his own failing body.

Ozzy’s eyelids fluttered, then opened, revealing eyes that were no longer the wild, defiant pools Silas remembered, but soft, almost childlike. They fixed on a point beyond the sterile walls, a place only Ozzy could see.

"Silas," he rasped, his voice a ghost of its former booming self.

Silas leaned closer, his own heart a heavy drum in his chest. "I'm here, man."

A faint smile touched Ozzy’s lips, a whisper of a memory. "Remember… Mama’s apple pie?"

Silas chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. "Best damn pie in three counties. You always ate half the dish yourself."

Ozzy’s gaze drifted, becoming more distant, more internal. He was back there, Silas knew, in the small, clapboard house, the scent of cinnamon and warm apples, the soft clatter of Mama’s kitchen. He had left that home so many years ago, chasing the siren song of the stage, leaving behind the quiet woman who had tucked him in, patched his scraped knees, and worried endlessly. He’d sent money, called sometimes, but he hadn’t truly been home since he was eighteen. The road had been his home, the band his family, the stage his altar.

A lifetime of running, of chasing artificial highs, of trying to outrun the quiet boy he once was, seemed to condense into that moment. The cacophony of his rock-and-roll existence faded, leaving only a profound, ancient yearning.

His chest hitched, a shallow, rattling breath. The hand Silas held, once calloused from countless power chords, trembled. Ozzy’s eyes finally focused on Silas, a flicker of lucid recognition.

"Tell her… tell her I tried, Silas."

"She knows, Ozzy. She always knew."

A faint light seemed to glow within him, a final spark before the darkness. His lips parted, and a single, almost ethereal whisper escaped, carrying with it the weight of decades, the longing of a prodigal son.

"Mama… I am coming home."

The words hung in the air, a benediction. And then, the frail rhythm of his breathing ceased. The light in his eyes dimmed, and the last echo of ‘The Vipers’ most chaotic, brilliant musician slipped away.

Silas squeezed the lifeless hand, a tear finally tracing a path through the dust of his own worn face. Ozzy, the wild man, the legend, the one who never looked back, had, in his last breath, turned his face towards the truest north star he’d ever known. He was going home. And somehow, in the quiet, sterile room, Silas felt a profound, gentle peace settle alongside the grief. The wild spirit was finally quiescent, bound for a different kind of stage.