Broken Hands

45. What's a little bit of blood?

Grayson slammed his locker shut, the sound reverberating through the mostly empty locker room. His fingers moved swiftly, pulling the tie into place with practiced precision. Even after P.E., students were expected to look sharp—rumpled clothes could mean detention or worse, isolation. And if there was one thing Grayson despised, it was isolation.

His mind flashed back to the small, suffocating room inside Hawthorne's office. He'd spent three consecutive days there after the cigarette incident. The memory clawed at him, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Those days had been a pain, an endless cycle of silence and confinement that had nearly cost him his sanity.

Grayson rolled his shoulders, his muscles sore from the grueling training sessions he'd grown accustomed to. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the hallway. For once, Stephen and his cronies hadn't bothered him during P.E. Strange. Usually, they cornered him at lunch or after class, masking their cruelty as "mistakes."

Water "accidentally" dumped on him. Gym balls "unintentionally" aimed at his ribs. Grayson bore the bruises silently, enduring the sting of humiliation while Mr. Payne turned a blind eye. Not that it mattered—Grayson never pressed the issue didn't feel the need to. Fighting back wasn't an option, even though he could. Something deep and raw inside him held him still. That same darkness seemed to thrive on the pain, almost like it craved it.

But today, there had been no taunts, no cheap shots. Grayson strolled through the hallway, his thoughts momentarily distracted, until the memory of Mr. Rox's assignment struck him like a lightning bolt. His breath hitched. The deadline! He froze, then glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before the bell.

Panic surged through him, and he bolted, his feet pounding against the floor. The hallway blurred around him, faces and lockers smearing into streaks of color as he weaved past students. His mind was a single, focused thread—get to class, hand it in, avoid Rox's wrath.

Then, he didn't see it. A leg, stretched out just far enough to snag him. His foot collided, and the world tilted. His momentum carried him forward into the edge of an open locker.

The impact was brutal. The clang of metal against bone reverberated through the hallway, followed by the sharp crack of his nose. Pain exploded in his head, a hot, searing burst that blurred his vision. For a moment, the world spun, and his hands shot out, steadying himself against the lockers.

He turned, his eyes locking on Stephen and his crew, "Watch out, Smith, clumsy—" Stephen's mouth opened as if to mock him, but the words died on his lips, his face paling. Their smirks dissolving into wide-eyed horror.

Grayson ignored them. His adrenaline drowned out the pain, and he forced himself forward, his rapid steps leaving the boys in his wake. He could feel his face warm up, but he didn't stop. He had no time for swelling, or bruises.

Bursting into Mr. Rox's classroom, Grayson startled the man. His uniform was rumpled, his tie askew, but his focus was razor-sharp. He slammed his homework onto the desk with a force that echoed his urgency.

Rox stared, momentarily caught off guard. Grayson took a breath, his gaze dropping to the paper to ensure it was the right one. Then, a single crimson drip hit the page. His heart sank. Another followed, thick and slow. Grayson raised his hand, brushing against his face, and felt the sticky warmth trailing from his nose down to his neck, staining his collar.

"Smith," Mr. Rox said sharply, rising from his chair. "You're bleeding."

Grayson tried to wipe the blood with his sleeve. Rox pulled out a tissue, he reached for it but recoiled instinctively when the teacher tried to touch him. Blood soaked the tissue within seconds, spreading a vivid red stain that only deepened the ache in Grayson's face.

The bell rang, its shrill sound snapping the tension in the room. Mr. Rox frowned, observing Grayson carefully before stepping forward again.

"Come on," he said, his voice softer now. He placed a steadying hand on Grayson's shoulder, this time met with no resistance, and guided him out of the classroom.

The hallway erupted with gasps. Students stopped mid-stride, their conversations halting as they stared at the blood streaking Grayson's face and uniform. Rox didn't stop, leading him through the crowd as if shielding him from their stares.

Grayson kept his head down, his face numb from both the injury and the weight of humiliation. The pain burned, but it was nothing compared to the fire that simmered beneath his skin—the quiet, raging inferno that refused to let him crumble.

***

The school clinic smelled of antiseptic and faintly of lemon. Grayson sat on the examination table, his uniform bloodstained but his expression calm, almost unreadable. Dr. Andrew moved with quick precision, loosening Grayson's tie and wiping the streaks of blood from his neck. Mr. Rox stood nearby, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the boy.

"How did this happen?" Mr. Rox asked, his voice softer than Grayson had expected.

Grayson blinked, the truth caught in his throat. What good would it do to tell him? Nobody would believe him anyway—not with Stephen's crew ready to twist the story. They'd make it look like he was trying to frame them for the cigarettes incident, everyone would believe them. And besides, Grayson didn't report bullies. He handled things himself—usually with his fists.

"I don't know," Grayson said finally, his voice steady but devoid of emotion. "I was moving too fast. I stumbled and slammed my head on a locker."

Mr. Rox's eyes narrowed, his stare penetrating, as though he were dissecting the words. "Is that so?"

"Yes, sir," Grayson replied, his tone clipped as Dr. Andrew pressed a clean cloth to his nose.

Dr. Andrew, efficient and focused, muttered, "Do you have a guardian to pick you up?"

Grayson gave a small nod. "Yes, he should be waiting."

The pain had dulled into a deep, relentless throb, but it was manageable—for now.

"I'll report to Mr. Hawthorne," Dr. Andrew said, adjusting the bandage he'd placed on Grayson's nose. "You'll need leave for the rest of the week. Go to the hospital for a proper checkup—just in case of fractures and rest your stumbling feet."

Grayson slid off the table, grabbing his bag with practiced nonchalance. But as he turned to leave, he felt Mr. Rox's gaze linger, heavy with unspoken questions. He didn't look back. Instead, he stepped out into the hallway, where the buzz of students faltered into silence at the sight of him.

Whispers followed him, punctuated by wide-eyed stares.

At the gate, Mr. Dallas, the stern inspection officer, raised a brow as Grayson approached. "What happened to that cheery nose of yours, Smith?"

"An accident, sir," Grayson replied curtly, pulling out his phone as he passed. He didn't wait for a response, stepping outside into the parking lot where Damien's car was already waiting.

The sleek black car was a familiar sight, Grayson felt a creeping tension as he slid into the passenger seat. Damien was on the phone, his expression preoccupied, sparing only a brief glance. Then, mid-conversation, Damien's gaze sharpened, locking on Grayson's face.

"What happened?" Damien's tone was calm but edged with curiosity and concern.

Grayson hesitated, knowing the lie would taste bitter but necessary. "I tripped and slammed my face into a locker," he said, the excuse tumbling out almost too smoothly.

Damien didn't reply immediately, his piercing gaze lingering on Grayson's bruised and bandaged nose. The silence stretched, heavy with unsaid words.

He is must be thinking you were in a fight! The voice whispered, Grayson clenched his jaw as he turned away, his face angled toward the window. The familiar wave of frustration washed over him—not at Damien, but at himself. He couldn't blame Damien for doubting him. Grayson had earned that doubt with every action taken, every lie told.

As the car hummed to life, Grayson leaned his head against the cool glass of the window. The rhythmic thrum of the road beneath them filled the silence, but inside his mind, the storm raged on.

A/N

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