Broken Hands

55. Opening the box

Grayson sat stiffly on the white couch in Mrs. Denise's office, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a storm. The room smelled faintly of lavender, the scent meant to soothe, but to Grayson, it was just another veil masking the discomfort he couldn't escape. Across from him, Mrs. Denise sat with her tablet perched delicately on her lap, her calm eyes scanning him like a lighthouse in an unrelenting fog.

"Remember, Grayson," she began, her voice soft yet firm, "you need to get through this phase to get better."

He nodded, not trusting his voice. His head moved mechanically, over and over, as if the repetition alone could convince himself that he had the strength for this. Deep down, though, doubt gnawed at him like a ravenous animal. For two years, all he'd done was fight—fight his past, his pain, and anyone who came close to seeing either. Now, with the decision to face it head-on, a different kind of fear took root, one that whispered he might not make it through this intact.

"You can be scared," Mrs. Denise said gently, leaning forward slightly, her eyes locking on his. "You can say you're scared, take a pause, take a stroll—anything. Okay?"

Grayson nodded again. "Okay," he murmured, though the word felt hollow.

She held her tablet more securely, her pen poised like a scalpel about to carve into something raw. "What can you say about your stepfather, Charlie?"

Grayson inhaled slowly, forcing the memories to stay buried, trapped where they belonged. His voice came out even, but laced with cold venom. "Terrible. Evil. Psycho. Disgusting. Monstrous. Anything that fits." He rolled his eyes, but his clenched fists betrayed him.

Mrs. Denise nodded, not missing a thing. "What was your childhood like?"

Grayson stared at her for a moment, his mind scrambling for words that wouldn't tear him apart. Finally, he spoke, his tone flat yet brimming with suppressed emotion. "A cage. A small cage with openings wide enough to breathe, but from the same openings came knives that stabbed."

Her brows knit slightly. "Why do you put it that way?" she asked, her tone tender and unplanned, as though she couldn't help herself.

"There wasn't a single day under his roof without pain," Grayson replied, his voice tightening. "Living like that, it felt like waiting to die, wishing to die, because death would've been easier than waiting for the next beating or whatever else he had planned."

Mrs. Denise nodded slowly, her gaze steady. "It must have been incredibly hard. What did he use to hurt you?"

Grayson's throat constricted. The question hit like a blow, memories flashing unbidden. He forced the words out, his voice trembling despite himself. "Anything. An electric cord, a switch, the stick from the broom, his belt, his fists, hangers, a bat one time. A hot poker... The worst was his words."

The tremor in his voice betrayed him, and he clenched his jaw to regain control.

"Did you ever try to escape?"

Grayson nodded rapidly, almost too fast. "Yes. Many times. He always found me. And the consequences..." His voice trailed off, but the weight of the word consequences hung in the air like a noose.

Mrs. Denise nodded again, but her next question made his blood run cold. "Was it just physical and verbal abuse?"

Grayson froze. His breathing hitched, and the air seemed to thicken around him. He could feel the walls of the room closing in, the weight of the unspoken pressing down on his chest crushing his ribs. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his eyes wandered, desperate for anything to anchor him.

Mrs. Denise must have noticed, because she shifted gears smoothly. "Do you have a sense of self-loathing back then?"

Grayson leaned back slowly, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.