Safe Hands

50. Caught in the web

The cold apartment was as stark as he remembered, the stench of mold and rot clinging to the walls like a sickly perfume. Fading pain gnawed at his bones, making him shiver as he lay curled up on the filthy floor in the aftermath of Charlie's rage.

"Clean yourself up!" Charlie's voice cut through the air like a whip, sharp and unforgiving. Grayson flinched at the sound, his body instinctively curling tighter. He looked up to see Charlie standing over him, his bloodshot eyes blazing with a fury that was all too familiar. The man's face was twisted in a snarl, more animal than human.

Grayson scrambled to his feet, his body trembling from more than just the pain. His eyes were wet with unshed tears, but he refused to let them fall. Crying only made things worse. He had learned that lesson the hard way.

Without a word, he hurried to his small room, a cramped space that barely held an old, sagging mattress and a few tattered clothes. He grabbed a worn-out shirt and made his way to the bathroom, wincing with each step as pain radiated through his body. Welts crisscrossed his back, arms, and legs and they bled. His right eye was swollen and bruised, the skin around it an ugly shade of purple and black.

In the bathroom, Grayson stood in front of the cracked mirror, staring at his reflection. A ghost of a child stared back at him, eyes hollow and lifeless. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as he cleaned the fresh wounds with cold water, the sting of the soap almost unbearable. He could hear voices downstairs, Charlie's gruff tone mingling with a softer one he recognized immediately—Peter's mother.

He knew Peter as Charlie's son, a constant presence during the weekends when his mother would drop him off. Peter knew what Charlie was capable of; he'd seen the man's violent outbursts firsthand. Sometimes, Peter himself bore the brunt of his father's rage, though never as severely as Grayson. Peter had learned early on to keep his head down and obey Charlie's every word.

Grayson finished cleaning his wounds and slipped into his shirt, the fabric clinging uncomfortably to his damp skin. Just as he was about to retreat back to his chores, the old door creaked open, revealing Peter. The teen stood in the doorway, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of fear and worry.

"Hi," Peter greeted softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Grayson stared at him, unable to find the words to respond. He was only eight, a child living a life that no eight-year-old should ever have to endure.

Peter hesitated for a moment before stepping into the room, unzipping his backpack to pull out three chocolate snacks wrapped in golden foil. He held them out to Grayson, his expression hopeful.

"I got these for you," Peter said, his voice tinged with a nervous edge.

Grayson's stomach growled at the sight of the food, but he quickly shook his head. He knew better than to accept gifts, especially food. Charlie had warned him never to beg, and accepting anything from Peter would be seen as begging in Charlie's eyes.

Peter's face fell slightly at Grayson's refusal, but before he could say anything, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the hallway. Panic flashed in Peter's eyes as he quickly tried to shove the chocolates back into his bag. One of the snacks slipped from his grasp, skidding across the floor to land near Grayson's feet.

The door burst open, slamming against the wall with a force that made Grayson flinch. Charlie stood in the doorway, his eyes narrowing as he took in the scene. Grayson's heart pounded in his chest, fear coursing through his veins like ice.

"Snacks? What did I tell you about begging?" Charlie's voice was a low growl, each word dripping with venom. "You act like a dog, and I'll treat you like one."