Clinch: Chapter Three

Xxx

Ugh.

It was as if liquid lead was running through his veins instead of blood. His brain was filled with molasses, and he was certain a boa constrictor was enwinding itself around his chest, squeezing him until his insides burst.

Why were his eyelids so heavy? Why did he feel like he was going to puke? Why couldn't he move? Did someone spike whatever he was drinking with an entire bottle of Bacardi?

He tried to search his murky memory as to what happened, but to no prevail. He vaguely remembered his car...

"...destroyed...finds...out..."

Huh? It was like he was underwater. The sounds his ears occasionally picked up were muffled and distant.

"what if...never...plays...'gen?"

He faintly perceived the fact that something—someone was touching his hand. Someone was holding his hand? Yep, he could feel their fingers intertwined in his. But he couldn't even feel his other hand. Weird...

"...find a way..."

Who was talking? He attempted to move, to open his eyes, to speak, to do anything. He mustered up every piece of strength he had, and tried to shift his seemingly unresponsive limbs.

All that achieved was a twitch of his fingers. Great.

But at that twitch, whoever was holding his hand began rubbing his palm soothingly. That felt kinda nice...

He wanted to say something, to find out what the hell was going on. He wanted to clear his dry, aching throat. He forced his vocal cords to start working, and attempted to speak.

All that came out was a cracked, high-pitched noise in the back of his throat. Huh. That wasn't what he wanted to say at all. What did he want to say again?

The mysterious voices around him suddenly stopped, and his hand was squeezed tighter.

"Brandon?"

The voice was clearer than it had been. That person sounded familiar. He thought his fingers shifted again.

"Brandon? You with us, buddy?"

He gathered up an overwhelming amount of strength, and slowly tried to lift his ultra-heavy eyelids. He found that he was only able to open one of them.

Through his fuzzy, one-eyed vision, he blinked blearily, everything unusually bright.

He identified a face swimming around in his swirling vision—his mom's? Yeah, that was his mom. As his blurry vision slowly became focused, he found that her face was painted with worry and...fear? What? Why was his mom scared? What was wrong? Was she okay?

His head throbbed, for it felt as if his brain was smashing itself into his skull. A sudden wave of nausea overcame him, and he whimpered.

Another face swam into his now spinning vision. Lena?

His mom caressed his forehead, and stroked his hair soothingly. "It's okay, you're okay, we're here,"

He surprised himself at how quickly he relaxed. Wasn't his mom mad at him, or something?

His mom continued to gently stroke his head. "We're gonna have to put you back to sleep, okay baby? We're gonna be right here—Momma and I. We're not going anywhere."

He vaguely noticed someone else joining them—wherever they were. He barely processed the words being spoken above him.

The liquid lead once again filled his body, and he was out like a light.

'Attacked' was the word Lena had used when she called home last night. Apparently, Brandon had reconstructive surgery on his hand. This only made Callie's claim even stronger.

Destroying his hand? Possibly ruining his piano dream? Vico might as well have signed his name on Brandon's forehead.

The Fake-ID and Winter Dance mess was supposed to be over and done. People get their punishments, everyone goes home. But evidently, that wasn't so.

And Callie had a nasty feeling that most of this was her fault.

Brandon had jumped through hoops to protect her; to help her. But look where that got him—lying in a hospital bed, doped on every barbiturate the doctors could find, his hand practically hanging by a string from his wrist, with who-knows-how-many other injuries on the list.

Hell, she ruined his life.

Her guilt trip came to a pause when she saw that Vico's cronies had finally departed from his sides. Vico turned and opened his locker, Callie's glare burning a hole straight through his back.

Well, it was now or never.

Callie took a deep breath, and marched up to where Vico stood.

"Why," She demanded; her fists at her sides.

Vico half-turned to look at her, and rolled his eyes. "Can I help you with something?"

"Do not play dumb with me." She tried her best to keep her voice from wavering. "You know what you did."

Vico smirked, and fully turned to face her. "I have no idea what you're talking about." He said coolly, and began walking away.

Hot on his tail, and grateful the halls were empty, Callie thundered; "Crushing his hand so he can't play piano again? Rich."

Vico stopped in his tracks, and his height seemed to double as he turned to face her.

"You love getting yourself into trouble, don't you? You love getting yourself into things that aren't any of your business."

"Don't," Callie growled through her teeth. "Just tell me why you hurt him."

"Hurt who, Princess?"

"You might as well admit it. Everyone knows it was you." She mentally applauded herself for the perfectly polished lie.

Vico's smug expression didn't even flicker. Damn. "Brandon got a boo-boo? Seems like the guy deserved it,"

"The Fake-ID thing was over. Everything was over, and then you brought the trouble back."

"Again; business that doesn't concern you. Look, Brandon got what was coming to him, whether I had anything to do with it or not."

"Just give it up. We know it was you."

"'We'?" Vico snorted. "You're acting like you're actually part of that family. You've caused them too much trouble for them to want you, Juvie Girl. The only reason they're keeping you is because you and your brother are a package deal. So stop running around like Brandon's little cheerleader because of your incest deal."

If felt like she'd just been stabbed.

"Look," Callie snarled, hiding her hurt. "You might be able to get away with this when it comes to Sanchez, but what about your dad, huh? I've been told he's an ass. He'll probably send you off to some military school."

"Get the hell out of my face, jailbird."

"You'll be the jailbird after Stef and Lena press charges. Neither Sanchez or your parents can save you from that."

"You can't prove it was me."

"Brandon can."

Vico stared her down, daggers shooting from his eyes.

Callie continued. "You claim Brandon 'ruined' your dream, so you went and ruined his."

Vico backed up, his twitch of a smirk returning. "Hate to break it to you, but he screws everything up. Maybe the twerp shouldn't get into things he can't handle."

With that, he turned his back and walked away.

And that was all the evidence Callie really needed.

Hours later, Stef was still seated in the pathetic little plastic chair next to Brandon's hospital bed, holding his...good hand, and warily eyeing all of the tubes and bandages and bruises that littered her little boy's body.

But mostly, she eyed that hand.

The hand that had been splinted and strapped down to the bed handle after the three-and-a-half-hour long surgery. The hand that would destroy her son once he realized he...that he couldn't...

No. He'd be able to play again. They'd find a way. They'd pay double for rehab, they'd triple his physical therapy, they'd do anything—

"Stef?" She turned her head to see Lena halfway through the door, a tired and uneasy expression on her face.

"Yeah?"

Lena looked hesitant to answer. "Mike's here."

"Tell him to go take a hike."

Lena sighed, and fully entered the room, shutting the door behind her. Her gaze softened when she looked down at Brandon.

"He said he hadn't gotten our messages until a little while ago. He told me he rushed here when he got them."

"Good for him."

"Stef," Lena sighed, just as exhausted as her wife. "Brandon's his son, too. Just go talk to him. Tell him off. Say what you want to say. Just talk to him."

"Ah, yes. And say; 'Parenting Lesson Number One; When your child is beaten to a pulp outside your home, make sure you're actually there to put a stop to it.'"

"I don't appreciate the sarcasm, but go ahead. I don't care. Go talk to him."

Stef looked down into Brandon's face nervously, and grasped his hand tightly. She combed a flyaway brown curl off of his forehead.

Lena walked over and kissed Stef on the cheek. "I'll sit with him."

"I don't want to leave him." Stef said, resting her head on Lena's shoulder.

"I'm gonna sit with him. You go talk to Mike, okay? If anyone gets to rant to him, it should be you."

"Hold his hand the entire time." Stef said, motioning to Brandon.

"I promise I will."

Stef kissed Brandon on the forehead, and then Lena. "I'll be back." She rose out of her seat, her knees popping from the long-term seating of the unsupportive chair.

"Good luck."

With one more last look at her son, Stef took a deep breath, and entered the waiting room, her exhausted eyes landing on a disheveled-looking Mike, standing with his arms crossed, his gaze downcast.

When he noticed her, his posture immediately straightened. When they were about a foot away from each other, Stef closed her eyes, her lips pursed.

"Stef—"

"I don't want an excuse, Mike."

Mike ran his hand over his face, and exhaled. "Is he okay?"

"No, he's not. Not even close." She snapped.

"Stef—"

"He's been suffering in a hospital bed for almost two days now. Where have you been?"

"I'm sorry." He breathed. "I'm sorry."

She took in his unshaven face, the dark circles under his eyes, the faint scent of alcohol on his clothes.

"You were drinking."

He sighed.

"You were, weren't you."

He opened his mouth to speak, before Stef interrupted him. "You were out drinking when your son was undergoing almost a four-hour-long surgery."

"I kicked Dani out of my house, and my son had almost been arrested for selling fake-IDs." He hissed.

"Is that supposed to be your excuse?"

"I never said it was."

An interminable, tense-filled silence fell between the two. Stef pursed her lips again, and looked uneasily back at the door to the hospital room.

"Where were you, Mike?" She asked quietly. "Where were you when your son was being assaulted right outside of your apartment?"

Mike looked at her incredulously. "Assaulted?"

"Yes, Mike, he was attacked."

"Was it that kid he was selling fake-IDs with—Vico or something like that?"

"We don't know who it was."

"Stef," He sighed. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, okay? And I can't begin to explain how much I love our son, and how much I hate myself for this."

"He might not ever play piano again."

Mike looked up into her eyes, his mouth falling open. "What?"

"His hand was trapped in his car door for hours. It needed to be reconstructed with surgery. The fate of his piano career will be determined on how well the rehabilitation goes."

"Oh my God,"

Another tense silence.

"Can I see him?" He asked timidly.

"Why should I even let you near him?"

"Because he's my son too, whether you like it or not,"

"You can see him under one condition."

"And that is?"

"You will never drink again." She deadpanned. "I don't care where you are, or how much stress you're under, you will not drink ever again. And if you do, you'll be lucky if you get to see Brandon on Christmases. I'm done, Mike. This could have been avoided if you were there."

Mike closed his eyes, his face contorted in pain.

"Okay," He finally breathed.

"Okay. His room's right here."