Write Your Own Song

Chapter 2

Jack was swinging his legs back and forth, the heels of his boots bouncing noisily off the drawers of the dresser he was sitting on. "Jack …" his mother scolded gently.

"What? It's not like they can hear me," he said with a shrug as he continued his relentless abuse of the cheap hospital furniture. He hated hospitals; he'd been in them far too much in his time. And sitting around one for days on end with nothing to do was making him go a little stir crazy.

"They might not be able to hear you, but I can. I don't think my ears can take it anymore," Evelyn said, raising an eyebrow, her wry expression one he knew well. She wasn't mad, but she was fast approaching annoyed.

"Oh, right," Jack mumbled as he forced himself to stop the nervous habit. He pulled his legs up and shifted around until he was sitting Indian style. He started pulling at the fraying edge of the cuff of his shirt, suddenly very interested in a thread that had come loose. He wrapped it around the tip of his index finger, watching as the skin turned an angry red and then a deep purple. It was fascinating and he repeated it three times before he became bored with it.

Without realizing it, he started drumming a beat on his knee. It was a song he'd been working on in New York, just before all this shit went down. Hell, he'd been trying to solve a chord problem in the chorus at the exact moment the phone rang, a rattled Jerry on the other end. He wondered if he'd ever get to play that song now - probably not - and now he was wishing he'd shared it with someone. He never trusted anyone with his music until it was as close to perfect as he could get it without help; he sucked a collaborating, a fact that regularly pissed off his fellow band mates. Now he was regretting the fact that no one was ever going to hear it - it was a pretty kick-ass song.

Evelyn reached over and stilled his hands. "Honey, this is important. You really should be paying attention."

Reluctantly, he slid his gaze to the other occupants in the cramped hospital room. They were arguing, nothing new there; though this argument was a little more hushed than normal, like they were trying to keep it from exploding into an all out war. It was silly, really, like they were trying to keep from waking the guy in the bed. Thing was, chances were slim to none that he was ever going to wake up anyway.

XxXxXxXxXx

"Bobby, man, sign the paper. Staring at it ain't gonna change what it says," Jerry said as he crossed his arms and started to pace, each step echoed by the steady beeping of the heart monitor and the whoosh of the oxygen.

"You're so fucking ready to give up on him, you sign it," Bobby said as he dropped the clipboard and pen onto the bed he was sitting next to. The clipboard had a Do Not Resuscitate form attached to it, a form Bobby had read over and over again until he had it memorized. The doctor had talked to them about it when Jack was first brought in, more dead than alive. He explained everything in calm, even tones that made Bobby want to bash the guy's face in. Two days ago, the doctor had the guts to broach the subject again. Jack didn't have a living will and the decision on whether or not extreme measures should be taken to prolong his life now fell on the shoulders of his brothers.

"Bobby, that's not fair. Jerry can't sign it and neither can I. Since Ma died, you're in charge of this stuff," Angel said from his unofficial post, leaning up against the wall. It was the same spot he chose every day he came to visit, like any deviation from it would disturb the order of the room, the universe, or something. It didn't slip Bobby's notice that the spot was slightly off to the side, the bed not quite in Angel's line of vision. Angel seemed to avoid looking at Jack as much as possible.

Bobby, however, couldn't take his eyes off his little brother. Always watching and waiting for a sign - any sign, really, that his brother was still with them, trapped in the darkness but trying to make his way back. Lately, it seemed like he was the only one of the three of them with any hope left at all. But when it got dark out and he was left alone with Jack, the machines the only sound in the room, he would let the doubt creep in. It was one of those nights that he mulled over the doctor's words and let them sink in. It was one of those nights that he finally accepted the fact that he wasn't going to be able to save Jack this time. That he was going to have to let him go.