hospital

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and carried a tense quietness, interrupted only by the occasional hum of machines and the muffled conversations of nurses. We'd rushed here as soon as we got the call. The D.O.C. had been in a car accident. No one had all the details, just that it was serious.

When we arrived, the waiting room was packed. Family members, friends, and a few faces from Ruthless Records were already gathered. The mood was heavy, each person sitting in quiet anxiety. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows, amplifying the weight of the moment.

Eazy-E paced back and forth, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. "How long does it take for someone to give us an update?" he muttered, glancing toward the hallway where the doctors had disappeared.

Tupac leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face unreadable. He wasn't pacing or fidgeting like the rest of us, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers tapped against his arm.

Dre sat in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. He hadn't said much since we got here. He just sat there, staring at the floor, lost in his own thoughts.

"Family of Tracy Curry?" A nurse stepped into the room, her voice cutting through the silence. Everyone stood up, but it was his family who approached first.

"Yes, we're here," one of them said.

The nurse's expression softened. "He's stable and awake, but his injuries are significant. The doctor will explain more, but for now, he's asking for immediate family only."

There was a collective sigh of relief at the word "stable." But stable didn't mean okay. Stable didn't mean he'd walk out of here tomorrow like nothing happened.

As we waited for more updates, a commotion erupted outside the hospital. A nurse came running into the waiting room, her face flushed. "The media is here," she said, her voice tinged with frustration.

"How the hell did they find out?" Dre asked, finally lifting his head.

No one had an answer. Somehow, word of The D.O.C.'s accident had leaked, and now reporters were swarming the entrance, cameras flashing, microphones in hand.

"We didn't call anyone," Eazy-E said defensively, looking around at the group. "This ain't the kind of attention we need right now."

Tupac shook his head, his frustration evident. "They don't care about what he's going through. All they want is a story."

Security was called to handle the situation, but the damage was done. The media circus outside was a reminder that privacy wasn't something we could afford anymore—not even in moments like this.

It felt like hours before the doctor finally emerged, clipboard in hand. He was an older man, his gray hair and lined face giving him an air of authority.

"Tracy's injuries are extensive," he began, addressing the family. "He's lucky to be alive, but there's significant damage to his vocal cords. The impact of the crash caused trauma to his throat, and while we've done what we can surgically, it's likely his voice will never be the same."

The words hung in the air like a weight.

"What does that mean exactly?" Dre asked, standing up.

"It means his ability to speak—and more importantly, to sing or rap—has been compromised," the doctor explained. "We'll know more in the coming weeks as he begins to recover, but I want you all to be prepared for the possibility that his vocal range may be permanently affected."

A heavy silence followed. For a rapper, for someone whose voice was their instrument, this was devastating.

"Can we see him?" Tupac asked.

The doctor nodded. "A few at a time. But please, keep it brief. He needs rest."

Walking into his room was surreal. The D.O.C. lay in the hospital bed, hooked up to monitors, his face pale but alert. His eyes lit up when he saw us, though there was a sadness in them that was hard to miss.

"Hey, man," Dre said softly, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "How you feeling?"

The D.O.C. tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse and strained. He winced and shook his head, raising a hand to indicate he couldn't talk.

"You don't have to say anything," Tupac said, standing at the foot of the bed. "Just rest up."

Eazy-E leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. "You scared the hell out of all of us, you know that?" he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.

The D.O.C. managed a small smile, his eyes flickering to each of us as if to say thanks for being here.

A week later, The D.O.C.'s accident was still making waves in the news. Despite the initial attempts to keep it private, the media had latched onto the story, and there was no escaping it.

At his family's insistence, a small press conference was held outside the hospital. The D.O.C. wasn't well enough to speak, so Dre and Eazy-E stepped forward to address the crowd on his behalf.

Dre adjusted the microphone, his expression serious. "Thank you all for being here. As you know, Tracy Curry—The D.O.C.—was involved in a serious car accident last week. We're grateful to report that he's alive and stable, but his injuries are significant, and he has a long road to recovery ahead."

Eazy-E took over, his tone firm but calm. "We're asking for privacy during this time. Tracy's family and friends are focused on helping him heal, and we appreciate everyone's support and prayers."

The questions came fast and loud after that, reporters shouting over each other to get answers.

"Will this affect his career?"

"What caused the accident?"

"Is it true he was speeding?"

Dre held up a hand, silencing the crowd. "We're not here to speculate. Right now, the focus is on his recovery. That's all we have to say."

As the press conference ended and the crowd began to disperse, we all felt the weight of what had happened settle over us. The D.O.C. was alive, but things would never be the same.

And as we walked back into the hospital, we couldn't help but wonder what the future held for our brother, and for all of us.

To Be Continued…