Broken Hands

18. Cover up with 'Lies'

The screen flickered to life, and there was Mrs. Denise, her expression softened by the slim, round glasses perched on her nose. Her sharp gaze, however, was anything but softened. Grayson took a slow, silent breath, steeling himself for yet another session, another performance.

"Hello, Grayson," she greeted with a well-practiced smile.

"Hi." Grayson kept his eyes on the frame of his laptop, trying to make it look like he was staring at her face when really, he was anywhere else.

"How was your day today?" she asked, her pen scratching lightly on her notepad.

"Fine," he replied, voice flat.

She nodded, unfazed. "And school? How's it been?"

"Perfect," he said, a little too quickly, already eager to move on.

She tilted her head, scrutinizing him for a moment. "Any pressure or anxiety recently?"

"No." His response was clipped, almost robotic.

"Nothing? Not at school, not at home?" She leaned forward, her eyes searching his through the screen.

Grayson nodded, keeping his expression unreadable. "Not at all."

She tapped her pen, watching him carefully. "How are you handling the nightmares?"

He froze, just for a second. "They're... manageable. Not as frequent. I sleep just fine." It wasn't a complete lie; exhaustion had become his best sedative. Coming home late, crashing hard, barely enough room in his mind for anything else to creep in.

Mrs. Denise jotted something down, her pen pausing briefly before she asked, "Are you taking your pills?"

Grayson's gaze flicked to the nightstand, where an untouched bottle lay hidden in the drawer. "Yeah," he lied, meeting her gaze again.

She looked unconvinced but didn't press it. "Well, you certainly look... fine," she said, her tone a shade too neutral.

"Exactly." Grayson forced a smile. "I'm fine now. Therapy did its job, right?" He watched her carefully, hoping his words would make it into some glowing report about his 'recovery,' maybe get him off these exhausting calls sooner. He'd learned one thing by now: tell her what she wanted to hear.

But Mrs. Denise wasn't done. She straightened in her seat, her face settling into a serious expression. "If that's the case, Grayson, let's move on. How do you feel about your past? About your stepfather?"

The question struck him like ice water, his lungs freezing mid-breath. "Excuse me?" His voice wavered, betraying him.

She gave a slow nod, barely looking up from her notes. "How do you feel about everything you went through?"

His fists clenched on the desk. Every instinct screamed at him to slam the laptop shut, to get up, grab Stray, and disappear for a while. The mere mention of it-of him-made his skin crawl.

"Grayson?" Mrs. Denise's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "Are you alright?"

He forced himself to speak, his voice colder than he intended. "It's just... there. What happened, happened. That's all. I don't need to keep going back there. I want to move forward."

She didn't waver. "But to move forward, you need to confront it. Otherwise, it's just a weight you're pretending isn't there. Real progress isn't about forgetting, Grayson. It's about facing it, so it doesn't keep holding you down."

Grayson scowled, feeling his patience slipping. "I don't see the point in dragging it up over and over. I'm better now, I know it. Therapy's helped, right? Why dig up the past just to get stuck in it again?"