License to Choose

Chapter 22.

A week had passed, and Mason felt as if he had been trapped in a bubble of time.  Nothing had changed, not the ache in his chest or the sorrow that fed off whatever energy he was able to summon- he felt lifeless.

Working at the diner offered him some stability. It was the only escape he was able to find, as driving and singing were no longer past times he could pursue. His friends were still hurt and angry, just as he was by their actions, and he felt their stares upon his back when he'd seen them occasionally in the school cafeteria or Lucas in form.

Monday had been the most challenging day, and his best friend could hardly open his mouth to apologise. It was likely he and Anya still didn't even know his mother had been hospitalised.
According to the single phrase text messages his father sent- likely because his mother insisted and not a result of his care, the doctors had found some abnormality with his mother's recovery.

Mason automatically blamed the alcohol. There was no other reason as to why she couldn't heal, when he'd read the text, his heart had sunk even further than he'd thought possible. His mother had managed to damn herself to sorrow, to the point that even her body now rejected its attempt to heal.
She hadn't drunk a single sip of alcohol since the accident, but Mason was too callous to consider this news an achievement. She should never have become so addicted to alcohol in the first place, and when she had slipped, his father should have requested help, just as Mason had pleaded from the very start.

They didn't preach the implications and consequences of alcohol, in school for nothing, and seeing his mother's condition was the other only reason as to why he hadn't pressed a green bottle to his lips to seek his escape.

"Mason Park," his name was called, and he lazily glanced over to the teacher manning the classroom. Miss Charles was still recovering from the terrible virus, and so Mr. Kale was standing in her place, his arms crossed as he raised a single brow. "Am I boring you?" The teacher asked as Mason discretely wiped the edges of his mouth with his hoodie sleeve, realizing that he'd fallen asleep in class.

"No sir," he muttered in return, feeling the hardened gaze of his class as he lowered his eyes and concentrated on the patterns of the laminate.

"Then perhaps you can pay a little attention to the lesson ," the teacher encouraged, and Mason released a haggard breath as he glowered.

It was not exactly helping his position, and when the teacher pinned him to his seat with his glare, Mason scoffed and packed his bag.
He didn't offer a reason and walked out of the room, slowly growing awareness that not even his project for music composition could pull him away from the anger and resentment he felt towards himself.

What saddened him further was that this was not the first time he had walked out of class in the last few weeks- Mason was lucky that no one had called him out for his behaviour. Or perhaps that was what he would prefer? Exclusion was no longer a source of fear for him; he'd given up. Still, these were questions he was unable to answer, but there was a reason Mason still found himself driving to school each morning, his angst only increasing when he arrived at the premises.

Once more, Mason found himself lost, and with a small sigh, he walked through the canteen and picked up a small bag of crisps to sate his growling hunger. Somehow, the heart of the sixth form was silent and void of students, and he was glad for it. It wasn't a place free of distraction, and the pigeons cooing would be a nightmare if he didn't have his headphones, but at least here, he could be alone with his thoughts and dine.

Despite his efforts to eat, however, he didn't have the energy, and so the bag just lay there, the red packet glowing under the bright light as it reminded him of all of the failures he had successfully attained in the last fourteen days. His fatigue persuaded him to lean his chin on his folded hands as he concentrated on the perfect creases in the packet. Who would have known even something so mundane like a packet of crisps would have the power to scold him.