Oliver "Boy Scout" O'Brien was pronounced dead at San Mateo General Hospital on August 19th, 2020 at 6:07 AM.
An hour away from home.
An hour away from his friends.
An hour away from his life.
Doctors, despite their best attempts and most honorable surgeons, had failed to resuscitate him. A bullet to the gut made doing so difficult it would seem. Ollie didn't remember much before the light was snuffed out. He felt the bumpy unpaved road of the thirty minute ambulance ride, and how it hurt with every turn they made. He remembered being blinded by white fluorescent lights that lined the hospital ceilings, and how every so often one would flicker while another would go completely dull; a sad metaphor for what would soon become of him. The electronic buzzing and beeping of monitors rang in his ears as he was rushed into an unprepared operating room. He couldn't discern the worried muffled voices of doctors and nurses that barked out orders and medical terminology around him that he wasn't familiar with. He was, however, familiar with the fact that auditory senses were the last to go.
Everything was moving incredibly fast, and somehow still at a snail's pace. It all got blurred and mushed together. And even though his heart was giving out, and he was painfully entering cardiac arrest, he could make out one clear thought in his fogged, jumbled brain.
Her.
All his dying mind saw was her.
The love of his life: Veronica Valentina De La Rosa Sinclair.
He could only think about how she'd feel knowing he was gone and never coming back. Hell, he wasn't Jesus. This was it for him. No second chances, no do-overs.
Quick images flashed in his head. He could still feel the way she knelt over him, drenched in his blood only hours before—it was heartbreaking. He didn't want her to hurt. Not because of him. He wanted nothing more than to see her happy again, even if it was without him. Even if he wasn't there. He wanted her to move on.
She deserved better.
Better than all of this.
He died with her on his mind.
He took his last aching breath exactly 2 hours, 52 minutes, and 14 seconds after he was shot by someone he once called a friend. Maybe "backstabber" just wasn't quite the right word. Maybe something like "traitorous front shooter" was more befitting to describe someone who could shoot and kill one of his best friends. Especially seeing as he looked Ollie right in the eyes before putting a slug in his gut.
There was no remorse. No fear. No doubt. Nothing.
Regardless, mission accomplished.
Ollie was dead.
He left behind an unkind world; one that still had the people he loved in it. People he thought he'd never see again.
For 4 minutes at least.
Fun fact: it's called Lazarus Syndrome. Y'know, the whole dying and coming back to life thing. Honestly, coming back as a zombie would've been cooler in Ollie's opinion but dying beggars can't be living choosers—or however the saying goes. It'd still be a cool story to tell later on in his life. Being pronounced dead for exactly 4 minutes and 38 seconds before your heart practically restarted itself? Sheesh. If he wasn't a genius already, that sob story in a college essay would've guaranteed admission.
Coming back to life wasn't without its faults, though. Everything was harder for him now. Anoxic brain damage was apparently easily attainable when your brain goes upwards of 4 minutes without oxygen. He didn't stay dead, but some days he wished he had. Nowadays he got confused easily. His words jumbled and stuttered, clashing into each other as they left his mouth and fell harshly onto rooms of pitiful ears and disappointed frowns. Looks of "he had so much potential" taught him how to just keep his mouth closed.
So instead of talking, he'd type.
He'd tell his fingers to move across his laptop's keyboard the way they'd done oh-so easily years before, but they were about as fluid now as someone with no rhythm learning to mambo for the first time.
So instead of typing, he'd pace.
His built frame and large height was causing him more trouble than it had before. Why, all of a sudden, was everything in his way? He could've sworn that chair wasn't that close when he glanced at it moments earlier.
So instead of pacing, he'd think.
He could feel that his knowledge of everything he'd ever learned was still there. He knew what he knew, and he knew that he knew it. Applying it just seemed to be the hard part. It was at his fingertips, on the tip of his tongue, but somehow it still felt miles away. Intangible. He wasn't stupid. He kept reminding himself of that. He was smart—a genius—but...he just had trouble sometimes.
So instead of thinking, he'd sleep.
What had he done to deserve this? To lose everything? To lose everything he ever was? To spend the rest of his life a clumsy, confused, broken mess all because of a backstabbing narcissist with a gun.
Doctors said there was a chance it could all go back. Given some hard work, and maybe a surgery or two, he could be just how he was before. They assured him there was nothing wrong with the way he was now—as many people lived and thrived with brain damage—but if he really tried he could be the same Ollie he'd always been. They told him that maybe it wouldn't be this way forever.
But three years certainly felt like forever.
And he knew. There was no going back to how he was before. This was him now. The confusion, the nightmares, the depressive episodes, the doubt, the endless questions. It was all him.
Whether he liked it or not.
*
Sunlight streamed through the fragile, broken, plastic blinds that lined the cracked window in his bedroom. Boy Scout's eyelids slowly departed before harshly squinting closed once more at the bright light that shone in them. He laid still on his stomach, letting the warmth of the California sun wash over his freckled bare back. It was too warm for it to be early morning, he deduced. He found his eyes flickering to the small alarm clock that sat on his nightstand.
2:14 PM.
"Shit." He cursed quietly under his breath, burying his head into his pillow.
All too often time slipped away from him. He'd stay up late, fight himself to sleep, and awake in the late afternoon. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
He pushed himself out of the comfort and familiarity of the full-sized bed, and placed his feet on the cold hardwood floor. It took everything in him to prepare himself for another day. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about ending it all; y'know, finishing the job that Starboy started. But he always kept going for reasons he could only count on one hand.
He finally got onto his feet and made his way into the small attached bathroom. He leaned over the sink, placing his hands on the cold vitreous china to keep himself upright. He stared at himself in the blurry mirror, as he realized he'd left his glasses on the nightstand right next to the alarm clock that reminded him of how much of a fuck-up he was every morning—or rather, afternoon.
Boy Scout studied himself vigorously. Sometimes it was hard to believe the person staring back was truly him.
His freckles were the same. Maybe a new one here or there. He couldn't tell.
His eyes were the same. Still a hazeley-green. Still lacking in the vision department.
His hair had changed, as it was longer, messier, and more ginger now, but underneath it was all still the same.
His hand reached up to his abdomen to feel the bumpy texture of the bullet scar that his ex-friend had left behind, and the surgery scar right next to it.
Why, oh, why did he feel more different with every day that passed?
Boy Scout shook the thought away and went to wash his face. The cold water seeping into his pores and running down his chin woke him up as much as it possibly could, but it still wasn't enough. There wasn't enough ice-cold water to wake him up from the hazy dream that he called a life. After brushing his teeth, and managing his hair to the best of his ability, he turned to the medicine cabinet.
It was time for close to the worst part of his day.
Phenytoin, Dextroamphetamine, Adderall, Quetiapine Fumarate.
Three years of physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, neuropsychologist appointments, and bi-monthly doctor check-ins and he still had to take the same medicines every day without fail.
He stared at the small colorful capsules in distaste. He'd been around more drugs than he could count, but there was something about these little blue, pink, yellow, and white pills that made him want to punch a wall. Then again, unprecedented outbursts of anger were unfortunately a part of the damage done. He popped the pills in his mouth, twisted his neck down to grab water from the small running faucet, and swallowed. His face twisted in disgust but he managed to get them down.
Brain damage wasn't fun.
Boy Scout despised Starboy.
He hated him for doing this to him.
He wanted him to suffer like he'd suffered for three entire years. He dreamt of it.
Starboy was off somewhere, living it up by the Mayor's side without a care in the world. He got off easy, and it wasn't fair. Truthfully, neither Mayor Mitchell, Starboy, or Ripsey had been seen in or around Woodland Heights since the night of the warehouse, but the impact of that night surely had rocked the entire world around them, and Scout got the worst of it.
Boy Scout didn't bother pushing his hair out of his face as he trudged out of the bathroom, tugging up the waist of his pajama pants as they hung lowly off his hips. After barely remembering to grab his coke-bottle glasses, he left his room and headed downstairs where his friends just so happened to be gathered around the living room of the gang house they all resided in. It was bigger than the last one since it housed all eleven of them, and cost a pretty penny at that, but he couldn't say he didn't miss the old house. Not to mention that with everyone around him buzzing and scurrying about, he got overstimulated easily.
He used to love being a busy bee.
Now? Not so much.
He slugged his way down the stairs, careful as to not miss a step like he'd done more times than he was willing to admit.
"Afternoon, Ols." Pippi greeted as she and her blue, undercut, ombréd mullet whipped past him when he reached the last step.
"Hey..." He mumbled quietly, although she was already gone.
Eight, Toothpick, and Bluejay sat around the larger living room, counting and distributing bags of almost any drug they could imagine. Sugar was in the kitchen making a smoothie and humming a tune to himself that Scout couldn't quite place the name of. Not to mention it was hard to name a song when the sound of the blender was making him irrationally angry. But he held it down. He was so busy figuring out what to do with himself that he didn't notice when Veronica came up behind him, placing her warm, soft hand gently on his back. He flinched at the feeling and whipped around to face whoever was touching him, only to calm down when he realized it was just his girlfriend.
"Lo siento." She apologized after flinching at his sudden movement. "I didn't mean to scare you."
He blinked, shaking away the anxious feeling in his bones.
"It's okay."
She ran her hand through his messy hair and smiled up at the tall boy before her.
"How'd you sleep?"
He shrugged. She asked him the same thing everyday, and the answer never changed. He slept like shit. But he didn't want to worry her, so he'd simply shrug with indifference.
"You take your medicine?"
He nodded.
"All of it?"
Did he take all of it? Did he forget one? Phenytoin, Dextroamphetamine, Adderall...What was the last one? Qu...Quinidine? No. That wasn't right. Quetiapine Fumarate? Was that it? He couldn't remember. Wait, did he take his medicine at all?
"Uh..." He furrowed his brows, trying to recount his steps. "I think so...I-I don't know—"
"Hey, it's okay." Veronica smiled reassuringly. "I'm sure you did. You always do."
He'd just have to take her word for it.
The daily conversation they had to make sure Ollie had done what he had to every morning—or afternoon—had been interrupted when Angel rounded the corner angrily, with Tiana right at her heels.
"Don't you walk away from me, Angel West." Tiana snapped as she walked hastily behind the now seventeen year old blonde.
"I'm not having this conversation with you again!" Angel shouted as she made her way from the kitchen and into the hallway, heading straight for her bedroom.
"As long as you live under my roof, we will have any conversation that I want. Get back here!"
"Fuck off, Tia!"
"Don't you slam that goddamn door!"
She slammed it anyway.
Boy Scout flinched at the loud bang, but tried to hide it. Being in a gang and flinching at the sound of something similar to the echoing boom of gunfire felt oxymoronic, but it came with the territory of being a gang-banging GSW survivor. When his heart beat calmed itself after a few moments, he squinted in confusion as he tried to piece together what the two were arguing about.
"What was that about?" He asked through raggedy breaths that he was trying his hardest to steady.
Veronica sighed. "Tia is still trying to get Ang to go see him."
"Him?" He questioned. "Him who?"
"Cash...at California State?"
"California State...University? Wait, no—Prison? Cash is still in prison?" His eyes widened, before realizing of course he was.
He could somewhat remember watching glimpses of Cash's televised trial from his hospital bed as he recovered. The Mayor made sure the entire state of California knew Cash was going behind bars, simply for the humiliation of it all. He remembered how his heart sank and fell to his feet when the judge sentenced his friend to 25 years to life. It would've been less had Cash not also been framed for what happened to him.
"Yeah, Cash is still in prison..." Veronica mumbled slowly and quietly.
Boy Scout scratched at the back of his neck and shook his head, his eyes screwed shut tightly.
"Right. Right, sorry. I, um, just forgot for a second. I'm dumb—I mean, that was dumb."
Veronica hated when he belittled himself over small mistakes, as he did it much more often than he used to. He wasn't dumb for dealing with something he had no control over. Self-deprecation wasn't doing him any favors, but she digressed. Hooking her arm in his with a sigh, she led him to the kitchen to hopefully get some food in him. She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him eat.
"Mitchell blacklisted us from seeing him, remember? Miraculously, as of yesterday, Angel is the only one who can visit, but she refuses. She still hates him."
He sat at the kitchen table and frowned.
"Can you blame her?"
"Honestly?" Veronica sighed as she began to pull ingredients from the fridge "Not really."
"Well, well, well. Look who's up and at em." Sugar smiled as he ruffled Boy Scout's ginger hair and sat beside him, smoothie in hand. "Still got brain damage?"
Scout rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Yup. Still ugly?"
"As ugly as I was the day I was born." Sugar laughed.
Boy Scout liked that his friends tried their best not to treat him any differently. It wasn't always as easy coming as he'd like for it to be, but they were definitely trying. Around them he didn't always feel like a lost cause.
After a few minutes, Veronica placed a plate in front of him, and a glass of water beside it.
It was his favorite: a roasted turkey sandwich on sweet Hawaiian sliced bread; complete with lettuce, provolone cheese, sliced cucumber, oil and vinegar, and extra honey mustard. Oh, and of course, salt and vinegar chips and a clementine on the side.
"Thanks, baby." He smiled.
"Ooh, yum." Sugar grinned as he reached for a chip, but was quick to snatch his hand back when Veronica popped it swiftly with a butterknife.
"Ni se te ocurra."
Boy Scout couldn't help but smile with a mouth full of sandwich at his girlfriend's almost mother-like protectiveness. Without her...he wasn't sure he'd make it.
"Can you please just drop it already?" A voice shouted in annoyance.
Angel and Tiana came back around the corner and stomped their way into the kitchen. Apparently locking herself in her room wasn't enough for Angel to get Tiana off her back.
Scout watched the pair curiously. It was crazy to think about how much they'd changed in three years. Tiana was stronger, prouder, and more leader-like than ever. She traded her curly hair for long soft locs that fell past her waist. Angel, on the other hand, cut her wavy blonde hair short—neck length—and dyed the underside a muted teal tone. She was covered in tattoos now. Boy Scout liked her tattoos though. He thought they fit her very well.
"No, I will not drop it. You know how important this is." Tiana argued back, following Angel to the fridge.
"Important my ass."
"Cash's visitation privileges have been changed for the first time in three years and you are the only one allowed inside those prison walls to see him."
Grabbing a cold water bottle, Angel turned to face Tiana with her eyebrows furrowed in anger. "I don't want to see him. In fact, I never want to see him again."
Tiana rubbed her temples in frustration. Angel was still young, and rightfully angry with her brother, but she couldn't harbor this hate for him forever. It would destroy her. It'd change her into something she wasn't. An angry, defensive, teenage rebel instead of the caring, kind, protective kid she used to be. Or maybe that was an excuse she was telling herself to justify her selfish anger with the teen.
"You have no idea the things I'd do to see him. Just once." Tiana murmured. "You haven't the slightest clue how lucky you are. We'd all be in prison right next to him had it not been for your brother. And you would still be at St. Mary's."
Ugh. St. Mary's Orphanage for Young Girls. I'm no arsonist—Angel thought—but I'd jump at the chance to burn that place down.
"Curls!" Bluejay's voice called from the living room. "Phone call."
Tiana sighed and took a final look at Angel, sorrow spread across her face. She knew how Angel must've been feeling considering the things she'd been through in three years, but all she wanted was for her to give her brother a chance. One chance.
Eventually, she turned and walked into the living room to grab the phone from Bluejay while Angel rolled her eyes and took a seat across
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