Page 36 of Cuts Like an Angel: Part 2

Chapter Nineteen

William

Rosie’s breaths came in short, gentle low murmurs from open lips. William watched her. Sleep was evading him, his body crawling, not with what Rosie had done to him, with him … no. He reached out and ran a finger down the side of her sweet face, watching her. Wishing he could kiss her lips and not wake her. His skin crawled from what he was … how he was. Why did Rosie not see that? She would surely leave if she did. One day, when she opened her eyes for real, she would see, and then …

Closing his eyes, he sighed, tucking his hand under his pillow, but he couldn’t get himself to go over that mental hill and into the place where he slept. His mind was too awake, too alive and filled with images he’d rather forget.

He slipped out of the bed and grabbed his boxer shorts, slipping them on and then letting himself out of the room as quietly as he could manage. The door to the front bedroom glared at him … taunted him. How many times had he stood in this very spot, staring for what would seem like hours? His mother was usually on the other side, her gasps and cries and moans coming out of the room and crawling along his mind, knowing what she was doing.

His stomach lurched and his cock twitched just at the thoughts of things … the sickness inside himself. He grabbed his keys from the little table where he had thrown them and fished for the one to that door.

It wasn’t dark in the room. The street light outside was positioned just in the right spot that it gave the room an eerie yellow. His mother used to like that. She would lay with the curtains open and the lights off, just letting the street lamp from outside in. William stood now, staring into the dark abyss of his childhood. The room where he was ruined … soured. He gripped the door handle so tightly that his knuckles ached.

What had she called him to Rosie? They were a two-piece? Mother and son. Maybe she had advertised it that way. It had never occurred to him until then.

Shit.

Had she done that? Had she advertised him as part of her service? His heart hammered at the thought of it. Fuck … could she really have done that to him?

He bowed, suddenly breathless, anger stinging his eyes. Yes. Yes, she could have done that. It was well within her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck … His mind raced with it. All those times. He’d thought maybe she would protect him. That she would be the thing between those men, but no, it was clear now. As clear as fucking daylight.

“Oh god.” He could barely move as he backed out of the room and locked the door—locking all his secrets away with it. What would Rosie think of that? What would she think when she realised what Maria had said? Even his own mother sold him.

His legs were jelly as he tried to get to the bathroom. He shut the door silently, locking it. He could hardly see as he reached into the cabinet above the sink and found the container. To anyone, they would think it was an old soap box with a bar wedged in it that had seen better days. To William, it was his saviour, the string to his bow. He pulled the soap out and turned it over, picking out the small blade he had wedged in there.

He ground his jaw as he tipped the blade into his skin, ready to pull. He met his own eyes in the mirror, fuelled with hatred. William and Josh meeting once more for this very familiar dance.

“You’re nothing,” he said. “Nothing. To no one. Just a piece of fucking trash.” He yanked the blade down, slicing it through his skin and as he reached the end, he panted, his eyes watering, mind clearing from the sting like it washed away all the badness in him. “Fuck, yes,” he said, head back, body riding with the agonising pleasure. He dug in again, slower this time, pulling the blade through his vile flesh, breathing heavily and murmuring in euphoric whispers.

This was the only way to get rid of Maria and the only way to get rid of himself and what he had done. He tried to calm his mind. Tried to focus it back to Rosie now and the way she had taken him, gently, lovingly. He didn’t deserve someone like her. She was special and he would taint her, the way he tainted everything.

He stepped into the shower, but it wouldn’t matter how hot he had the water; it would never scald away the filth that was buried inside his skin, like a layer of it, covering him. He was dirty.

He had no idea what time it was when he crawled back into bed, but Rosie didn’t look like she had moved much. His head was heavy with exhaustion and maybe he could actually sleep now. He pulled on a long sleeved top and climbed into bed, covering his arms. He was a master at the hiding, but he couldn’t while he was sleeping.

Carly never even saw when he hurt himself and she was trained to look for these things. She had noted in her reports that he hadn't cut himself for weeks now, but that was lies. He just made sure it was where no one would see.

He lay on his side so that he was facing Rosie again. She had her hand laid flat in front of his face and he covered it with his, lacing his fingers through hers. She smiled in her sleep, sucking in breaths. If only she realised the monster who was holding her hand. She would snatch it away and go and clean herself off.

But right now, she was unaware and William took that, selfishly took it into himself and let his eyes close.

When he woke again, Rosie wasn’t in the bed beside him and the sun was streaming in through the window. He rolled onto his back, yawning and arching to stretch out the kinks. The aroma of cooking bacon wafted over him and he strained to listen. Rosie was singing. She was like sunshine downstairs, calling to him, the darkness to throw the world into a dismal shadow. There was a mug of coffee on the bedside table and a little note beside it. William leaned up on his elbow and took it, opening it up.

Happy Day,

Mr Sleepy Head

xxx

He smiled as he sipped the now cold coffee and made himself get up. The wounds on his arm stung as the fabric of his top rubbed against them, reminding him they were there and why he had done it. Yes. Good. It should fucking hurt.

He pulled on his jeans and padded down the stairs, barefoot. Rosie was in the kitchen standing at the stove holding the pan steady with one hand and the spatula in the other. She had on one of his shirts that reached her thighs and a beautiful smile aimed right at him.

“Good morning,” he said, sliding behind her and slipping his hand under to splay his fingers across her belly, his mouth against her neck.

“You mean good afternoon,” she said, sunshine in her voice.

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