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Step Two: Anger	By : quoteintangible Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Metro Station Views: 825 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not know nor own the members of Metro Station nor any of the members of the Musso family for that matter. This story is entirely fiction and I'm not making any money from it.

Chapter List
- 1-The Ice in Her Store-Bought Words
- 2-It's Not a Disease, It's Love
- 1
- 2
Series: Four Stages of Guilt
Title: Step Two: Anger
Rating: R
Genre: Major Mason angst

And because I still can't figure out how to italicize things, this time // denotes thoughts. It changes POV between Trace and Mitchel and for anyone who many not know, Mitchel is Mason's younger brother.

XD

***

Chapter One: The Ice In Her Store-Bought Words

It didn’t make any sense. Like winter in the air on a hot summer day, it was simply impossible.

But it was a bitter chill that wrapped around us now as if we were drowning in a frozen pond. It was icy fingers that gripped mine and wide eyes that looked beyond me in disbelief at the warm shores that were far from our grasp…too far.

And here I thought summer was coming.

I squeezed back the chilled hands, trying to warm them up just a bit, but my hands were just as frosty.

“I’m sorry, babe. I’m so, so sorry.” This was my fault. This was all my fault. I was the one who encouraged Mason to tell his mother and now I’m left with the shattered pieces she left behind with her cold words and casual brush off as if nothing Mason said mattered.

Who would have thought reality could be so ruthless? But then again, who could have a mother could be so cruel?

And I don’t even know if she realized what she’s done or if she even cares.

It took Mason years to find the courage to tell her he was bi and her husband abused him because of it. I don’t know if she even heard the words he said before she hung up on him. The icy chill of her silence shattered Mason’s fragile heart and confirmed his worst fears.

I felt a stab of regret as Mason lowered the phone.

“Somehow,” Mason whispered softly and turned away from me, “somehow I don’t think she’s calling back.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist and rested my head on his shoulder.

I didn’t know what to say. There was nothing I could say to make this better. It was devastating, utterly devastating.

I wanted to tell him she would call back, that she just needed time to sort things out. And when they talked again, everything would fine. She would kick his father out and accept Mason for who he was.

But that was the perfect, ideal world on the warm shores, and we lived far from there, barely adrift on the sad seas.

I felt his shoulders shake as he finally let go of his restrained tears.

All I could do was whisper comforting words into his ear knowing that I was completely helpless. And I hated it, I hated not being able to fix this. I hated that it was all my fault. And I hated knowing there had to be something more that I could do.

I just never did it.

***

I only heard parts of the conversation.

My mother was crying, but she was deathly silent and I knew that was never a good sign. I knew I shouldn’t have stayed to listen, but I heard Mason’s name, and I knew. I just knew.

Mason was finally telling our mother. Something I should have done a long time ago.

I knew our father had been abusing Mason for almost three years now, but like Mason, I had been too afraid to say anything, even to Mason, and I regretted it every day of my life.

And now years later both of us still remained in silence about it all.

But after years of suffering in silence, Mason finally spoke up. Or so it seemed.

And our mother wasn’t taking it well.

I heard her hang up without a word before the phone clattered noisily to the floor.

I felt a sudden weight on my shoulders, like phantom hands forcing me down. After all these years and she just hung up on him? Did she even know what it took for Mason to make that call? Would she ever know?

I could not deal with this tumult of emotion over her careless reaction, so I did what I do best, and ran away.

I don’t know how long I spent wallowing in self guilt sitting on the floor of my room. I dared not even breathe.

I remembered eyes that held too much pain. I remembered tears that should have never been there and I remembered a terror so strong it rendered me frozen, unable to even think properly…

And I couldn’t remember how to move.

I had a sudden need to call Mason, just to hear his voice, just to make sure he was okay.

My hand hovered over the button, though, unable to dial the numbers.

Did I really want to do this?

No, wanting to and needing to were never really the same thing.

And I needed to do this, because there was one night nearly two years ago, that I could never forget. I remember it was too silent, except for the ominous ticking of the old grandfather in the hallway that counted down the minutes of utter terrifying silence.

And I remember calling Trace in hysterics, nearly unable to form a coherent sentence.

//Mason’s dead…you have to get here now. Please.//

I know now I should have called the police, or the ambulance, but I chickened out and called Trace instead. I let him pick up the pieces. I let him pick up the mess.

To this day I still count that as my most stupid, selfish mistake ever.

I felt that stab of guilt in my stomach again, that terrible pain that felt like someone was trying to tear way at my insides with a blunt spoon.

I couldn’t live with this guilt. I made far too many mistakes.

I pressed down on the button and waited anxiously as the phone rang.

“Mitchel.” I shouldn’t have been surprised that Trace answered the phone. I shouldn’t have been so relieved, either, that Mason didn’t.

“How is he, Trace,” I whispered. “Please, I…I need to know.” Inhaling deeply, I attempted to keep the tremble from my voice. I knew Trace understood, though. We both knew the consequences, we’d seen the fallout after one too many heartbreaks. I could not watch Mason self destruct, not again.

Trace sighed heavily into the phone. “I don’t know, Mitchel. I really don’t know.” There was a sadness in voice and it hurt to hear. It hurt not knowing if my older brother, the one I depended on the most, was going to be okay.

“Can I talk to him?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. I chewed my lip nervously.

“Now’s not really a good time, Mitchel. Can he call you back?”

Yes he can, but was he going to? No. I knew Mason too well to ever think he would.

“I can’t do this anymore," I bitterly huffed into the phone after a moment's silence. "This just...It's not right.”

“Mitchel, don’t—”

“Hasn’t this gone on long enough?" I interrupted. "Have I not spent too much time thinking of what I could have done differently and just never doing it? Don’t you think it’s time I do the right thing?”

Trace fell silent.

“I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for the things I’ve done, and the things I should have, but never did. He’s protected me for so long and I’ve done nothing to deserve it. It’s time to set things right.”

Trace remained silent and it was hard to know what he was thinking. I imagined he was as nervous and as tired as I was; too tired to deal with this anymore, but to nervous to move on.

“I’m not going to tell you what you can and cannot do, Mitchel, but you know Mason and I will support you in any decision you make.”

“Does it even matter anymore? It’s far too late…it’s just…too late. We’re following the darkness into the night and we may never see the sun again.”

I cared too much about what what my parents might think, feared the consequences for too long and now I was sitting amidst my mistakes wishing I could take them all back.

Even if my mother magically changed her mind this very moment, it couldn’t erase year’s worth of pain and terror and never knowing if the next moment was really worth it.

I said goodbye feeling more guilty and afraid than before.

I knew I had to talk to my mother and it wasn’t hard to find her. I don’t think she moved since the call from Mason. The phone was still lying haphazardly on the floor where she dropped it and her head rested in her hands were it had fallen after the heartbreaking news. She was trying to cry as softly as possible.

It hurt to see her like this, but I wasn’t sure if it was anger or sympathy that made the bitter wound in my chest ache.

“Mom?” She didn’t raise her head. She dared not look at me.

“It’s okay,” she said, “It doesn’t concern you, honey.” It painfully struck me how wrong she was.

“I wish that was true,” I whispered sincerely before sinking to the ground across from her. My tired eyes flicked towards hers and for a moment I caught her broken gaze. “But I’ve known much longer than you have.”

I had wanted to approach the situation delicately, but the words stumbled out of my mouth in a bitter torrent. I was only 17, I didn’t know how to deal with my own emotions let alone someone else’s.

The silence that followed nearly dissolved my resolve to continue. My mother stared at me with those eyes that begged me to be lying.

But she had to know the truth.

“And I wish I could tell you it was all a huge lie, but I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

Her hand froze in its incessant chewing of her fingernails. I noticed a slight tremble in her shoulders, but her eyes were cold.

“I’ve seen Dad abuse Mason,” I continued when she said nothing. I did not care if she didn’t want to hear it. I did not care if she wasn’t even listening. It did not matter.

It was the first time I said the words out loud, but it was not a huge relief and I did not expect it to be.

But it was time I admitted it. I owed at least that much to Mason.

“I saw Dad abuse Mason,” I said again.

“Mitchel,” she stopped me. She didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to face the truth; didn’t want me to go on. But she didn’t understand: I had to say it. I had to let it go.

“No, mom. I have kept silent about this for far too long.” Three longs years, in fact, had I known. And this was the first time I said the words out loud?

What kind of monster was I?

She was silent again and I felt a pang of sympathy. I knew what it was like to want to deny the truth when the facts were starring right at you. I knew what it was like to want to run away from the reality that was slapped in your face.

I knew what it was like to have everything you thought was true turn out to all be a huge lie.

“I noticed the bruises and the flinches and the excuses that never quite made sense when I was 13,” I slowly began, “but I did not see it until I was 14.”

“I was too curious, but Dad always spent so much time in Mason’s room when you were gone. I just wanted to know what they were doing. I was so jealous at the time. I thought Dad loved Mason more or something, or just wanted to spend more time with him. But I remember peaking into Mason’s room one day and seeing...and I saw Dad hurting Mason. I saw take off his belt and raise it and...I…I stayed and watched too.” I still did not know what made me stay.

“I watched Dad beat Mason and then he just walked away. He just left Mason there like he did not matter.” Because he didn’t, not it Dad’s eyes at least.

“I remember Mason running to the bathroom shortly after and I remember hearing him throw up. I…I followed him.” Mason hadn’t closed the bathroom door then.

“He was crying as he stood on shaky feet and he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but they just kept coming. He slowly peeled off his shirt, wincing as he did so and I remember how horrified I was as I saw the welts that decorated his back. I was so scared that I fled. I didn’t know what else to do.” I wiped angrily at the tears in my own eyes.

“And I couldn’t face him either. I just left him there, alone and in pain.

“I felt so guilty about it that I couldn’t talk to him for months after the fact. He must have thought I hated him. I’m such an asshole…I thought I could convince myself that Dad had a good reason, that Mason must have done something to deserve it. And for a while it worked and I hated Mason for it. I hated him because I thought he was ruining the family…” my words trailed off. I still felt that stab of regret every time I thought of what Mason must have gone through. “I’ve come to realize though, that there is nothing anyone could have done to deserve that, nothing, and I know about him and Trace. I couldn’t keep blaming him for doing nothing wrong. This was never Mason’s fault. It’s Dad’s fault for not being able to accept Mace and my fault for never saying anything…”

I shook my head, still in disbelief over what I had done. I told Mason I hated him. I avoided him like the plague and belittled him like everything was his fault. And it all came crashing down on me in a whirlwind of anguish and horror and guilt I could never wash away that night nearly two years ago when I thought he was dead.

“Stop lying to me Mitchell,” the ice in her words chilled me. My head snapped up to stare at her in disbelief.

“I’m not making this up,” I desperately shot back. “I know you don’t want to believe it. God I know it’s hard to believe, but I would never lie about this and you know that. And we would be terrible people if we just let this keep happening.”

“That is enough, Mitchel,” she whispered fiercely.

“Mom –”

“Go.”

“But–”

“Just go to your room!”

I tried to ignore the sobs as I fled the room in disbelief, but my mother’s tears would be imprinted in my memories forever.

//I’m sorry, Mason. I failed.

But…there may be one thing I can do.//

***

He was paler than usual, with a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot with a hint of despair that terrified me.

Mason was exhausted and it showed in the dark circles under his eyes that could almost be mistaken for bruises. His voice cracked with the strain of overuse and the commanding toll his stress had taken on him. I feared this was only the beginning of something much worse to come.

His mother’s numbers flashed across the screen of his cell phone.

But I had finally gotten Mason to fall asleep.

And quite the feat it had been. Because no matter how weary and fatigued he may have been, his nightmares would never let him sleep.

I wanted to cancel at least one of our shows. Mason vehemently refused.

But not even Mason could deny that he needed a break.

He was too tired to walk on his own after our last performance, so I let him lean on me. I helped him to my bunk, helped him undress and lied with him as I watched him struggle to sleep. His dreams were plagued with nightmares and five hours later Mason had slept the equivalent of 45 minutes.

I found myself nose to nose with Mason, holding hands with legs entangled in my tiny bunk before he finally fell deep asleep after hours of struggling. I sighed in relief and prayed his nightmares wouldn’t wake him from the first restful sleep he’d had in a long time. And I knew I would kill anyone who woke him up now.

His mother’s numbers flashed across his phone again. I refused to wake Mason up. It was out of the question.

I knew I was just making excuses. I was worried. I didn’t want Mason to be hurt again.

But we couldn’t ignore the problem.

With shaking hands and a terrible dread settling in my chest I answered the phone.

“Hello?”
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Step Two: Anger