Classic rock one shots and imagines [requests closed]

Bruce Springsteen #2

The bus pulled out with twenty passengers on board. Myself included. Most travellers were hikers with large bags resting upon their laps; a canteen or an extra pair of shoes dangled next to the ropes looped into hooks on some of tge bags, while others simply displayed the faded canvas of the hiking bag with nothing to conceal its appearance. Only one person looked as though they were on their way to work. I, on the other hand, looked as though I were some washed-up beatnik just along for the ride.

The usually-packed city streets were deserted save for a few pidgeons and crows skipping through the puddles lining the road, and a lone jogger out for a pre-dawn workout. Dew perched on the hoods and windshields of cars glistened in the lights of the streetlamps above, becoming scarcer the further out of the city we drove.

As we began our journey into the mountains, the roads became incredibly twisty and curvy. The bus driver jerked the steering wheel this way and that to make the turns, so much so that I began to feel ill. I even found myself holding my shoulder to ease the impacts it would obtain. Sunrise eventually came, however, the bus had found its way into a dark forest. Damp and grundgy, the cedar trees lining either side of the road grew high and thick- so thick, in fact, that the bus still required its headlights to guide the way through the chilling darkness.

As the forest began to thin out, the air did as well, leaving the question of breathlessness to the altitude or the gorgeous view of mountain peaks to be left to the beholder. Few houses could be seen along this road. A few threads of white smoke would appear here and there, but no other sign of civilisation made themselves present. It made me realise just how far out of the way this hostel really was.

Forty-five minutes.

Fifty-five minutes.

An hour had passed since weeft the city, and I was the only person left on board (apart from the driver, of course). The two lane road had tapered down to one, and any sort of leveling for cultivation were far more narrow than any other clearing a few ear-pops down the mountain.

The stop I got off at had nothing to show. There was no sign nor bench. It was the end of the line. The turn around for the bus was only just big enough for the driver to maneuver around. Anything smaller and he'd be stuck. Anything bigger and he'd topple off the cliff.

Slinging my draw-string bag over my shoulder, I started up the track. The road was barely wide enough to fit a car. The autumn foliage dancing in the breeze above my head gave my last twenty minutes or so of freedom a soundtrack as I continued ul the gentlw slope.

The hostel I was travelling to was nonordinary hostel. In simple terms, it was a mental health facility. Meant to be as a recovery unit, people come and go as they please. They arrive sick, but leave when they feel they can go back to the real world. No pressure. There wasn't even advertising for it. My friend, Jen, had to tell me about it from a friend of hers. What little research I could manage to do on it, and discovering from the trip up here, the facility was totally isolated in the mountains. Surely I was to find some peace and quiet!

The linger I thought about my admittance to this place, the more I began to question my decision in doing so. Not only in question to my fans, but the times before in which I had gone to a mental health facility, they kept me against my will to study me and to make sure I was sutable to be left to my own devises. They'd shove medication down my throat and had the nerve to tell me take it easy. Although it was promised  and made clear that the hostel was one of free will, I remained skeptical as to not let my guard down.

Free as I was to come in, how was I to get out? Would I finally by happy, or would I stay in the shadows?

Sharply etched tire tracks were carved into a curve in the track just ahead, accenting a weather-beaten no trespassing sign. Walking between the ruts, I followed the tire marks up to a guard shack. At first, nobody looked to be inside. As I approached, however, an aged man, perhaps fifty or sixty, ducked out of the small shack to greet me. His navy uniform was a little too short for his tall frame, but too loose for his skinny physique. Quickly, I pulled a piece of paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to the man. He nodded, and retreated into the shack.