A Twist of Fate SERIES (Pentatonix)

(41) On My Way Home

( SCOTT )

I failed him. Once again. I wasn't there to save him when he needed me because I was too blind, too selfish, to realize he was hurting. And, fuck, the whole world might as well know our secret now. The one I promised to never tell a soul. The one the FBI told me to keep hidden to protect myself and the rest of the band. But now that it's out there,... I don't even want to think about the consequences.

Because I realize everything I've said two seconds too late. I realize I've broken the most important promise in my life too seconds too late. I realize I've spilled the secret I swore to keep ten months ago two seconds too late. I realize the number of lives I've now placed in jeopardy two seconds too late.

And it's not like I can just try and turn the clocks back, actually keep my mouth shut this time, and pretend none of this happened. Because Kirstie and Kevin and Avi are looking at me with wide, lifeless eyes and pale, slack faces, mouths fallen open, and panic momentarily courses through me.

Scott, what have you fucking done?

"Shit," I mutter, one word that certainly doesn't sum up everything that's swirling through my mind right now in endless circles, everything all jumbled and muddled that I can't even process the fact that I'm sprinting out the dressing room door and down the hall until security guards start to threateningly shout after me. I don't have enough sanity or willpower or anything left in me to tell them to fuck off. To leave me alone because they don't know what I accidentally just said, the reason why the panic is beginning to control me.

I should have apologized. I should have actually explained myself instead of fleeing. But they don't know—nobody knows—what, exactly, has been tearing me up for the last ten months. Everyone assumed they did, but they're wrong. They're all wrong. They don't understand.

Because Mitch didn't kill himself.

That's what they were told that cold morning in May. That's what they've been believing since May. But it's not the truth it's not the truth it's not the truth and, fuck, if the FBI finds out I couldn't even listen to their orders for ten months it's not going to be pretty. If the world finds out that we, in fact, haven't been honest with them it's not going to be pretty.

Even if we're all supposed to be out of the city by the end of the week.

My mind is clouded, filled with the shouts of security racing after me. But I don't listen to them. I don't stop. I throw open the exit door, racing out into the brisk spring California air,—the air that I'm certainly going to miss—and don't even notice the car that's coming straight towards me until it hits me head-on.

There's a scream. Or two. Maybe three. My vision is hazy, blurry, red. It happens so quickly and yet in slow motion at the same time. I fight to keep my eyes open, though I can feel myself slipping away, can feel the throbbing in the side of my head from where it smacked the pavement at a force that should have knocked me out instantly, can feel the abandoned breath that doesn't want to enter my lungs, the stinging pain in my shoulder, the gash on the side of my leg and the blood that seeps out of it.

All I register is pain. And, fuck, why does God hate me so much?

I think I hear somebody shout my name, and then there's a figure in front of me. A shadow. But then I give up the fight,—or maybe the fight gives up me?—and I let my eyelids slide closed.

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Pain flares in every fucking millimeter of my body. The thought of moving makes me want to throw up, but I can't. I feel paralyzed. My eyes are glued shut and something soft is underneath me and there's this thing down my throat and this obnoxious loud beeping emanating from beside me. Light slices through my already darkened vision. Hands on me. Voices, but they're muffled.

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Nothing makes sense. None of the vocal snippets I manage to hear sound familiar. All I register is the fucking pain.

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"—into hypovolemic shock shortly after transport.... Chest compressions and two rounds of defibrillation brought him back, BP 90 over 50.... Blood transfusion and—"

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"—has been unconscious since before first responders arrived on scene.... Short, blonde woman out in waiting room said it was a—"

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"—smacked his head against the pavement when the car hit him.... Pupils aren't responding to light, and there's massive sw—"

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"—donado, we're going to need your permission to perform a ventriculostomy.... Without one, his chances of survival are even slimmer."

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There's more incessant beeping resonating through my skull, and I wonder if whatever's controlling it understands that I feel like my head is about to explode into a million pieces. I want, more than anything, to tell the damn thing to just shut up, but I can't.

Everything just hurts. And I mentally whimper, curl into a fetal position, because there's no way I'd be able to do that in my current state. Whatever that even is.

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"Mr. Hoying has been placed in a medically-induced coma to try and decrease some of the swelling, but there's no telling how successful the ventriculostomy was until—"

"—long will it be before we find out if it was successful?"

Oh. There's a voice that I almost recognize. I can't seem to pinpoint who, exactly, it belongs to, though. Or stay conscious long enough to hear what is said next.

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A sigh.

"They told me you probably can't hear me, but I wanted to talk to you anyways. To say thank you. To say that you mean the absolute world to me, and I'm so sorry all of this had to happen, but... you did good, blondie."

A sniffle.

"They said you hit your head way too hard on the pavement, and, um,... there was too much... too much unrepairable damage, and..."

A voice crack.

"I love you so much, Scotty. I need you to know that. I need you to believe that. To hold it with you for forever and ever. Okay? I wish... I wish that there was some way I could know if this was reaching you or not, but I just... I just don't know. And I..."

A pause.

"Baby, if you need to go, you can... you can go. Let go, honey. It's gonna be okay."

A kiss.

"I love you..."