Page 14 of Cuts Like an Angel: Part 2

Chapter Seven

William

William rode away from the house forcing his head to think about where he was going. He had to. If he let himself, his mind would go to places he didn't know how to deal with just yet. To images of things he couldn't cope with ... to that picture.

He tried to stop focusing his thoughts on it, but his damn mind threw it at him every second it got. For her to carry it around in her handbag like that, it was important. He shook his head. You fucking idiot, it's her with a child that is clearly hers. Of course, it’s important.

He pulled his bike to a stop in his usual parking spot at the hospital. He came here so often that they should have had his name printed on the ground. "William the fuck up." Maybe he could suggest it to them. Reserved for that dumb shit.

He killed the engine and kicked out the stand, rocking his bike slightly to its side as he rested it there and engaged the steering lock. His bike was probably about the only thing that was good in his life. It was his, only his, and he had bought it with his own money. It was his little slice of freedom and a big slice of defiance. His mother hated motorbikes. She loathed them in fact, and vowed he would never be able to bring it to her house or she'd blow the fucking thing up. It made him smile sometimes when he thought about that. Especially when he took it home. There was nothing she could do about it now, was there?

As he pulled off his helmet and clipped it onto the side, he noticed the sky. Black, ugly clouds rolling. Muffled thunder detonated somewhere in the distance. The storm would come soon—the one inside his chest— always the same. He tried to hold on—tried his damn hardest not to fall into the pit inside that would suck him down and devour his soul until he had to take his blade release the pain from his flesh. He never won this war inside himself.

The rumbles and crashes of the real storm were above him, nudging at William’s unease—a warning sign in the sky that reminded him of the thunderous sound of his mother when she ran down the stairs, the sound of her night heels on the uncarpeted steps.

He took a breath, allowing the memory to filter into his mind. The memory of a child, listening to the direction of his mother’s steps. It never really mattered which way her steps went, both were just as bad. If they went far away, she was leaving for the night and he was trapt in the closet under the stairs, deadbolt thrown into place and the inability to realise that if he used the strength in his legs and leant back against the wall, he could have kicked it open. If her steps went out of the front door, he never knew how long she would be gone. With only his thoughts to keep him occupied and his fears to spike into his head, minutes felt like hours. Maybe it was hours. Sometimes she left for days; those were the worst. If he had been particularly naughty, and she couldn't stand to look at him, he'd be locked in there and she would go away. Shit, he'd be so fucking sorry and so pleased to see her afterwards that she'd have to peel him from her with his pathetic pleas and cries.

Fucking William.

If her steps took a right turn, it would depend on the tone of her shoes. Fast clicks meant that he was in for it and whatever he had done, she had let fester under that sea of bleach blonde hair and come to tell him so. If her steps were light, back and forth, then she was contemplating letting him out. But maybe the worst ones, were the steps that came his way, but took a turn to the kitchen. She would sit at the dining table not far away and the aroma of whatever she was eating or drinking would drift to him through the small gap under the door, pulling up hunger he had never known he could feel.

Yes, those were the worst sounds.

Thunder hammered at the afternoon sky, bringing promises with it. The electrifying scent in the air.

"Rain, rain, go away," he muttered to himself as he raised his face. "Come again another day."

The first warm splatter landed on William's cheek and he held his hand out. More droplets followed, big and soft and warm, like the splatters of blood ... comforting perhaps. At least when he was bleeding, she would stop and feed him.

He went over to the pay station and threw in his coin, pressing the button for it to spit out his ticket. He had no clue how long he would stay for. How long would it take for him to be gone and Rosie to decide that she was leaving him? This would be better, wouldn't it? She could go now before she got settled and found it harder, because when she found it hard, then that's when the bad things would start. The quick jibes at things he did wrong. The nit-picking. The glares he would get when she realised she had made a mistake. It was better that she had some time now to realise that for herself, than in a few months when the wrenching might tear away the last of his already torn-apart heart.

He walked into the hospital almost on autopilot now. He had walked it so many times that he could probably trace every scratch, every scuff along the green sterile floor. The room was the one before last, fifth on the corridor. This room was like the thing at night ... that creature at the top of the stairs. It hides in the darkness, ready to get anyone who comes.

She was the thing inside the room. The thing at the top of the stairs.

As he walked, he suddenly became aware of the sound of his steps on the linoleum floor. His trainers squealed, and at his last step, he dug his toes down to make the sound louder, but it faded out with the crashing thunder in the sky outside—thunderous crashes that rocked the walls.

She was sitting in the chair today, the one in the corner by the window. She had her back to him and didn't turn when he entered, even though he made no attempt to close the door quietly. She could go home soon, back to the home. Her hip—the broken hip. William shook his head every time he saw her and thought of it. Mere fucking bruises was all she had, and she had probably created those herself for some attention.

"You came," she said, as if she hadn't expected him to.

He didn't take the chair next to her. He was much too uneasy to allow himself to sit. Instead, he walked to the window and stood by her. Not looking at her, either, but staring out. It was raining fully now. Bursts of water coming down as the rays of sun pushed at the edges and tried to wrestle the clouds out of the way.

"Little bitch didn't want you?" Maria asked, the slight sound of glee at the end of her words.

He grimaced at the use of the word ‘bitch.’ She said it just to get a rise out of him. “She did. She is at home, unpacking,” he said.

Maria turned her head to look up at him. The spittle in the corner of her drooping mouth made her look like one of those monsters in the books he had read as a child. "Why are you here then? Shouldn’t you be with her playing happy houses?"

"I came to make sure you were okay.”

"Horseshit." The spittle sprayed from her mouth and onto her lap. She didn't notice it, but William did. He stared at the globule as it soaked into the tatty hospital issue yellow blanket. "I tell you William; I tell you all the time. You will come back to me. You always do. You know it."

"Maybe not this time," he said. The smell of shit suddenly hit him. She'd defecated herself again. A mixture of contempt and disgust roiled in his gut. What a waste of a life, given to the bottle and here she was now, the beautiful woman who had stolen everything from him. Who he had hated as much as he had loved, shitting in her own knickers and sitting in it until someone could come and clean her up.

And then part of him felt sorry for her. Sorry that this was her life and if she had just let him go, maybe that day wouldn't have happened. Maybe this wouldn't have happened.

He wondered if she still had the dent in the side of her head. There had been so much blood. So much ...

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