Broken Hands

27. Tangled in a mess

It was dark again.

The sun struggled to pierce the shadows, but the blinds held firm, as if determined to keep the light and life beyond hidden. Behind those blinds was a world filled with joy and laughter, sounds that reached Grayson, muffled yet clear, stirring something in his chest. The kids from down the block—they were at it again, playing music, laughing, completely free. They had something he didn't, something he craved.

Grayson crawled across the floor, pressing his lips together to stifle the groans that threatened to escape. His small, battered body ached with each movement, but he needed to see them, needed to be close to their happiness, even from a distance. Gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up, leaning against the wall for support, his legs shaking as though they might give way. A shaky hand pulled at the edge of the blinds just enough for him to peek outside, his left eye barely visible through the sliver of light.

There they were. A small crowd of kids, maybe ten, dancing and singing down the street, their music teacher leading them with bright eyes and smiles. They looked so clean, so happy—so free.

He wiped at the dry blood under his nose, feeling a flicker of anger and longing twist in his chest. Why them? Why didn't they have a Charlie? Didn't they have to hide and flinch from a fist? Or... was it only boys? Only boys with black hair? His gaze dropped at the boys and none had black hair, the thought somehow making sense, though he knew it was just a lie he wanted to believe. He wondered if maybe... maybe something was wrong with him, and that was why Charlie had to hurt him. Maybe this was Charlie's way of "fixing" him.

The kids' song grew louder, filling the air with a warm, gentle rhythm, and he felt an almost-smile tug at his lips. For a moment, he let himself pretend. Pretend he was there, singing with them, his arms swinging, his clothes clean, his heart unburdened by pain. He closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the illusion—

"What the hell are you looking at?!"

His eyes snapped open, terror striking him like lightning. Charlie stood inches away, his face twisted in a furious scowl. Grayson's stomach dropped as he stumbled back, trying to get away, but Charlie's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of his hair. Grayson shrieked as pain exploded across his scalp, but the grip only tightened as Charlie took a peek.

"Little bastard!" Charlie spat, yanking him away from the window. Grayson whimpered, trying to pull free, but Charlie's grip was iron. He barely registered his surroundings as he was dragged down the hallway, struggling and pleading, only to feel himself thrown down the stairs. His body hit each step, pain radiating from every bruise and cut, before he crumpled to the floor, barely conscious.

He felt himself lifted again, his body limp as Charlie flung him into a closet and slammed the door shut. Darkness swallowed him.

"This is what you get for daring to dream, little brat," came Charlie's final sneer through the door. "You can never be like them. Never."

Grayson groaned as he woke, blinking through the haze of drowsiness. His cheek was pressed to the hard, cold floor, every part of him throbbing in pain. Panic clawed at him as he struggled to sit up, finding his wrists bound. His chest heaved with each labored breath. No, he couldn't be back with Charlie... could he? His thoughts were thick with confusion. Why was he here? Who was he?

The sound of a door opening snapped him out of his daze. Two masked men entered, casting shadows on the filthy walls, and before he could even process their presence, one of them grabbed him, pulling him to his feet. Grayson stumbled, his knees buckling beneath him.

"Get your ass up!" one of the men growled, slapping him with a stick. Pain shot through his side, but he held back a scream—Charlie's old rules echoed in his mind. Screaming makes it worse.