Page 7 of Cuts Like an Angel: Part 2

Chapter Four

Rosie stared at William, fighting to not be hurt over his tone. Wait, there was no being hurt with him, the man driven to mutilate his body for years on end. The man who hated himself so much that he couldn't stand to live. And when death wouldn't allow him that respite, he buried the man inside him and pretended to be somebody else. Somebody normal. But the pain and fears of his past were too much for him to hide and she didn’t want him to have to try.

Rosie’s mind brought up the night it all gushed to the surface. Her skin tightened with chills. There had been so much blood, so much pain. He was more broken than she’d ever seen a person. How would he ever not be afraid? Not think the worst?

She hurried off the bed and went to him. She paused when his body seemed to lock up and brace for some impact. She held up both hands, keeping a two-foot space between them. "Hey," she whispered after a couple of seconds, hoping to draw his gaze to her. "William ..." His jaw ticked and his lips pressed tighter together, forming a hard line. "Look at me," she called softly, taking another step closer, angling her head to read his downcast eyes. The rise and fall of his chest said he struggled with whatever it was bothering him, and in response, Rosie’s heart clenched with the need to rescue him. "William ..."

"Stop," he gasped, shaking his head and turning away.

She hurried around him, peering up into his troubled face. "William, what--"

"Stop saying it, just stop." He grabbed his head and pulled his hair, gritting his teeth.

"Stop saying what?" She came to stand before him, tugging softly at his wrists. "Stop saying what, William?"

He spun away again. "I hate that name," he barely whispered, his every breath shuddering out now.

Her heart hammered, and she swallowed at hearing her suspicions confirmed. The self-loathing in his voice felt like acid over her skin. Again, she circled around till she stood before him. "You listen to me," she began, her own voice shaky with her efforts to be calm and firm. "I know you. I know you, William."

He gushed a laugh and shook his head. "You do not understand; you have no idea," he said, his voice going hard.

"Okay, okay," she conceded lightly, eying his erratic movements, like he needed to jump out of his skin but wasn't sure how, or which way to jump. Rosie could feel the evil barrier imprisoning him. It was thick and dense and the instinct to break through it and rescue him had her pulse hammering. The idea that he was hurting to this degree of torment, and in such a quick time, was telling. Forcing her way with him seemed like a bad idea. Forcing anything in fact. But God, her instincts screamed for her to do just that. Shove through the lies and force him to see, force him to feel the right things. Her love. Her acceptance. His worth.

Slowly. She could do it slowly.

She stepped into the midst of his turmoil, her love straining to burst through her chest. "I'm here because I could never be anywhere else." She wished he'd look at her. The lump in her throat thickened then and forced her to gasp for air. "I'm not here because I have to be," she went on. "And I'm not even here because I can't live without you." His eyes flashed up to hers, the fear in them stealing her breath momentarily. "I'm here because I want to be," she hurried. "More than I've ever wanted anything in my life." She reached a hand out and touched his arm, holding his gaze tight. "I'm here because I want to love you. I want you to love me."

She stood right before him now, staring at the battle raging behind his dark blue eyes. A shadowy premonition shook his breath and his forehead glistened with sweat. She silently willed him to fight whatever lies played through his head.

"You have no idea who I am."

She nodded at his choked words, wiping her tears. "I know you think I can't handle who you are. I do. I'm not stupid, William. I know you've had to learn coping mechanisms."

He shot out a dry laugh and shook his head, regaining his self-destructive confidence. "Knowing and living it are two very different things, Rosie."

"I'm sure they are," she said, touching his arm again. "I'm not saying I think it'll be easy; I know it won't."

"I know you think you know," he assured, back to pacing in his shoe-box-sized prison cell. "Just like all well-meaning people—not that I've run into many, mind you. They think they know. But until you live it, Rosie, day in and day out, you can't possibly know." He nodded a glare at her. "Right now, you're feeling like a sweet nurse, and no doubt you are, but by the time I'm done with you, you'll be driving me to the bridge. Or maybe you'll be driving yourself. Somebody sweet like you, you'll not be able to face the truth, that I'm more than you could handle, so you'll try and try and try,” he strained, “until you shrivel up into something you never imagined you'd ever be. Maybe you'll learn how to hate me, or maybe you'll become a hotline patient, secretly calling late at night because you've found yourself dangling from the very cliff you tried to save me from. Or maybe you'll just leave, you'll leave like any smart, intelligent person would."

"Stop it." Rosie shot out, squeezing his arm. "Just stop right there, dammit." She stared at him, incredulous, trying to figure out what part of his speech to argue with first. She started with her finger in the air. "For one. I am not a quitter. Two, I am not stupid."

"Yeah, you said," he reminded, like that was her most irrelevant argument. “And I believe you. I know you're not a quitter and that's why you'll allow yourself to be driven off the deep end. Some people aren't worth helping, Rosie. Some people are too far gone to reach." He held up both hands as though he was just the messenger.

She angled a look at him and drew her head back sharply. "Do you think I'm a saint? Do you think I don't have my own issues?" She poked her chest and nodded. "I have issues. I have a whole lot. How many have I told you about? None," she answered, not waiting. "Because I hide them. I hide them well. I know what issues are because I have plenty!" she hissed, wagging her finger sloppily. “Do not mistake my helpfulness, my, my, saintliness as oh so healthy and sound. I’m not healthy and sound. I can guarantee you that.”

"Oh, Rosie," he muttered, like he pitied her for thinking she actually knew what being sick really was.

"Don't you play my issues down, you don't even know! You think you know, you think that what, you looked at my sister, you learned a little about my mother, my family, and you think, aww, sweet little Rosie has mommy issues, well let me tell you,” she pointed at him. “I do have a shitload of mommy issues, and not the kind you think, either."

He finally eyed her and for the first time she saw it. Her angle in to pulling him out. Her having real issues. God help her she didn't want to even touch them, but if it meant helping him with his, she damn well would. She would plop them all out on the table and dissect the ugly mess just for him. "I would never play your issues down, Rosie," he whispered, his blue gaze softening back to the remarkable man that craved to love and be loved. The man she fell in love with before she'd laid eyes on him.

She took several steadying breaths and stepped closer. "I know you wouldn't." She slid her hands along his arms, over the muscles at his shoulders. "I know you would protect me. Do whatever it took to help me?"

"Yes," he whispered, his gaze roaming her face. "I would. Or die trying."

The sweet conviction in his words stirred her, and she stroked her fingers along his face, ending at his lips. "I can't think of a greater, more undeserving gift," she whispered. "Except ..."

"Undeserving," he barely whispered. His lips were suddenly on hers, hot and crushing. The unexpected urgency and passion stole her breath and caused her thoughts to swim. "Except what, Rosie," he demanded as his mouth left hers, a wet fire along her jaw. “How could you dare say you’re undeserving?”

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