Safe Hands

89. What's true

Russell sat beside Grayson, the hospital room suffocating in its silence. He had just hung up from a call with Julian, relieved that they were finally on good terms again, but a gnawing anxiety still clenched his chest. Grayson lay on the bed, still and lifeless, save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside him. Russell couldn't shake the image of that day from his mind. Grayson collapsing, the pure exhaustion in his gray eyes, the innocent joy that had lit up his face when he hugged Julian before everything fell apart. He'd been so happy at that moment, and then suddenly, he was gone. The sight of Grayson bleeding out, the bullet lodged deep in his side, haunted him every day since.

Russell could still feel the weight of that horror. How long had Grayson been suffering in silence? He remembered the way Grayson had barely stood straight when they were separated in the hallway. How scared he must have been, left alone with Charlie, the man who had tormented him for years. Nobody had talked about how Charlie died, but it didn't matter. Grayson had been in a coma for weeks now. The doctors whispered about brain damage, a vegetable state. It terrified Russell to even think about it—what would happen to Julian if Grayson never woke up? What would happen to all of them?

Russell leaned closer to the bed, staring at the monitor, which blinked steadily in sync with Grayson's shallow breaths. He gripped his phone tightly. "This is... so empty," he muttered, his voice catching in his throat. "You're just lying there. I don't even know if you can hear me. It must be like being stuck, trapped somewhere far away." He glanced around, as if waiting for Grayson to respond, but of course, there was nothing. Just that incessant beeping.

Russell sighed and continued, trying to fill the silence. "Julian was talking about a trip to Italy, before all this. We were supposed to go together. But how are we supposed to go without you, huh? You need to wake up. We need you to be there, to make those memories with us. We all deserve that."

A small smile tugged at his lips as he remembered something. "You know, there was this story the preacher told at church—about Jesus raising people from the dead. Peter performed miracles too. Maybe if they were still around, I'd text them to come and give you a hand," he laughed softly, the sound feeling foreign in the sterile room. "It sounds silly, huh? But maybe if I concentrate hard enough..." He trailed off, suddenly inspired by the ridiculous thought.

Standing up, he grabbed Grayson's arm, trying to channel whatever magical energy he could muster. "Talitha cumi," he said, attempting to sound authoritative, but then he frowned, realizing it wasn't quite right. "Wait, that's for a little girl... okay, um... Grayson, get up," he said again, feeling a little foolish. He shut his eyes tight, focusing with all his might. "Grayson. Get. Up."

Nothing.

Russell sighed heavily, letting go of Grayson's arm. "Okay, I feel stupid now. Sorry, Grayson, that was dumb." He muttered to himself, plopping back into his chair. "It's not like God works through magic or anything. Guess I'm no miracle worker." He leaned back, rubbing his eyes in frustration. It was all so hopeless.

His gaze drifted to Grayson's hair, which lay scattered across the pillow, thick and messy. Russell had never touched it before, but now, with nothing else to do, his hand itched to feel it. Tentatively, he reached out, brushing his fingers through the strands. It was soft, much softer than he expected. He found himself stroking it absentmindedly. "This is weird," he muttered, but he couldn't stop himself. His own hair was rougher, less smooth. He let his hand drop, feeling awkward.

Then, his eyes shifted to the monitor. The buttons glowed invitingly, and he felt a sudden urge to touch them. Buttons were always a temptation for Russell. He tried to pull his hand back, but it hovered over the machine, fingers grazing the controls. Before he could stop himself, the monitor blared, the lines on the screen changing to an erratic pattern.

Panic shot through Russell like a lightning bolt. He stumbled back, his heart racing. "What the—?" His eyes darted to Grayson, who still lay motionless, pale as ever. Without thinking, Russell bolted from the room, racing down the hall to find a nurse.

The nurse rushed past him into Grayson's room, her face tense with concern. Within seconds, more nurses and doctors swarmed in. Russell stood in the doorway, frozen as they hurried past him, barking orders. Damien appeared, striding toward him, his face calm but eyes sharp.

"What's happening?" Damien asked, his voice steady.

"I—I don't know!" Russell stammered, guilt gnawing at him. Did I press something? Did I break the monitor? He couldn't even think straight. Was Grayson dying?

Damien handed him a paper bag containing the lunch he had gone to fetch, clearly unfazed by the chaos. "Sit down. Take a breath," he said calmly, but Russell could barely breathe, let alone sit. His mind was spinning. He sat down anyway, his leg bouncing anxiously as he stared at the closed door.

He pulled out his phone, his hands trembling as he typed a text to Julian: Julian, Grayson... The doctor just rushed in and... he...

The door creaked open, and Russell's head snapped up. Damien approached the doctor, who was a tall, older man with white hair and serious green eyes. The doctor glanced at the clipboard in his hands before speaking.

"We're glad to announce that Grayson has regained consciousness," the doctor said, his tone professional but not without warmth.

Russell's heart nearly stopped. Grayson was awake! He stared at the doctor, replaying the words in his head, trying to grasp their meaning.

"But," the doctor added, and Russell's stomach dropped, "we need to perform urgent surgery to relieve the pressure his ribs are putting on his lungs. If we don't, his breathing will continue to worsen, and... we may lose him."

Damien nodded, his face impassive as ever. "Is there paperwork to sign?"

The doctor handed Damien a clipboard, who took it without hesitation. Russell's mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Can I see him?" Russell blurted out, his voice shaky.

"I'm afraid not," the doctor replied gently. "He needs rest before the surgery. He's still very disoriented and struggling to breathe."

Russell nodded, though disappointment weighed heavily in his chest. At least Grayson was awake. He just needed to survive the surgery. That was all that mattered now.

A/N

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