Broken Hands

40. Hating the mistake

The dim glow of the television cast long, shifting shadows across the room, dancing over peeling wallpaper and dirty dishes strewn about. Grayson huddled behind the old couch, his knees pulled tightly to his chest. This was the safest place, the only place to avoid the monster's wrath. The man's heavy footsteps were a constant threat, his slurred muttering a warning siren. Even as hunger clawed at his stomach, Grayson remained perfectly still, not daring to breathe too loudly.

The monster's movements rattled the floor as he stomped toward the stairs, cursing under his breath. Relief washed over Grayson as the creak of the first step echoed through the house. He dared to uncoil himself, the faint scent of stale pizza tickling his nose. He crept out from his hiding place, his bare feet silent against the sticky floor. The half-eaten pizza box sat on the coffee table, its lid half-open like an invitation.

Grayson grabbed a slice with trembling hands, biting down cautiously, savoring the cold, rubbery cheese. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to feel human again. But his gaze wandered to the cigarette smoldering in the ashtray. The curling tendrils of smoke mesmerized him. The monster always had one in his mouth, the house constantly reeked of it. Curiosity whispered to him, daring him. He reached for the cigarette, small fingers brushing against its burning edge.

It was instinctive, a replication of what he'd seen so many times before. He placed the cigarette between his lips and inhaled deeply. The smoke seared his throat, and he choked violently, his small chest heaving with the effort. The sound of his cough echoed through the silence, loud and damning.

Then came the growl.

"There you are, you little bastard."

The voice, thick with venom, made Grayson's heart plummet. He barely had time to react before the man's hand grabbed his shirt and yanked him off the floor. The slap came fast, a sharp crack across his cheek that sent him reeling. Pain bloomed, hot and stinging, as Grayson hung limply in the monster's grip, tears welling in his eyes but refusing to fall.

"Who told you to touch that?" the monster snarled, shaking him like a rag doll.

Grayson stayed silent, knowing from experience that speaking would only make it worse. The man's lip curled into a cruel smirk. "Curious, huh? Alright then, finish what you started."

The monster shoved him to his knees, forcing the cigarette back into his small hands. Trembling, Grayson obeyed, drawing in lungfuls of acrid smoke. His throat burned, his chest tightened, and he coughed uncontrollably. Each drag was agony, the taste bitter and sickening. His vision blurred, tears streaming as he pleaded hoarsely, "Please... no more."

The monster's response was a backhand so fierce that Grayson's world spun. He crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. Warmth spread across his face, and when he wiped his nose, his hand came away smeared with blood.

Grayson snapped back to the present with a gasp, his breath hitching. His hands were ice-cold, trembling as he clenched them into fists against his thighs. The isolation room's sterile walls pressed in on him, suffocating and relentless. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, drowning out the faint hum of the overhead lights.

He cursed himself under his breath. How had it come to this? He'd survived hell before—why was he so reckless now? This wasn't about injustice or misunderstandings. This time, he had no one to blame but himself. He shouldn't have brought the cigarettes.

The first door clicked open, and Grayson's stomach dropped. The low murmur of voices outside confirmed his worst fear. Damien.

When the staff called him out, Grayson rose slowly, masking his fear behind a blank expression. He refused to meet anyone's gaze as he stepped into the hall. Damien stood there, his features carved in stone, his jaw tight and his fists clenched. The man's eyes burned with fury, his voice barely restrained as he growled, "Get your ass in the car."