One Week [[4]]
It has been one week since Trace found Mason on the bathroom floor, and he still hasn’t woken up. Trace had spent everyday in the hospital, even sleeping in the uncomfortable, cheap chairs they place in the room. Mason had been stabilized and all his wounds were sewn up, and he currently resided in a private room, inhabited only by Trace and the nurses who came to check on him. Trace sat in the most comfortable chair, which was still rather hard, with his head on the bed next to Mason’s.
Trace cried nonstop while he was there. He held Mason’s hand when he could, which was most of the time. He squeezed it every now and then, hoping that Mason could somehow feel it. He was in a light coma due to the blood loss, and the doctors were expecting him to wake up anytime now. Trace stared with hollow eyes at the slumbering boy.
Anthony came to visit twice.
Their manager came a few times, maybe four.
Blake said he’d rather die than visit him.
Trace was gonna kill Blake when Mason was well again. But all he cared about right now was Mason opening his eyes. The beautiful boy slept soundly, but Trace took little comfort in this.
“Mace, please, wake up. I miss you so much and I’m so sorry for what we did to you, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. Please, wake up and yell at me, wake up and hit me, please, just wake up. I love you man…”
More tears leaked down his face and he squeezed Mason’s hand for the umpteenth time. He felt a light pressure back and bolted upright.
“Mace?”
There was no reply from the slumbering teenager. Trace clutched his hand harder, and felt another light squeeze back.
“Mace… if you can hear me, give me any kind of sign…”
He felt a light squeeze on his hand for the third time, and Trace wanted to jump for joy. His Mason was coming back to him.
“Oh Mace, I know you probably never want to see me, or anyone else for that matter, again, but I need to see you open your eyes, one last time, at least. Please, Mace, I need you, please, wake up. God I love you so much and I should get shot for making you come to this I’m so sorry.”
Trace shut his eyes and let the tears flow. He was clutching the still hand, until he felt a strong grip back. Trace opened his eyes and looked over at Mason, who was finally waking up. Trace watched as the boys eyes fluttered open and took in his surroundings. He found himself already in a sitting position from the bed being raised, and felt a steady pressure on his hand. He turned his head and he stared at Trace for a minute or two.
“Trace?”
Trace couldn’t help it, he broke into a huge, lopsided smile when Mason not only woke up, but spoke.
“Yeah, Mace?”
“You shouldn’t be shot.”
Trace’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe it. Mason had heard everything he said, and didn’t think he should be shot.
“It would be too quick.”
“…what?”
“You shouldn’t be shot. It would be too fast. You should be stabbed. Repeatedly. You and Blake and Anthony.”
Mason used what little energy he had to pull his hand out of Trace’s grasp, folded them together, and turned away from him (which was only turning his head). Trace doubled over as he felt fresh tears stinging his eyes. He knew he was going to be hurt when Mason woke, but he wasn’t expecting it this badly. The pain Hannah put him through was just a pinprick compared to this. His heart wasn’t just ripped in two, but ground up into dust that seeped through his pores and piled on the floor, only to get swept up and put back to start the process over again.
“Mason… Mason you’re right. We deserve the slowest, most painful death we could get, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But fuck if I don’t try to get the smallest fraction that I could get a hold of. I love you , Mason Musso.”
Trace reach forward, grabbed Mason’s hand, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Letting go, Trace stood and stretched, before leaving the room for the first time in a week.
Watching Trace leave the room, Mason pulled at the collar of the hospital gown and looked at his torso. The cuts had all been sewn up and already began the slow process of drying, scabbing, flaking, healing, and scarring. He sighed and felt one of the wounds through the thin fabric. He ran the finger over one slice and counted the stitches. Nine. Pulling his hands away from his chest, he looked around for a distraction. Spotting a small television on the wall, he looked for the controller. He snatched it when he saw it on the table and turned on the television, showing a local news channel. He gasped when he realized it was live outside the hospital. He saw the camera man scan across the crowd. Teenagers holding signs hoping him a speedy recovery, or wishes for him to just die already. Religious hounds screaming about the hospital helping a ‘lost soul’ and how God wouldn’t forgive them for ‘curing the incurable’. The camera swooped back to the anchor at the front entrance.
“It has been one week since Mason Musso, the guitarist and singer for Metro Station, was admitted to the Jersey Shore Hospital*, and so far no word of his condition. Musso was admitted last Tuesday when fellow band member, Trace Cyrus, walked into their hotel room to find Musso near death in a suicide attempt. Cyrus refuses to reveal any reasons that could have lead to the attempt.”
The anchorman was cut off when someone screamed as Trace left the front door. Both him and camera man ran to catch him before he left.
“Trace! Trace Cyrus! This is the first you’ve been spotted out side the hospital since Mason’s admittance, any news?”
“-BLEEP- off.”
“Whoa, hey, we’re live here pal.”
“-BLEEP- off, all of you.”
“We’re all worried-”
“About ratings? Yeah, I thought so. Go do something meaningful for once, and leave this place alone. I’m going out for a coffee and coming back, and if you’re all still here when I get back, you’ll pay.”
Mason was so focused on Trace walking into the parking lot from the TV, that he never heard the door open or the nurse walk in.
“Here Trace, please try to ea- Mr. Musso! You’re awake!”
Mason snapped his head toward the door, to see a petite girl of about twenty-four, holding a food tray. He smiled at her and gently ran a hand through his hair.
“How are you feeling? Oh, where’s Mr. Cyrus? I guess that doesn’t matter, are you hungry?”
She didn’t give him time to answer before she put the tray down next to him and went to leave.
“Wait…”
“…yes?”
“How long was I out?”
“...a week… Mr. Cyrus never left your side… even when they were stitching you up. He was right in the room, holding onto your hand. This whole time he was just sitting in that chair.”
She pointed to the chair that Mason saw Trace in earlier, before smiling at him and left, most likely to inform a doctor of his waking. Mason turned his attention back to the chair. It’s cushion was deeply sunk into, looking as if nothing was out of it for a long time. Had Trace really been there all week?
He was so focused on the chair, that on the television, he never saw Trace punch the anchor in the face and walk into the hospital again, holding two cups of coffee, and a gift wrapped package.
***********
Here you go! Chapter four! He's okay! As if I could kill off Mason before anything happened between them! Tehe, so, what do you guys think the gift will be?
My neice didn't need the surgery and she's doing better! I couldn't be happier!!
Oh, sorry about the day-late enrty, I went to Warped Tour in NJ on Monday && got the shit beat out of me. hahah it was worth it though because I met FFTL and I nearly died when I hugged Derek and Matt. It's all good.
*I wanted to put this in before I posted it but oops. Jersey Shore Hospital is, in fact, a real Hospital. That is the name. I only wanted to put that in because most people I talk to outside of NJ think I'm making it up.