Grayson Snaps

Chapter 14: Disaster

Chapter 14: Disaster

When Mom hands me the bundle of Monkshood, I don't argue. Instead, I thank her and let her pull me to her chest.

I'm making my way downstairs, thinking about the damage Grayson has had to have done to our room, when I have an unexplained feeling of dread rushes through me.

I grip the edge of the bar until my last step. I feel like something's wrong.

It's like a little pinprick of fear has crept its way onto the back of my neck, making my stomach turn.

But...from what?

I'm making my way to the door. It's closed. It's almost silent.

That's why I'm getting anxious, I realize. It's because it's so quiet.

I don't hesitate to push open the door. I am instantly met with what Grayson has done to our room: there's a poster torn down from the wall, practically ripped to pieces. He's shoved our shared homework desk to the side, the contents spilled out on the floor. The desk chair has been thrown against the wall (I can tell because there's about a three-foot gap of indented plaster and the chair's slender base is twisted at an unnatural angle) and it seems that Grayson had taken it upon himself to tear every item off the bedside table and throw it across the room.

I nearly step on the obliterated, shredded thing that, looking down, I realize is our lamp shade.

I blink. Where's...Grayson?

My head snaps to the bathroom door and although it is closed, I can see the light underneath it. I make my way to the door and turning the knob, I enter.

"Look what Mom had..."

But the words are taken from me in an instant.

Grayson's sitting on the closed toilet seat in his boxers. His hair is damp as though he's been sweating, and the strands are clinging to his forehead. His face is etched in pain and anger, his teeth clamped together, the hard muscle in his jaw twitching in his concentration. I can't help but stare at the pointed edges of his lateral incisors and canine teeth.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" I yell.

Because Grayson has a five-inch knife, Mom's knife, against the fleshly meat on his tail. He's sitting there, trying to take it off. There's blood dripping down his bare thigh. The thing's twitching, like it's a part of him.

"What are you doing!" I yell, moving. I'm on my knees in front of him, grabbing at the knife. He won't let go of it, and my hands are suddenly coated with his blood.

"I-I'll just take it off. I'll just take it off." He says like a person who has completely lost hope. It's dull and mechanical, yet full of pain. There're tears streaming down his face as his eyes meet mine.

"STOP! No!" I get a good grip of the blade's handle and I don't know if Grayson lets go or not because suddenly I have it and I'm throwing it across the small space of the bathroom. It makes a clatter as it hits the floor. I grab onto his shoulders, yanking him down off the toilet.

"No," I breathe out, grabbing him by the shoulders, our faces just inches apart. He has gone limp, his head rolling back, tears streaming down his face; I can't remember the last time I've seen my brother completely break down. Not like this.

"No!" I repeat, like that's the only word my brain is processing.

"I killed his dog, E." He lets out a broken sound, not meeting my eyes. I squeeze onto the meat of his biceps.

So, Grayson really had taken Tristan's dog...

"And nothing helps except tearing live things to pieces," he says; his voice rises. He finally meets my eyes.