“Make it stop! Make it stop!Make it stop!”
The sound of Grayson's hopeless voice has me turning into a full sprint towards the kitchen. My shoes crunch, but I don’t stop. The wind is knocked out of me at the scene.
Crash.
The glass bottle shatters against the wall, falling to a million pieces on the floor. I suck in a breath. It’s a war zone in here. Itsmells of booze and blood. The kitchen looks like a high school party has been thrown in it. Chairs are knocked over, cups shattered, and an array of booze is scattered across the counter.
“Seven, eight, nine, ten,” Grayson whispers quickly to himself, lost in his own mind. He shakes his head, smacking the side of it with his palm. He’s sitting on the kitchen floor, an empty whiskey bottle in his hand, leaning back against the kitchen cabinets, head tipped forward and legs spread wide. “Make it stop,” he whimpers. “One, two, three, four…”
I drop to my knees in front of him, not caring as the glass pushes into my skin through my pants. “Grayson,” I whisper, carefully cupping his face in my hands to tip his face to me.
Oh God. It’s bad. So much worse than I could ever imagine. His face is battered; it looks like someone has taken a bat to it. Blood drips from multiple wounds, his two swollen eyes included. He’s a collage of blues and reds, and it breaks my heart.
“M-maisie…is t-that you?” he mumbles, slumping into my hands so I’m holding him up. Not only is he injured, but he’s beyond drunk and smells like puke.
I tip his chin up, making sure he can look me in the eyes. My other hand finds his blood-matted hair, and I slick it back, running my fingers through it. There’s a giant goose egg I take note of, but I put on a brave face for him.
“Yeah, it’s me, Gray. I’m here. I’m with you.” My voice is wobbly, but I stay strong for him. Whoever did this to him is going to pay.
Grayson is a steel door.Impenetrable. Or so I thought. The strong man I know is not the one sitting before me. I can’t bear the brokenness I’m seeing, not only physically, but mentally. Grayson is not okay. He’s far from it. He’s a pile of broken limbs and a broken mind. I’m not even sure he knows what’s going on right now, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it. This has to stop. I can’t take seeing him hurt any longer.
“Make it stop,” he mumbles under his breath, starting to rock back and forth.
I scoot Grayson away from the cabinet so I can slide behind him, wedging my back against it. He goes willingly, letting me maneuver him like a doll. I lay him sideways, placing his head in my lap softly, careful not to agitate the lump on his head.
“Make what stop?” I ask him softly, dragging my palm over his hair. “What happened, Grayson? You’re scaring me. Please, talk to me.”
A sob lets loose deep from within him, like he’s been holding on to it for months, years even. He’s crumbling before me, and I pray I have the strength to hold his pieces together. I cannot let this man break permanently. I wouldn’t survive losing another person I care about. Because I do care about Grayson, more than I’ve admitted to myself in the short amount of time I’ve been here. It’s indescribable, but you can’t go against what fate throws your way, and, right now, I can tell Grayson was thrown into my life for a reason.
He’s inconsolable, muttering through choked sobs. “They threatened you. Theycan’thave you.”
That has the hairs on the back of my neck standing. “Who? If you don’t tell me, then I can’t help you,” I whisper softly, trying not to spook him. “I need to call an ambulance to have you checked out. You’re bleeding everywhere.”
I reach for my phone, and a switch flips in him. He frantically sits up, looking around wildly. “No! You can’t call anyone. They will know. They always know,” he says defeatedly, slumping back onto my lap.
His button up shirt slips open further, and I have to hold back the food in my stomach from coming up. He’s covered in bruises, his entire chest and ribs a deep purple. One of them sticks out at a funny angle, and my stomach plummets.
“Grayson, who did this to you?” My words are only a whisper, desperate and horrified for his answer.
“Th-they take everything, no matter how much I do. It’snever going to end.Never…” He chokes on another sob, and my heart breaks with him.
It’s worse than I thought. So much worse. I can’t help him if he won’t let me in, though. He’s been dealing with this all on his own, but I’m here now. I want him to trust me enough to let me help. He doesn’t have to face his demons alone.
I gently grab his face. “Grayson, I need you to talk to me. Let me in,please,” I beg. “Who? Who are you so afraid of? Who keeps hurting you? How can I help you? We really need to call an ambulance.”
His watery eyes glisten as they take me in, a sad smile etched onto his beautifully broken face. “No amount of medicine could fix me, Maisie. All I need is you, and I’m whole. I just need you,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut.
I hold him tight against me, unsure what to do. He needs serious medical attention, but I’m afraid he’s going to go full manic again if I call for help. Maybe I can call Chesney? He would surely know what to do. But I also don’t want to involve him in this mess, especially with how secretive Grayson’s been. I don’t want to betray his trust when I’m just getting it. I’m at a crossroads.
Grayson is like deadweight on my lap now, still mumbling under his breath. I continue to soothe him, looking over his body to assess what needs the most attention. He mostly looks bruised to shit, besides the one rib, which I can assume is most likely broken. There’s nothing to be done about it besides rest and medicine to manage the pain. The blood seems to be coming from his face, a busted lip and nose. His hand is ripped to shreds, almost as if sharp metal dragged across it. He’s talking and breathing just fine, so internally I think he’s okay, but I can’t be certain.
I remember there’s a first aid kit under his sink, and I reach over to grab it out without waking him. I grab the medical tweezers first, diligently removing each piece of glass embedded in his skin. It’s everywhere, and I conclude he wasbreaking empty beer bottles in his hand before throwing them at the wall.
I dig out a cleaning wipe next and gently wipe his face and bleeding hand, removing all the blood and dirt. It should sting, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s lost in some far off world.
I hate it.
Luckily, there was a little bit of antibiotic ointment left in the kit, and I spread a generous amount on every cut I can find, taking extra care on his eyes and sliced hand. It’s not super deep, so I don’t think it needs stitches, but it puckers open in places. There’s some non-stick gauze in the kit, and I make sure to lube it up before taping around it securely. The bigger cuts that mar his body, I slap Band-Aids over to keep the ointment firmly in place.
