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Upon waking up, all he can see is a white, sterile hospital room. The persistent beeping of the heart monitor pounds painfully against the back of his skull as he looks around curiously. He sniffs slightly, wrinkling his nose as the bitter, burning smell of antiseptic fills it.
What happened?
He voices this question as a nurse walks into the room, heels clicking loudly against the tile floor. She smiles brightly at him, "Glad you're finally awake, sir. That was quite a nasty stroke."
He hums slightly to acknowledge her as she begins to check multiple of the machines hooked up to him. She mumbles under her breath as she writes on a clipboard.
"Whe-" he starts coughing, but, between the fit, still manages to choke out, "Where's my son?"
The nurse looks up from where she's scribbling furiously on a clipboard with pity clear in her soft features. She ignores his question and instead grabs a glass of water from one of the various side tables. Handing the cup to him, she gestures at him with a clear message, "Drink up."
Reluctantly, after realizing she's not going to answer him until he does so, he takes a long sip.
Admittedly, he does feel better afterward, so he says so, "Thanks."
She nods stiffly but doesn't say anything else. Rather than respond, she turns her attention back to the clipboard in her hands, "I'm going to test some of your vitals to make sure you're all good, then I'm going to let you-"
"Can I call him? I want him to know I'm okay," he interrupts.
In lieu of a response, she shakes her head slightly and turns around to grab some equipment.
"Is he okay?" He tries to stand up, but the nurse is there in less than a second. She pushes him back down with half-hearted chiding about how she still needs to check if he's fine.
Or something like that. He wouldn't know, he was too busy panicking.
"Please answer me," He pleads, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice, "I need to know if he's okay."
"Mr. Torrez," she holds off from continuing as if she's about to deliver groundbreaking news. After a moment of consideration, she sighs audibly. Continuing in a whisper, as if not to startle a frightened animal, she says, "Your son has been dead for two weeks."
He reels back as if all the breath had been knocked from his lungs. Gaping, he manages to whisper, "That's not possible. I haven't been here that long."
She grimaces slightly but quickly hides it behind a false, practiced look of sympathy as she glances down at her clipboard to check, "It's been four weeks."
She'd probably meant to be reassuring, but, by no means, was.
Incredulously, he gasps, not caring about the tears streaming down his face, "There's no way."
"He left you a note," She hands him two slips of paper, which he barely refrains from snatching from her hands, "As did his last friend."
"Can I get some privacy?" he asks, resignedly.
"Of course," she says, her hand already on the doorknob. Her heels click loudly as she walks away, presumably to check on another patient.
He glances at the papers sitting on his lap and shakily picks up the one in his son's signature handwriting. Thank you for everything, Dad, it said, I'll be brave. And I'll be okay. I love you from here to there. Mateo.
He barely stops himself from crumbling the piece of paper as hot tears roll down his face and drip onto it. Picking up the other note with a bitter sigh, he reads,
Mr. Torrez,
I'm Rufus Emeterio. I was Mateo's Last Friend. He was mad brave on his End Day.
'No thanks to you,' a voice whispers in the back of his head, 'You weren't there when he needed you most.'
I took photos all day on Instagram. You gotta see how he lived. My username is @RufusonPluto. I'm really happy your son reached out to me on what could've been the worst day ever.
Sorry for your loss,
Rufus (9/5/17)
It all seems to crash down on him at once.
The cruel irony of him missing his last chance at a goodbye.
How he'll never get to hug his son or hear his voice again.
And most of all, how real this all was.
Mateo was dead. And there was nothing he could do about it.
The nurse walks back into the room a few minutes later, only to see him staring off into space with a blank expression. She sighs, and despite how much it hurts her, plasters on a smile, though it must've looked more like a grimace, "I called a family friend to come and pick you up. She'll be here soon."
As expected, she receives no response in return.
"Hey," he hears a soft, easily recognizable voice.
Looking up, he catches sight of Mateo's best friend, Lidia. His breath seems to catch in his throat as he asks, "Is it true?"
He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath as he waits for a response, unable to believe it properly true without confirmation. After a minute of silence, he peeks an eye open to look at her. The tears threatening to fall down her face are enough of an answer.
He opens his arms and she walks closer, hugging him fiercely and whispering condolences. Lidia pulls back and sniffs, "He was so brave."
"That's my Mateo." He says. Through his tears, he manages to lace a hint of pride into his voice.
"He seemed so happy when I saw him. Free for once," she sniffles, "He even made a friend," she lets out a tiny, tear-filled, smirk, "Granted, they might have been a bit more than friends."
Lidia pulls her phone out of her pocket and opens Instagram. She scrolls through and clicks on a profile before turning the phone towards him. He smiles softly as he sees image after image of Mateo and who he's assuming is his last friend; Rufus, if he remembers correctly from the note earlier.
They laugh and cry as they tell stories about their beloved Mateo.
They both know that they still have a lot to talk about in regards to the last few weeks.
A lot to come to terms with.
But, while the pain will never go away fully, maybe one day they'd be functional again.
One day, they'll be able to see him again.
In a better place.