Clinch: Chapter Seven

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He was going home tomorrow.

Yippee.

'Can't wait to return to the life that I literally royally screwed up in the matter of five minutes,'

But this hospital thing was getting pretty old, though.

It was worth admitting that lying in a stolid hospital room with your hand pinned to an armrest for over a week became hopelessly boring. However, lying flat on his back, immobile, gave him too much time to stare at the ceiling and mull over what kind of Hell was waiting for him once he left this room. With every passing day, it was as if the lucent walls seemed to close in on him, more and more, like they were suffocating him with the reminder of reality's presence. That's why Brandon decided to spend most of his hospital time sleeping.

His parents and some doctors were literally sitting right by his bed, discussing crap about 'where he would go from here', or something like that. He presumed they were sort of indirectly talking to him, including him in the conversation, but he wasn't really listening. Who cared? Why should he take an interest on what he was gonna do next? There's nothing to do next. What did he have left to offer?

He vaguely paid attention and caught a doctor say something about a "liquid diet" because of his screwed up jaw or whatever. He couldn't talk for six weeks? He had to eat baby food? Good. He was a selfish, weak, no-good piece-of-shit, and he deserved to suck down liquidated potatoes through a straw.

Ooh, now they were talking about his hand. The hand that he couldn't feel. How do you crush your hand so badly that you can't even feel it? Oh yeah, well, first, you start selling fake-IDs with the captain of the varsity wrestling team, then you buy all the IDs back because you're such a damn angel, and then you go out alone at night where Rocky and his wrestling bros are waiting for you.

His eyes stung.

He heard a doctor say it. Chances of him playing piano again? Slim—incredibly slim. He mentally gave that guy the nickname of Doctor Dickwad.

Everything he thought he was and wanted to be was smacked away in one swipe.

The moment he comprehended the fact that this hand injury basically annihilated his chances of getting that scholarship—and technically his entire piano career—his heart had dropped into his stomach like a grenade. Time seemed to slow, and it felt as if he was slowly drowning. The world around him appeared to grow darker and murkier as he continued to sink to the bottom. There seemed to be a strange sensation of heaviness constricting his chest, as he descended further and further into the caliginous water.

Nothing mattered to him anymore. Not life, not his fate, not Callie, not happiness. Why should it matter? Why should he matter?

"Brandon?" His mom's voice snapped him out of it. "You okay?"

I'm just swell, mother.

He looked up at her, slightly nodding, being mindful of the concussion. Her eyes flashed fear, worry, and sorrow, before they softened, and she caressed his good hand comfortingly. Well, she saw right through that. He couldn't even speak, but yet his face told the whole story. How bad of a liar was he? He thought he was one clever little shit, considering the ID catastrophe. Evidently not.

Brandon could tell his parents felt awful about this whole mess. They were constantly by his side, making sure he was comfortable, talking in order to take his mind off of the hand. But they knew it didn't work. Brandon knew they saw right past his forced upturned lip, and they felt terrible about it. Yet, they still tried to make him feel a little less shitty, despite everything he'd done to them in the past month and a half.

"I hope you know just how much they love you..."

He'd give anything for Doctor Dickwad to put him on that sedative again. No worries, no problems. Just nothingness. Lovely emptiness.

God, he was screwed big time.

What am I gonna do?

Stef would be the one to question Vico, and you'd better be sure as Hell that nothing was standing in her way.

She opened the creaky, obnoxiously heavy door to the interrogation room, and was immediately met with Vico sitting with a sour expression on his face from across the room.

Upon seeing her in the doorway, Vico crossed his arms over his chest and snorted, failing to hide a smirk.

"Is something funny?" Stef questioned warningly.

Vico shook his head, avoiding her intense gaze on his face. "I think it's cute that he's having his mom interrogate the big bad bully for him."

This was bound to be an intriguing interrogation.

"I would be the one to question you anyway, regardless of whether Brandon was my son or not." She snapped. "So you'd better cut the snarky comments."

Pursing her lips, she walked coolly over to the interrogation table and sat in the chair opposite from Vico. Damn, this kid looked mean.

"Why am I even here?" He mumbled, still avoiding eye contact.

"Because you severely hurt someone, and that's not okay with us."

"Severely?" He snorted. "That's a bit of an exaggeration."

"Really," She deadpanned. "Maybe you'd understand how true it was if you'd sat in the hospital with him for over a week."

Vico rolled his eyes, and re-crossed his arms.

"So," She began, swallowing her annoyance. "How about you tell me everything that happened between you and Brandon; beginning to end. No lies."

A beat of silence passed, and Vico stared her down with testy eyes.

You wanna play that game, you little prick? Then let's play.

"Keep in mind," She told him, "You're not allowed to leave until I'm satisfied. So if you want to chill here for the rest of your life, then go right ahead."

Vico's expression was thick with annoyance. "Fine," He replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "What stories must I humor you with?"

"I want to know everything from the moment Brandon wanted to sell the IDs with you."

"Maybe I want to sit here for the rest of my life."

"You're already in trouble. You might as well tell all."

Still not making eye contact, Vico sighed. "He said he needed fast money. He told me he needed a thousand dollars, but he wouldn't say what for. I told him about my ID business. I said he could make twice that amount in a week."

"And?"

"And," Vico clenched his teeth, looking annoyed. "He didn't like the idea—hated it, actually. Mr. Goodie-Two-Shoes didn't wanna do anything 'bad'." He snorted.

He continued. "But, he accepted the fact that you can't make a thousand dollars in less than a week with any other job. So he went with it. Things were going pretty well, because I had an extra person to sell the IDs with. Things between the two of us were pretty decent, too. He was whiny, though. Complained about getting caught like every day, saying stuff like 'as soon as I get what I need, I'm gone'."

He still didn't look her in the eye. "And then, one day, everything blew up. He got the money he needed, but then he started going around, buying back the IDs we sold people with the money he made, and convinced those people to never come back to me. Why? I don't know. Guess he thought he was a 'good person' for doing it. But now, he had no money, and I'm pretty sure he was way overdue for whatever he needed it for."

"You're not being very detailed." Stef mentioned.

"Who were you expecting, Charles Dickens?" Vico sneered.

"Just go on."

"Okay, well, naturally, I was pissed at him. Of course I'm gonna do something about it. So, I find out his ex is pissed at him too, and that his weakness is...Callie...so, angry ex plus angry ex-business partner plus a whole school of Callie haters equals the Winter Dance thing."

"However," He exhaled. "I was expecting Callie to get arrested, not Brandon. So, when Brandon tells all, I get saved from everything else, but my dad kicks me off the wrestling team. I was gonna get a scholarship for it. But now I can't. And that's Brandon's fault."

Stef drummed her fingernails against the table. "So, you thought it would only be fair for you to take away what Brandon loves, too."

Vico fiddled with the zipper on his jacket, and sighed. "Yes."

"You know," Stef began, leaning forward. "Finding a way to be on a different wrestling team is possible. Playing piano with a crushed hand with destroyed nerves is not."

Both fear and a tiny spark of satisfaction flashed through Vico's eyes.

"Is that all?" Stef asked, patiently.

"Yes ma'am." He drawled sarcastically.

"Well," She stated. "There's going to be consequences, Vico. Maybe a trial."

"A trial?" He exclaimed. "You can't have a trial. It would just get Brandon in trouble for the fake IDs."

"I said maybe. We are pressing charges, but most likely, there's going to be a nasty fine your parents will have to pay, and chances are you'll be expelled from Anchor Beach."

"You can't expel me—"

"Sanchez and your parents can't save you from this. When you were busted for the fake IDs, no charges were pressed against you. And that's why—legally—nothing happened to you. But now, there are charges pressed. And now it would be known by the state that Sanchez didn't expel you even with the charges."

Vico exhaled slowly, his head dipping downwards.

"Thank you for your time." Stef said, emotionlessly. "Officers will come in and tell you when you're free to go."

As Stef placed her hand on the doorknob and was prepared to leave, Vico said; "You know, everything Brandon did during that whole ID mess was for you guys."

"Don't try to butter me up."