Maisie
. . .
TWENTY-TWO
I continue to follow the loud noise through the darkness until my feet bring me right up to Grayson’s cabin. I can’t even make out what’s going on, just that there are crashing objects and yelling coming from within.
I make it up the last step and freeze. There’s blood and glass everywhere. The outer door looks like it was thrown open so hard, it shattered. I step around the shards, following the trail of blood. It’s everywhere, like a mini sea of red.
Crash.
“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.
It smells 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. They can’t have 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’s never 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 was breaking 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.
He’s still a mangled mess of injuries, but after cleaning the blood and bandaging him up, he looks much better. The only thing taking him to the hospital would confirm is if he needs surgery for his rib or has internal bleeding.
My thumb strokes the pulse on the side of his neck; it’s a little erratic, but nothing too crazy. It beats steadily under my thumb, probably heightened from the booze and his most recent freak out.
His hair is still matted with blood, my fingers getting stuck in the strands as I comb my fingers through it. My hand finds the bump again. I should probably check him for a concussion.
“Grayson,” I whisper against his forehead, rousing him. His eyes slowly peel open one at a time, as much as they can with how swollen they are. “We need to get you clean. Can I help you to the shower?”
He nods numbly, probably ready to go along with anything I say at this point. He’s not here with me right now, still lost in his head. I need to make sure he’s dissociating and not concussed. Neither are ideal, but one of them, I can work him out of.
I help him sit, and, surprisingly, he holds himself up while I get to my feet. I grab him under his arms, making sure not to squeeze his ribs too hard, and lift with my legs. It isn’t pretty, but he helps me halfway, slumping up to his full height.
He towers over me, so I sling his arm around my shoulders to stabilize him. “You’re doing so good,” I praise him, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He nods groggily, leaning into me. “Can you show me where your room is?”
“This way, honey.” That little nickname used to be a taunt, but now, it feels like a promise. A promise of tenderness and understanding. Seeing pain to pain.
He leads me down the hallway and fumbles with a closed door. I grab it for him and push it open. His room is gorgeous, rugged in a sophisticated way, like a fancy log cabin, full of deep woods and polished furniture.
There's an ensuite bathroom he leads us towards. I carefully lower him to the toilet so I can assess him better under the lights. I grip his chin in my palm, lifting his gaze up to mine.
“I’m going to ask you some questions to make sure you’re not hurt, okay? Can you answer them honestly for me?” He nods, nuzzling further into my palm. I check his eyes first, making sure they aren’t dilated. They appear to be normal, and I thank my lucky stars.
I begin with my questions. “Do you have a headache?”
He nods a little but corrects himself. “Only a little from the alcohol,” he chokes out.
Good. I can work with that.
“What about dizziness?” He shakes his head. “Nausea?” He shakes his head again, which I don’t buy. “Are you sure? I thought I smelled puke on you earlier?”
“It…it was from before. From something else,” he says, his eyes distant.
I nod along. I’m not sure what he’s referencing, but he seems coherent enough that I believe him. So no dilated eyes, no dizziness, no current nausea, and a minor headache.
I point up at the bright lightbulb above my head. “Does the light hurt to look at?”
His only reply is, “It always does.”
I sigh. I’m pretty confident he doesn’t have a concussion, but the booze could be numbing all the symptoms. I just need to keep an eye on him and see if any of the symptoms progress tomorrow.
I drag a hand down my face, letting out a slow breath, hoping my nerves flee with it. “Alright, good, that’s good. Yeah. Let’s get you cleaned up and to bed.”
Research Notes: cowboys can break too.