Broken Hands

81. She's gone

Grayson pulled the bike to an abrupt stop outside the building that housed the vet's office. His heart hammered in his chest, his hands trembling as he kicked down the stand. Sweat clung to him like a second skin, plastering his hair to his forehead. He jumped off the bike, not bothering to secure it, and rushed inside, his mind racing far faster than his legs could carry him. He pulled on his tie trying to breath a little more than anxiety was letting him.

The moment he burst through the glass doors, the cool air of the waiting area hit him, but it did nothing to calm the heat of his anxiety. His entrance was loud and abrupt, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Two women behind the counter exchanged a startled look before one of them stepped forward, her polite demeanor faltering at the sight of him.

"How may I help you, young man?" she asked cautiously, her eyes scanning his disheveled appearance.

Grayson's throat felt dry, his breath ragged, but he forced the words out. "S-Stray. I need to know. I brought her here yesterday. Where is she? I want to see her!" His voice cracked with urgency, each word tumbling out in a mess of desperation as his hand tried to push his hair back.

The woman hesitated, then quickly moved to check the records. "What's your name? And what breed of dog is it?" she asked, her tone brisk as she typed into the computer.

Grayson squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of frustration washing over him. His own name escaped him in the moment, the question feeling ridiculous. "I don't know! I just need to see her!" His voice rose, sharp with despair.

The second woman at the counter stepped forward, her expression unsure, but before she could speak, the door at the back of the room opened. The vet stepped in, his white coat slightly wrinkled and his expression immediately shifting into something between surprise and concern.

"Grayson," the man said, his tone calm but not exactly welcoming.

Grayson's head snapped toward him, his entire focus narrowing to the man who might have the answers he needed. He ignored the ladies behind the counter, pushing past them as he marched up to the vet. "Where is she?" Grayson demanded, his voice betraying his anxiety. "Where's Stray?"

The vet hesitated, lifting a hand as if to placate him. "Grayson, calm down," he started, his tone carefully measured. "She had complications—serious ones. Her spine was damaged, and there was a fractured skull. Internal bleeding—"

"Where is she?" Grayson yelled, his voice frustrated. "Where is she?!"

The vet opened his mouth to respond, but Grayson didn't wait. He stomped off, his pulse roaring in his ears as he scanned the hallways, pushing open doors without care. His vision blurred with panic and frustration as he called out, "Stray!" His voice echoed through the sterile corridors. "Stray!" If they won't show him the way he'll find it on his own!

He barged into one of the rooms where she had been before. It was empty. The bed was neatly arranged, the sight of it so unnervingly calm that it sent a pang through his chest and fed his fear

Grayson turned, his breaths shallow and ragged, only to collide with the vet, who had followed him. The man's hands gently but firmly grabbed Grayson by the shoulders. "Grayson, stop," he said softly, his voice steady but somber.

Grayson stared at him, his emotions teetering on the edge of collapse. "Where is she, where did you keep her?" he repeated, his voice almost a whisper now, filled with raw pain.

The vet sighed heavily and nodded toward another hallway. "Follow me," he said his voice holding sympathy.

Grayson's legs felt leaden, but he forced them to move, following the vet down the cold, sterile hallway. Each step felt like a lifetime. His sweat-dampened hair clung to his face as he tried to steady his breathing, but the knot in his stomach only grew tighter.

They stopped in front of a plain door. The vet unlocked it and gestured for Grayson to step inside. The air inside was cold, and the smell of disinfectant was strong. The metallic gleam of the tables and the row of plastic bags hit Grayson like a punch to the gut.

The vet moved to one of the tables, checking the tags on the bags. Grayson stayed frozen by the doorway, his chest heaving as his mind screamed for him to run.

"She passed away yesterday," the vet said softly, his voice gentle but firm. "Just after you left. We tried everything, but her injuries were too severe."

The vet unzipped the bag slightly, revealing a paw sticking out. The sight punched the air out of Grayson's lungs. He didn't need to see more—he recognized that paw. He had held it so many times, watched it grow from clumsy puppy swipes to the strong, loyal grip of a dog who loved him unconditionally.

Grayson stepped forward despite himself, his movements shaky. The vet hesitated. "I wouldn't advise opening it fully," he said gently.

Grayson ignored him, his trembling hands reaching for the zipper. He pulled it further, revealing Stray's fur. It had lost its vibrant sheen, now dull and lifeless. She looked so small, so fragile. Grayson couldn't look any longer. His face heat up and his eyes burned.

A single tear escaped down his cheek, and he swiped at it angrily, as though denying its existence would make the moment any less real.

"She really fought to stay, she waited till you were here, till she had said her goodbye, then–"

He turned abruptly, brushing past the vet without a word. His steps were quick, almost frantic as he left the room and the building behind.

The cold air outside hit him like a slap, but it didn't clear his head. He climbed on the bike, revving it to life. He knew he shouldn't drive in this state, but he didn't care. He needed to get away—away from the vet, away from the pain, away from the crushing guilt that whispered in his mind.

Stray was gone. She had been his constant, his anchor, and now... she was gone. Whose fault was it? Who had left the freaking door open? Who hadn't been there when she needed him?

He clenched the handlebars, his knuckles aching. It didn't matter. None of it mattered now. Stray was gone, and nothing could change that.

A/N

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In memory of my dog who passed away last year ...Whiskey... 😔😔🥲