Broken Hands

3. Perfect Harmony

The floorboards creaked under phantom footsteps, the house drenched in a familiar stench of alcohol and nicotine, suffocating the air with its toxicity. Shadows clung to every corner, as if the walls were alive, holding fear inside their bones. Grayson heard footsteps echoing down the hall, slow, hollow, like the shuffle of something dead. His small hands gripped his arms tightly, his body curled and trembling in the old closet, his last refuge. He barely dared to breathe.

The door screeched open, and the sound filled the room, sharp and dreadful. They were inside.

"Come on, boy, come out." That voice—it had woven itself into his nightmares, etched into his mind like a scar that would never fade. His vision blurred, his heart pounding in terror. His hand clamped over his mouth to keep silent, but tears slipped through, silent and pleading.

"I know where you are. You can't hide."

The closet door flew open, and cold hands yanked him out by his hair. He tumbled to the floor, his scream trapped in his throat, paralyzed by shock. Before he could react, he was pinned, his small body pressed roughly to the splintered floorboards. The fight in him died, replaced by a trembling, pleading whisper, "Please... don't hurt me." But his plea only drew laughter, dark and twisted, from the shadows that loomed above him.

"Be a man, not a coward," they sneered.

Pain flared through him, a searing shock as hands clawed and grabbed, pulling and twisting as he fought just to breathe. He could barely suppress the scream that built up inside, feeling as if he were suffocating, every dark hand like an anchor, dragging him into an endless night.

Grayson woke with a violent jerk, drenched in cold sweat, his body shaking uncontrollably. His breath was fast and shallow, heart racing as he scanned his dimly lit room, trying to distinguish nightmare from reality. The weight of the past clung to him, as real as the sheets tangled around his legs.

Then he felt it—a soft, warm lick on his hand. He flinched but looked down, meeting the gentle, concerned eyes of Stray, his Maremma sheepdog. Her black coat shone faintly in the room's shadows as she moved closer, settling beside him and licking his hand again, her touch grounding him. Slowly, he reached for her fur, fingers tangling in its softness, seeking the calm her presence brought.

Sighing, he lay back down, his chest still heaving, but Stray nestled beside him, resting her head on his chest as if to listen to the erratic beats of his heart, her weight comforting. Grayson kept his hand on her, fingers combing through her fur in a rhythmic motion he'd developed since she first came into his life. She was his sanctuary, his support, and in the dark hours when no one could see the scars of his past, she was the only one who understood.

Yet no matter how close Stray stayed, the past still tormented him. The horrors crawled from the darkest corners of his mind, resurfacing when he thought he had buried them deep. Charlie. Even thinking the name sent a chill down his spine. He had tried so hard to leave that chapter behind, to push it all away, to lock it somewhere deep, but it followed him, always lurking.

His eyes drifted to the bottom drawer. In there was the phone, the one that held answers to questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. He could find the truth, sift through what little courage he had to confront the darkest pieces of his history. But could he bear to rip those old wounds open again, to confront all that he had tried so desperately to escape?

It wasn't worth it.

Charlie was gone. His ashes scattered, the monster he had been finally silenced. Grayson wasn't about to breathe life back into his ghost.

Looking at Stray, he forced a small, tired smile. "Tomorrow has to be better," he whispered, letting his eyes close, hoping the morning would bring peace.