Safe Hands

8. Unapologetic

Sunlight leaked through the curtains, striking Grayson's face and waking him with its warmth. He peeled his eyes open, only to be blinded by the light. Turning away with a soft moan, he rubbed his neck gently. As he shifted into a sitting position, a groan escaped his lips. The pain was worse than the night before, but he was unapologetic. Even after the lashing, he had defied Damien's commands, earning himself more punishment, and he did not regret it one bit.

Grayson let the covers fall as he got up and shuffled to the shower, each step slow and sluggish. He turned on the water, letting it cascade over him like rain. He stood under the shower for what felt like an eternity, unable to move. The cold water was refreshing, and he allowed his mind to wander. A memory flashed through his mind: the sound of loud splashing water and a muffled voice.

"You should have died in the accident! Why did you live? Why?"

Grayson's knees quaked, his body trembling. "Stop!" he quaked, his eyes snapping open. Stepping away, he sat on the toilet lid, trying to recompose himself.

"I need to get out, far away from here," Grayson thought as he reached for the body lotion, rubbing it on his hair and bruised back. He got back under the shower, making it quick this time. After drying off, he searched for his old clothes but couldn't find them. Clenching his jaw, he looked in the bags that had mysteriously appeared after he had gone to bed. Grabbing a black hoodie and Gray skinny jeans, he dressed quickly and zipped up, his hands finding warmth in the hoodie's pockets. He stared out the window, watching a black BMW X7 leave the compound.

Returning his gaze to the plain-colored room, the colors already grating on his nerves, Grayson approached the nightstand. Retrieving a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from the lower drawer, he slipped into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind him. Climbing onto the toilet seat, he positioned his face near the small window, lit a cigarette, and took a long drag, exhaling the smoke in puffs. As he took a second drag, he watched Rosa take out the trash. She was a beautiful woman with sandy dark hair, but she couldn't compare to his mother, who never did chores. His mother would sit with a beer in hand, smoking with Charlie while he played in the backyard. She always told him, "This is my mistake, and I'll live with it. Don't make the same mistakes, Great." Grayson remembered staring into her eyes, not understanding. She wasn't a typical mother, but she fought well, defending him and teaching him to survive.

That horrible day was etched vividly in his memory, but he tried to shove it into a closet of forgotten moments.

Grayson crushed the cigarette after one last drag, burning the butt out and flushing it down the toilet. He returned to the room, searching for the perfume Alex had picked, then sprayed it liberally to mask the smell of nicotine. He walked around a bit, waiting for the sound of footsteps. When he grew tired of standing, he returned to the messy bed, lying on the soft covers. Everything felt new—the clothes, the space—but he hated it because it made him anxious. He lay on his back, ignoring the pain gnawing at his flesh, and watched the door upside down.

A gentle knock came shortly after. When he didn't answer, it came again—knock, knock—five times, before the door was pushed open. Rosa walked in with a tray, flinching when she spotted him and nearly spilling the food.

"Grayson. Morning." She squeaked as she set the tray on the nightstand. Grayson didn't move or acknowledge her.

She left, giving him a weird stare. Then he rose and reached for the tray, devouring the food without hesitation. He swallowed the sandwich in two bites and gulped down the bowl of hot chocolate. When he finished, he went to check the gate. It was sealed shut. He returned to the bed, lying in a funny position, imagining a ghost leaping out of the wall and singing hymns.