Fighting For Mason(COMPLETED) (✔️)

CHAPTER EIGHT

A/N- New update!
Enjoy 🥂

                                                                         
"Finally! See who decided to finally wake up." I teased Mason as he slightly opened his eyes. I was seeing 'Teen wolf' on my laptop. Don't judge me about seeing an old series. I still can't get over Derek Hale's handsome face, no scratch that, hot face. Make that motherfucking hot! It's a shame he's married though.

Mason rubbed his eyes groogily and yawned, "What time is it anyway?" He asked his voice a bit scratched.
"It's two p.m you bed hogger. You used my bed for almost six hours to satisfy your sleeping fantasies." I playfully glared at him.

"What? I did? Why didn't you wake me up?" He said as he slowly rose from his sleeping position into sitting upright as he rested his back on the bedpost.
"Have you ever tried waking a person in coma?" I asked as I dropped my laptop on my night stand as I stood up to stretch my limbs.
My top rid up a bit showing more like a flash of my abdomen. I didn't have to feel akward or blush like a hormonal teenager 'cause it was just Mason.

"That's scientifically impossible..." He was saying when I interrupted him.
"Exactly... Impossible. Waking you up when you're on your sleeping drops is mission impossible." I finished nodding my head like I just solved the most difficult puzzle.

"If you let me finish, then I would have let you know that while waking a person in coma is scientifically impossible, it's not technically impossible. So many things need to be at play."
"Things like?" I raised my brows in confusion.
"Supernatural things..." He was saying but I quickly interrupted him with a groan.

"You know how I feel right now about supernatural stuff. Can we just stop right here?" I said turning my back on him so he didn't see the tears brimming in my eyes.

You see I used to believe in God, I'm not even sure I can use the words  'used to'  because somehow and I know a part of me still does. The thing is when I was diagnosed with cancer when I was eleven, what I felt was hurt more than anger towards God. I felt why me? Why does it have to be me? Then my hurt turned to anger and resentment when I looked out my window and saw kids my age have fun, going out with friends, and all that. I felt jealous of them. In my young mind I felt, why do they get to live their lives to the fullest and I don't get to? Why do they get to make mistakes and have the assurance that they have tomorrow to correct that mistake but I have to feel like I only have a shot at things 'cause I can die anytime? Then when I was going through a really bitter phase, I wished that all the kids would get cancer like me so we'll all be equal and there would be no one to ask why I was bald, or why I looked like a white washboard. Trust me, it wasn't a moment I was proud.

Then I came to terms with it and I stopped being mad at God, but I had been mad at him for so long that I didn't know how to seek him again. Do I apologise for being human and not understanding at first or do I just assume that he understands and I continue praying like nothing happened?

Ever since my diagnosis, my family stopped praying at the table or even going to church, except my Dad and Carson that go to church like once in six months. I don't know if they lost faith for sometime like me or they just don't want to offend me by praying at the table because everyone knew I was going through a 'I hate God phase' but I don't think anyone knew I was over it. I have been summoning bravery for the past six years to be the first to pray at the table during family dinner or something, but that'll be a bit tricky now 'cause my mom can't make a sentence without the word 'surgery' so I avoid her. My dad is all about me doing what I want, but I can still see the hopeful glint in his eyes anytime my mom asks me concerning it and I can see the way his face falls whenever I say no.