"The Light in Ozzy’s Dark”

Ozzy never thought he'd still be kicking at this age—Parkinson’s nipping at his heels like some relentless beast for over two decades now. Every morning, he wakes up stiff, slow, and sore, but the first thing he sees when he blinks the sleep from his eyes is his youngest. His 23-year-old, his surprise kid, the one who turned out to be the most famous of the bunch. Not for causing chaos, but for something bigger—something Ozzy still doesn’t fully understand. Maybe it's the way the kid talks, sings, moves, glows. Maybe it's that they didn’t let the Osbourne name swallow them whole.

They live together now. In that big house that used to echo with screams, cameras, and barking dogs. It’s quieter now. Softer. Except when Ozzy has a bad day—then the tremors start, the mind wanders, and the memories get sharp like glass.

Ozzy doesn’t say it much—hell, he barely says anything right these days—but watching his youngest walk through the house, sometimes still in pajamas at two in the afternoon, sometimes humming songs Ozzy swears he never taught them—it makes something ache in his chest that’s not from the disease.

His kid looks tired. Always tired. There’s a sadness in their eyes Ozzy knows too well. The kind that creeps up on you, whispers things like, "You're nothing," "You're broken," "You're not enough." Ozzy used to try and outrun those voices with bottles and powders. But this kid—they stay. They sit in it. They carry it like a silent weight in their shoulders, in their voice when they say, “You okay today, Dad?”

It should be the other way around. Ozzy should be the one watching over them, but instead, they’re the one holding his arm steady when he pours tea, making sure he doesn’t fall in the shower, reminding him where his pills are and when to take them.

Some nights, Ozzy hears crying through the wall. Quiet. Like they’re trying to be strong, even when no one’s watching. And Ozzy wants to get up, to knock on their door and tell them, “You don’t have to be strong all the bloody time.” But his body won’t move the way it used to. His bones ache. His mind stalls. So he just lies there, eyes on the ceiling, praying that the universe gives his kid a break.

The fame didn’t shield them from the pain. It just made it louder. Cameras still follow them. People still have things to say. And even though they smile for the world, Ozzy sees the truth. He always does.

But they're still here. With him. Taking care of their old man when they could’ve run off and lived in some Hollywood tower, swimming in awards and flashing lights. Instead, they chose this quiet life, this quiet pain, and Ozzy’s still trying to figure out why.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, when the sun hits the windows just right and the dust floats like glitter in the air, Ozzy watches his kid dance to a song they made. A song with a voice so raw it could crack stone. They twirl, headphones on, eyes closed, and for a second, they look like that same little kid who used to run through the house in Batman pajamas yelling, “Up the bats!”

And Ozzy smiles. His body might be betraying him, his mind might be slipping, but damn if that moment doesn’t make it all worth it.

Because no matter how broken the world tries to make his kid feel…

They are his light. And Ozzy?

He’ll fight to stay here as long as he can, just to keep holding on to it.