Broken Hands

94. The act of lying

The night was cold as usual, the air chilly and biting with each breath he took. The room was freezing, and he had no blankets. After washing and spreading it outside to dry, he hadn't had time to retrieve it before Charlie's anger erupted. Charlie had been on him in blinding seconds, yelling, kicking, and swearing. Grayson was used to it, used to the outbursts. That was how all adults reacted when they were mad, right?

His chest hurt worse than usual, and he felt too sore to close the window. So, he stayed on the cold wooden floor, dwelling in the biting chill. Pressing his ear against the wood, he tried to distract himself from the dull, subsiding pain radiating through his body. Why did Charlie get mad this time?

He couldn't recall. All he knew was that Charlie always got mad. It didn't matter what he did.

A loud thud snapped him out of his thoughts. It was a sound from downstairs he must have found the food he hide behind the drawer or the flowers, maybe the packet of cigarettes; it was soon followed by muffled profanity. Charlie's drunk voice rang through the house, and his heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs. Grayson tensed as he heard them approach, each step filled with the kind of ferocity that made it clear where Charlie was heading.

Grayson sighed under his breath, bracing himself. He waited for the door to burst open, for the yelling and the blows to start all over again. Afterward, he would wear the hoodie his mother had left behind, stitch up the holes, and hide the bruises before heading to school. It was routine by now.

The pounding steps drew closer, and the door burst open. Grayson squeezed his eyes shut.

Suddenly, he snapped them open. He growled softly as he realized it had all been a dream.

Grayson sat up in bed, any hope of sleep now lost. He got out of bed and moved to his desk, pulling out his textbooks and flashcards. Exams were tough, but he was putting in the effort. This was his last chance to make his file presentable. He had screwed up too many times before. This time, he wanted to get it right—for Alex, for Damien, and for himself.

Maybe, just maybe, if he succeeded, he might finally open up to them. He'd tell them how much he loved riding a bike. Oh, Damien would probably be mad. Who cares? He'd do it anyway. Maybe he'd wait a year, after leaving for college, so they wouldn't know. Except for Raymond. That would be better than nothing.

Grayson's thoughts were interrupted by a sound—light tapping, like nails brushing against glass. He rose from his desk and moved to the window, opening it and sticking his head out. The cool breeze brushed against his skin, and he exhaled, relieved for a moment.

His eyes caught movement in the garden, something small shifting among the flowers. What could it be? Grayson squinted and caught a glimpse of a white tail.

Probably a cat, a raccoon, or something else. A spark of curiosity lit in his chest. Could this have something to do with Stray's backyard sanctuary? Maybe it was a puppy—or no, perhaps a wild animal.

Grayson grabbed his crocs and slipped quietly out of his room. Moving discreetly through the backdoor of the kitchen, he stepped into the chilly night. The cold reminded him of his nightmare, and he frowned at the memory, but he shifted his thoughts to riding at top speed in the middle of the night. Now that was therapy.

Carefully, he approached the garden, scanning for movement. He followed a possible exit toward the back and spotted something darting into a set of cartons. Approaching cautiously, Grayson knew he had found something. Slowly, he reached for the carton and opened it.

Inside was a small white kitten. It meowed in fright, as if calling for its mother, and tried to dart away. But Grayson caught it, lifting it gently off the ground. He stared into its blue eyes. It was beautiful. It belonged in a shelter—or in some little girl's bed—not out here in the cold.