Broken Hands

58. Dying slowly...

Grayson had spent the night huddled against the wall of his room, too drained to move yet too restless to sleep. Every time his eyes closed, he felt phantom hands clawing at him, ghostly reminders of things he wanted desperately to forget. Damien's voice still echoed in his mind, sharp and accusing, a relentless reminder of the chaos he couldn't seem to escape. The pills he'd taken hadn't helped; his anxiety had overpowered them, leaving him raw and hollow.

By morning, he barely registered the bruises dotting his arms and knees from his stumble the night before. His movements were mechanical—slipping on his uniform, grabbing his bag, and slipping out of the ho0use without even glancing at breakfast. Damien's car was missing from the driveway, and for once, Grayson felt a flicker of relief.

Now, standing before the mirror in the school restroom during the short break, Grayson's reflection stared back at him, exhausted and pale. He looked worse than he felt, which was saying something. He pulled a small bottle from his pocket—Fetzima. He'd grabbed it hastily from his drawer that morning, deciding that it couldn't make things any worse. These pills were supposed to calm him down, to take the edge off. Supposedly stronger than his previous medication, they were also far riskier. But Grayson didn't care. He craved even a moment of peace.

The label advised starting with a 20mg dose, but he poured two pills into his palm and stared at them, his fingers trembling, that made it a 40mg. Maybe doubling it will help faster, he thought grimly. With a sluggish motion, he swallowed the pills dry, ignoring the metallic taste that clung to his tongue. He didn't bother looking at himself again; his battered appearance was just another reminder of the wreck he'd become.

Dragging himself to his next class, Grayson slumped into his seat. Mr. Redgrave was already deep into a history lecture, his voice a droning backdrop to the chaos inside Grayson's mind. Grayson tried to focus, gripping his pen tightly, but his body rebelled. A cold sweat broke out across his skin, his vision blurred, and his pulse hammered so violently it echoed in his ears.

He raised his hand, his voice startlingly even despite the storm within. "May I use the restroom, sir?"

Redgrave's amber eyes narrowed, scrutinizing him like a pest under a magnifying glass. "Sit down, Smith. You just had a break."

Grayson clenched his jaw, trying to comply, but the nausea rising in his gut refused to be ignored. "I need to go," he said again, more insistent.

Redgrave straightened, his expression hardening. "Fine. But first, answer this—what year was the Treaty of Versailles signed?"

Grayson's mouth opened, but his mind swirled in a haze. "N-Nineteen..." He stuttered, words slipping through his grasp like water.

"See me after school hours, Smith," Redgrave said sharply, handing him a pass. Grayson snatched it and bolted from the room, his legs unsteady beneath him.

The restroom door banged open as he stumbled inside, just in time to collapse over a stall. His stomach heaved violently, emptying its contents into the toilet. His throat burned, and his chest ached as he gasped for air. Leaning against the cool door frame, Grayson fought to regain his composure. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, no matter how tightly he gripped the edge of the stall.

The bathroom door creaked open, but Grayson didn't bother to look. He flushed the toilet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Hello, Smith."

The voice was too light, too measured. Grayson turned slowly, his bloodshot eyes meeting the sharp gaze of Timothy Goldman, who stood by the mirror, adjusting his tie. Timothy's dark skin gleamed under the fluorescent light, and his sharp, observant expression only added to the tension in the room.