Safe Hands

47. With Damien

Grayson sat on the toilet seat. He looked down at his lap, his fingers tracing the old scar that married his skin. The jagged line was a permanent reminder of the horrors he had endured, a testament to the cruelty that had shaped his life.

His mind drifted back to that fateful night, the night Charlie had left him with this scar. Grayson could still feel the cold bite of the air in his room, the way it gnawed at his insides, making his stomach churn. He had been trying to sleep near the fireplace, seeking warmth in a house that had long since lost any semblance of comfort. But Charlie had other plans.

The memory came rushing back with vivid clarity, each detail etched into his mind like a brand. Charlie had stumbled into the room, high and volatile, his eyes bloodshot and wild. Grayson had tried to remain still, hoping that if he stayed quiet, Charlie might leave him alone. But Charlie had a way of sniffing out vulnerability, and that night was no exception.

"You stink like a dog," Charlie had muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. The words had cut deep, but Grayson knew better than to respond. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep, praying that Charlie would just go away.

But Charlie wasn't one to be ignored. His frustration grew, his voice rising to a yell as he demanded Grayson's attention. When Grayson didn't respond, Charlie's anger flared. He grabbed Grayson by the hair, yanking him up with a force that sent a jolt of pain through his scalp. The man's breath reeked of alcohol and something far more sinister, and Grayson was forced to look into those terrifying, bloodshot eyes.

A cruel smirk spread across Charlie's face as he spoke, his voice a chilling whisper. "If you don't scream, I won't beat you tonight. You can sleep. But if you do, I'll make sure you regret it."

Grayson had turned ghost white, his heart pounding in his chest. None of Charlie's games were ever painless, and there was no winning. Fear gripped him, but he forced himself to stay silent, knowing that any reaction would only make things worse.

Charlie's eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as he reached for the fireplace poker, the metal glowing red-hot from the flames. Grayson's blood ran cold. He knew what was coming. He had seen that look in Charlie's eyes before, and it never ended well.

"Please... don't," Grayson had whispered, his voice trembling as he tried to back away. He was desperate, even calling Charlie "Dad," hoping to appeal to whatever humanity might still be buried deep inside the man. But it was no use.

Charlie shoved him to the ground with brutal force, pinning him down with a large hand on his chest. Grayson fought, kicked, and struggled, but Charlie was too strong. The poker hovered inches from his skin, the heat radiating off it like the breath of a monster. Grayson squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the inevitable.

The pain was excruciating, searing through his flesh as the hot metal made contact. Grayson clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to scream, but the agony was too much. White-hot pain flooded his senses, and he could feel his body betraying him. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with the white mucus that dripped from his mouth as he struggled to hold back the scream that was clawing at his throat.

Finally, Charlie lifted the poker, satisfied with the damage he had inflicted. He let go of Grayson, who lay on the ground, too exhausted to even feel the pain anymore. The smell of burnt flesh lingered in the air, a sickening witness of what had just happened.

Charlie tossed the poker aside, his voice cold and detached. "That'll teach you to lay around and stink like an animal. Take a shower and go to bed. No dinner for you, not even water."

Grayson had lain there for what felt like hours, his body trembling, tears soaking into the cold floor. His mother had just passed away, barely three years ago, and his life had felt like a never-ending nightmare ever since. He had never felt so alone, so completely abandoned by the world.