Safe Hands

3. Damaged...

Peter sat beside the hospital bed, staring at Grayson's small, bruised frame. The sight was gut-wrenching. The doctor's words kept echoing in his mind: torn tissues, broken ribs, internal bleeding. Pete's worst fears were confirmed. Guilt gnawed at him for not rescuing Grayson sooner, for leaving him alone in that nightmare. Every weekend, Peter escaped back home with his mother, while Grayson stayed behind, enduring beatings and starvation. He had confided in his mother about Grayson once, and knowing his father's volatile nature, she had warned him to stay away. Now, remorse washed over him as he pictured Grayson's life in that filthy apartment while they had moved to another city. How long could Grayson's body endure such brutality?

Peter buried his face in his hands, sobbing quietly. "I'm so sorry, man. I should have done something. I was a coward for too long. If you ever get out of this, I promise to be there for you, buddy," he whispered through tears. The doctor had said Grayson's chances of survival were slim. Even if he survived, he might suffer from severe trauma, such as PTSD and chronic depression.

The machine beeped abnormally, causing Peter to look up while wiping his glossy eyes. Grayson's small chest rose and fell weakly, and his fingers twitched. Peter sat up abruptly, rushing to him. "Gray?" he called. "Gray, please come back. I'm here, I won't go anywhere, please." He begged, grabbing Grayson's other hand.

The lines on the heart monitor picked up as Grayson's eyelids flickered. Peter hit the call button, summoning nurses who rushed in, followed by the doctor who asked him to step out.

*******

Peter sat in a chair, watching Grayson stare at his untouched plate. Hospital food was unappetizing, but Peter knew it was more than that. He blinked his hazel eyes multiple times before running a hand through his brown hair.

"You'll be out today. It's been a week, you know. We could go to McDonald's or wherever you want before your flight with your social workers," he rambled, not earning a word or a glance from Gray. Usually, Grayson was mouthy and always had a nasty comeback, very provocative.

Peter leaned closer. "Gray? Are you listening?" He earned a stare, but it was cold and blank, devoid of any emotions, not even anger.

"Gray?" Peter tried again.

Grayson gently set the tray beside the table and slowly slid onto his bed, grimacing. Seeing him in pain, Peter sat up to help but stopped in his tracks when he saw the hate-filled glare from Grayson. "Gray, I'm-"

Before he could finish, Grayson buried his head in his covers. Peter sighed. If Grayson wasn't talking, it meant only one thing: he was shutting out the entire world out, not only him.

*******

A soft knock could be heard on an oak door. The voice of a woman followed, and then the door swung open.

"Peter, honey!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a hug. The warm light from inside the house felt comforting after the long, cold trip home. Peter stepped aside. "Meet Grayson. He'll be staying with us tonight," he said.

His mother's eyes sparkled as she gazed at the boy. "Nice to meet you, Gray. Come on in," she said.

Grayson didn't bother to look up as he forced his walking aids to obey. "Help him, Peter," Elizabeth said to her son. Peter shook his head gently, knowing his generosity would only earn violence from experience.

"Hi, Peter. Who do we have here?" Jones, his stepfather, said from the couch.

"Grayson," Peter replied, watching the boy with worried eyes.

Jones rose from the couch, a gentle smile on his lips. He was a brunette with light brown eyes and a wrinkled smile, probably in his mid-forties. "Hi there, Grayson. Mind if I help you upstairs?"

Grayson ignored him, moving his walking aids to step away from them, heading towards the stairs on his own. Jones gave Peter a confused look, and Peter shook his head a sign to let the boy be.

A stifled groan came from the top of the stairs where Grayson had disappeared to. Peter rushed up, finding Grayson on the ground, his walking aids likely stuck on the last step.

"Let me help you." Peter held his biceps only to be shoved away by the furious teen. "I don't need your freaking help!" Grayson snapped.

Jones and Elizabeth came running, stopping before the scene. "Gray, you're hurt. Let me help," Peter pleaded.

Grayson picked up his stick and threw it at Peter, who shielded his head and got hit. Jones tried to intervene, but Peter signaled him not to.

"I'm sorry," Peter whispered, panting softly.

Grayson looked away, then furiously grabbed the handle of the stairs, pulling himself up with shaky knees and a lot of pain. "I freaking hate you," he spat venomously.

"Gray, stop. You're hurting yourself," Peter warned as Grayson continued to lift his body up, applying pressure to his injuries. His knees started shaking violently, and a tear slipped from his eyes. It was the first tear Peter had seen Grayson shed tears in years.

Grayson's body finally gave out, and his knees collapsed, Elizabeth let out a scream and Jones tried to step in. But Peter jumped in time to hold him from a violent fall.

Still startled, Elizabeth asked in a worried tone, "What's wrong with him, Peter?"

"Charlie did this to him," Peter muttered gently, scooping Grayson into his arms with ease.

Elizabeth gasped. "God, no..."

A/N

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