Broken Hands

44. Breaking further

The nightmares were relentless. For Grayson, they were a cruel portal back to Charlie—a twisted stage where the man returned, more alive than he had ever been in life, like he'd strike a deal with the devil to live hell at night and lurk in his dreams. This time, the dream took a darker turn. Charlie wasn't alone. Damien stood beside him, his presence an unforgiving shadow.

The belt cracked through the air, its sharp whistle preceding the searing pain that lashed across Grayson's back. He screamed, his voice raw and desperate, pleading for Damien to stop. But Damien didn't. His face was blank, mechanical, as if Charlie's words controlled his every action.

"Harder," Charlie sneered, his laugh echoing like shattered glass. "Make him feel it. A mistake like this doesn't deserve mercy."

Blood trickled down Grayson's back, warm and sticky. He sobbed, his knees giving out, collapsing under the weight of the punishment and the crushing words Charlie spat like venom.

"You'll always be a disappointment. A mistake," Charlie hissed, leaning in close, his breath hot and suffocating. "And mistakes only make more mistakes. Until they're erased."

Grayson bolted upright, gasping as his alarm blared beside him. His shirt clung to his damp skin, soaked in cold sweat. He swiped at his face, realizing his cheeks were damp too. He sighed shakily, willing his heart to slow down, but it pounded like a drum in his chest.

The morning routine was muscle memory. A slow, scalding shower to scrub away the phantom touch of the belt and the shame that clung to his skin. He wrapped fresh bandages around his arms, covering the fading bruises before buttoning up his uniform shirt. His movements were mechanical, methodical, as though any hesitation would let the memories creep back in.

He shoved his completed homework into his bag and glanced at the hallway. Silence. Julian and Russell were still asleep. Good. He didn't have the strength to keep the mask on around them this early.

"Morning," he mumbled as he slipped into the kitchen.

Damien stood by the counter, coffee in hand. He barely glanced up. "Morning."

Grayson nodded, tension coiling in his stomach. Around Damien, the weight pressed harder on his chest, threatening to crush him. Each time he sees the man his mind screamed at the disappointment!

The knot in his stomach tightened, and the sight of breakfast on the table turned his appetite to ash. Instead, he grabbed a cup of milk and left, drinking it quickly in the hallway, the bland taste making his throat relax.

He avoided Stray, who trotted into the backyard. Even his dog seemed too much to handle today. He couldn't afford for anyone—not even Stray—to see through the cracks in his act.

When Damien joined him in the car, Grayson wordlessly buckled his seatbelt, opening a textbook to drown himself in the pages. If he focused hard enough, maybe he wouldn't have to think.

"I saw your grades yesterday," Damien said after starting the car.

Grayson froze. His fingers tightened on the textbook.

"B in History," Damien added, his tone unreadable.

Grayson's breath refused to come through. He'd aimed for an A. He should've done better. Should've studied harder. He swallowed, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him.

"That's good," Damien said after a pause. "You've shown improvement lately. I'm letting you keep your phone. Don't make me regret it."

The words hit differently than they should have. They weren't harsh, not even critical, but the voice in his head twisted them anyway.