2. RYAN #3
It was hell for a while, but Rosaline and I found other ways to understand Griffon when we had to, still signing with him in private. Over the years, he’s spoken to Rosaline and me when he feels safe, but even then, he prefers not to use his voice.
Doesn’t mean he can’t communicate.
Making my way over to him, I grip his chin gently so I can take a look at the damage.
Sweat streaks his glossy red hair and blood runs in wet ribbons over his freckles.
I should kill that asshole. He’s getting fucking fired, that’s for sure.
Griffon lets me look for a quick minute, but then he shoves my hands away.
“Are you okay?”
He shakes his head so hard that the longer pieces of his red hair on the top of his head shake with him, making a floppy halo. He points to the suitcase again.
“I know.” The words scrape against my throat. “I’m sorry, Griff. This is my fault. Father did this to keep me in line.”
I’m a fucking failure generally, but I hate that I’ve failed him in the worst way possible. The shame coiling around my insides is as suffocating as that damn jacket. I should have done more. I shouldn’t have let this happen.
But maybe I have let Father break me. Maybe it’s crept up on me day by day, year by year. All the little things I accepted. All the times I did what I was told without argument, even though I really didn’t fucking want to. My agency eroded in the background, so gradually I hadn’t noticed the loss.
Griffon nods grimly. He gestures at my appearance—the robe, my damp hair—as if to say, So, were you out whoring yourself around?
I smirk. “I wasn’t out. Wish that were the case if I’m honest. Would have been a lot better than where I was.”
Griffon puffs out his cheeks. Sometimes he’ll use sign language—when Father’s not around—and other times he’ll send text messages or write things down.
But my favorite is when he gets expressive.
A dramatic eye roll. A long-suffering sigh.
Something exaggerated in his lips. Unique Griffon quirks, and I’ve come to understand every single one of them.
“Yeah, I was in the tank.”
His eyes well with tears that spill over, joining with the blood, leaving wet red trails down his cheeks.
“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry, alright? I mean, look at me—you think anyone’s taking me out with a little cold-water therapy? Nah.”
He wipes the tears with the edge of his palms, nodding, but no way he fucking believes me.
I take a step, moving toward him. The room spins, and Griff catches me. This is fucked. I’m supposed to look after him, not the other way around. But it looks like I’m still human, and I’ve reached the limits of my mortal form or some shit.
Griffon helps me onto the bed, eyes pinched with concern.
“I’m just tired,” I insist. “Get the hoodies from your closet. We’ll wear them in protest as we get you packed.
” I won’t even get to travel to school with him.
He’ll be a freshman, aka a plebe. They have to attend a special training camp that starts a week before my classes begin.
He’s still got a few weeks before he has to leave, though. Why’s Father making him pack so soon?
I yawn despite my best protests. A sad smile spreads onto his face.
“Don’t do that, Griff.” I yawn again.
Sleep, he signs.
My heavy eyelids close without my permission, but I force them open. “Not till you get the shirts.”
Fucking stubborn, he signs with the facial expressions to match. He heads off to get the hoodies while my eyes fight to close, sleep threatening to take me under. Not now. I can sleep later.
I was so sure Shadowridge was a go for him that I bought us Shadowridge U hoodies.
I teased him that he’d be at my rival college, and that we’d be sworn enemies for the year.
He pointed out that at least he wouldn’t be playing hockey.
My brother’s an outstanding hockey player, but he elected not to play in college.
But, yeah, if he did play for Shadowridge, we’d be ice rivals, too.
Griffon hands me the hoodie, already decked out in his, but he pushes me down with the clear message to fucking sleep. I don’t think I have much choice at this point. I need to recharge, or I’ll have no fight left. And that’s all my life is, an endless string of battles.
“Okay, but promise me you’ll pack?” I say with that hint of a question in my voice. He nods. “I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute or two, and then I’ll help you. At least we’ll be together at North Point, okay?”
He pauses. There’s a decision made, and I want to ask him about it, but my brain’s covered in fog, and understanding my own thoughts feels like trudging through mud.
A cord of tension wraps around my chest, mimicking that fucking straitjacket.
My fingers curl with the need to punch something.
He’s not okay, and I don’t know how to make him okay.
But I can rest for a bit. Maybe that will lessen his concern.
I don’t even have to close them; I just have to stop fighting what they want to do, and my lids drop.
But I’m aware of the rustling beside me, the sounds of Griffon packing.
I strain my ears to hear them all while my body gives up, sleep taking me under for moments at a time, shadows gathering at the edges of my mind.
The shadows threaten to consume me, all except one. The largest one. He eats all the other shadows, so I can fucking sleep for five minutes.
That’s how I know I’m dreaming—I’d never trust anyone or anything long enough to protect or help me.
My eyes open with a jolt, my sixth sense knows something’s wrong before I’m fully awake. Sitting up, I scan the room through blurry eyes. Griffon’s gone. A quick check out the window tells me it’s still dark. I couldn’t have been out for long. His suitcase is closed, and there’s a note on top.
Don’t worry about me anymore.
What the fuck? I spring up, the Shadowridge U hoodie on top of me falls to the ground. The door to Griffon’s ensuite bathroom is closed, but there’s no light from under the door. I charge in.
My heart stops.
I can’t breathe.
Blood. So much fucking blood floating atop the water’s surface. He’s wearing that fucking Shadowridge hoodie like it’s a final message.
Rushing toward him, I scoop him out of the water enough to check his pulse. It’s weak, but there’s still a fucking pulse.
“Help me! Somebody fucking help me!” No one responds. I don’t want to leave him, but I have to. I sprint to the door of Griffon’s room, lean my head out, and scream into the hallway. “Someone call a goddamn ambulance!”
Rosaline, who I guess didn’t leave after all, pokes her head out of her room, face going white. I look down. I’m covered in Griffon’s blood. She pulls her cellphone from the pocket of her sweatpants, no longer wearing that too-tight black dress.
I race back to Griffon. He’s a heavy fucker—still laden with hockey muscle even though he’s been out of play for a year. But I manage, lifting him out, spilling blood onto the floor. I need to put pressure on the wounds.
“Hang on, Griff. You’re not fucking dying on me today, do you hear me?”
A faint moan sounds from his chest. He’s still in there. He might not want me to save him, but I couldn’t give a fuck. As long as I’m around, Griffon stays.
My eyes flicker between the monitor and Griffon. The steady beep pattern’s still strong, and his lungs rise and fall with breath. So long as those two things are happening, I can relax a little. I can’t, however, sleep, and my body fucking needs it.
The doctors assured me several hundred times that he’s going to be fine. And sure, physically, he’ll survive this, but what’s going on inside his head?
This gives Father real grounds to put him in a psychiatric facility under the guise of helping him, when really it would be an excuse to lock him away.
Father’s “problem” and his “embarrassment,” hidden away.
I’d be all for checking him into a place to help him if that’s what he needs, but unless I can be one hundred percent certain I can get him out again, I can’t risk it.
One thing’s for sure, Griffon would never have done this if it weren’t for Father. He was trying to protect me.
That look in his eyes, that one that had my alarm bells going off, I wasn’t sure what it meant, but now I know it was this decision. I cover his hand with mine, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. “It’s not your job to protect me, Griff.”
The door clicks, and Father enters. His nose wrinkles. It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on Griffon since this happened. He shakes his head.
“He’s weak, Ryan. He’s not made for this life.”
Grandfather made my father watch as he killed the man he loved, and then made him marry our mother because she came from what Grandfather considered a better family.
Sometimes I wonder if Father survived that day.
When he says shit about what it takes to be made for this life, he believes it. He thinks giving me an easy life will kill me, and he thinks that because Griffon can’t endure a hard one, we should do what’s kind and get rid of him.
Griffon’s the only one of us that looks like her. He looks nothing like our father. Does that make him hate Griff, too? He never loved our mother, but Grandfather forced him to keep her.
“Your mother wasn’t either, and look, same result. He got this from her.” He gestures to Griff’s wrists.
I shake my head. “No. She knew just like he does that death’s the only way to escape you.”
His hand cracks across my cheek with enough force to snap my head to the right. My eyes water, and I have to adjust my jaw to make sure it’s not broken. The skin throbs.
“Watch your fucking mouth when you talk to me. I don’t have to pay for his hospital care, and you don’t have a cent to your name.”
My hands itch to circle his fucking throat—yeah, again. It hasn’t even been seventy-two hours since the last time I wanted to strangle my father.