Broken Hands

64. On the edge

Grayson's fingers clenched the strap of his bag as he made his way through the school hallway, each step heavier than the last. The conversation with Alex replayed in his mind like a bad movie he couldn't turn off. He felt suffocated by guilt, the look in Alex's eyes, the disbelief the fear. Usually, stuff like this does not bother him, but it wasn't just anyone it was Alex, the man who had fought for him. Now that he thought of how much he had hurt his feelings he felt like a villain in a story, no amount of justification was enough to cover up his cruelty.

But Damien on the other hand, he had a different feeling the one of dread, and a pinch of fear, Damien was easily disappointed and he was quick to voice it. And could care less about the damage that word can cause maybe because Damien was built in a different way, made of steel. Grayson could only wait for the consequences Raymond better be right, he really didn't want to go to any place where he'd get yelled out or assaulted. Like juvie or boot camp, those places Damien loved to think of. Even if he deserved it, he really hoped Damien would see this through a different eye and they could all leave it behind.

But the man didn't tolerate mistakes, and Grayson had made more than enough to last a lifetime. Improvement was the only way forward, but that path felt like scaling a cliff with no safety rope. For now, all he could do was stay out of trouble and avoid doing anything stupid.

He reached Mr. Blackwell's classroom and hesitated for a second before stepping inside. The man was already seated at his desk, absorbed in a thick volume of literature. Grayson couldn't fathom how someone could study so much when the world outside offered so many distractions. But then again, Mr. Blackwell's appearance explained it. He was the embodiment of a bookworm—an elegant, gothic one at that.

The nickname Dracula wasn't just a joke. Dressed entirely in black, as always, Mr. Blackwell wore a sleek winter coat over a black turtleneck and tailored trousers that shimmered faintly under the sunlight streaming through the windows. A silver watch gleamed on his wrist, the only splash of brightness against the monochrome. He must be a writer.

Grayson slid into his seat, his eyes lingering on the teacher. How could someone look like they'd just stepped out of a novel themselves? Mr. Blackwell glanced up, catching Grayson's gaze. For a moment, Grayson didn't look away, his stubbornness winning over his self-consciousness. But eventually, he dropped his eyes, reaching into his bag to pull out the assigned novel. The cover felt cool and textured under his fingers as if it might magically infuse him with the knowledge he sorely lacked.

More students filtered in, filling the room with chatter. Grayson kept his head low, flipping through the book as if he were preparing for an exam. The truth was, he'd read the assigned chapters, but not enough to feel confident. Mr. Blackwell's piercing stare could make anyone second-guess themselves, and Grayson wasn't eager to draw attention.

The murmurs faded as the man stood, his movements deliberate and precise. He placed his book on the desk, and the faint glint of sunlight catching his silver watch danced across the room. Grayson straightened in his seat, a low ripple of tension settling over the class.

"Let's begin," he said, his voice smooth but with a cutting edge. He scanned the room, eyes narrowing as they landed on Grayson.

"You were assigned a reading yesterday, so who can enlighten us about the theme storm in chapter 154, all books closed!" His voice tore through the silence and the sounds of books shutting eoched after.

The class was dead silent, as Mr. Blackwell walked in a slow space heels echoing faintly. "Well... interesting." He said as if he savored the silence and fear of the students.

Grayson had read that chapter but he wasn't sure he had the exact answer, he couldn't make a fool of himself by answering wrong and have the man use him as a theme for the rest of the class.