Page 1 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

Chapter One

William

William let his mind and soul sink into the soft curves of Rosie as she lay nestled beside him. The warmth of her against the cold of the room was enough to defeat the raging screams inside his head. Outside, the wind whipped up a storm, whistling down the side of the house like a crazed banshee begging to be let in. It did nothing for his nerves, making them press on him, playing with his overtired and overthinking mind.

He snuggled against her, pressing his face to the back of her head so he could inhale her sweet scent. Anything that would take his mind somewhere else—somewhere better.

She was his, his warrior, his shield, his loud-mouthed American with her heart firmly on her sleeve and a temper big enough for both of them. She was fierce and passionate—a tiny ball of perfection he wanted to keep beside him for always.

With Rosie, he could conquer the world.

Pushing himself against her sleeping form, he slid his hand down between their bodies to cup the sweet firmness of her buttock, grounding himself, so he didn't think about the whispering demon in his mind that fought for his attention and sacrifice.

It teased him with the imaginary feel of the blade against his skin—the first bite when the pain could be let out and then the dragging of it along his flesh. His skin itched for it. It raged with a fire under it, like every vein in his body was made from lava and he needed to open the skin just to set it free. Just one cut, one bite of his hidden blade and he could get it out, get it all out, but at what cost?

He took a breath, and his head felt like it was filled with cotton wool, all blocked and not processing anything. He could fight this. He could. He had so far. With every urge to purge his skin, he'd spoken to Rosie, and she'd pressed her hands to him and healed those parts that fought to stay broken.

She was his medicine.

Pressing his head back against the pillow, he clenched his fist tight and tried to push his mind to feel what it would be like to drag that blade along his skin. It was sweet and delicious, the unzipping and releasing of everything he held inside, but it was shame too, and defeat.

It was a hunger in him, a craving he was trying to starve, but every day, those dying shouts grew louder, they called to him, and he was so close to answering and giving them what they wanted so that they'd shut the hell up.

He brought Rosie’s face to his mind. She was his anchor. She’d never say she was disappointed, never say she was mad at him for it, but it stroked a sadness in her eyes each time she saw what he had done to himself, and each time, he’d see that look, he’d promised himself, never again.

His mind wrestled like it was something he was considering. It went from rationalising it all, to pushing it away. Why was it this way? If Rosie weren't there, he'd cut. It wouldn't be an issue, and it wouldn't matter. It didn't matter.

“Fuck sake,” he whispered to himself. He was like a drug addict needing his cocaine. He didn’t have to tell her. He’d hidden it before, why not again?

It was madness. He sucked in a breath and held it, but rather than exhale again, he kept the breath in until his focus grew hazy, and his pulse became a droning thump in his head. He put his hand to his face, rubbed at his eyes and exhaled against his palm.

Rosie stirred beside him. She opened sleepy eyes long enough to murmur at him. "Go back to sleep." She slid her hand up and along his bare chest and let it rest against his heart. His heart gave a thud, and he covered her hand with his own, holding her delicate small fingers in his and reminding himself why he had to stop this one-man pursuit of destroying what little there was left of him already.

He closed his eyes again and tried to do what she had said, sleep. It was a task in itself. The second his eyes closed, his mind leapt back into its vicious frenzy of thoughts. They swam and swarmed and beat at him with their relentless chatter. He was just a slave to them, a witness.

Rosie’s snores were light, long whispering breaths. He stroked a thumb across the back of her hand, leant closer to kiss her nose and then got himself out of bed. It was one thing for him to be awake all night, tossing and turning, but if one of them could get some sleep, it was going to be her.

He slipped on a pair of pyjama pants before leaving the room. The hallway was cold, icy almost. It nipped at his skin, the promise of cold coming with the turning season. The cars would be iced up again tomorrow, the windscreens needing to be scraped, but he liked the cold. He liked the way it touched his naked flesh. He could self-harm without doing any harm to himself.

It was even colder downstairs, and he yawned as he leant against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil. Four thirty in the morning, according to the clock above the oven. Too late to sleep now, but too early to do much. He could work, though. He always had that no matter what life threw at him.

The office was a little warmed. Mostly because it was a smaller room and the radiator at the wall was enough to warm the room and take the chill off. When he switched on the computer, he leant himself back in his leather chair and waited for the ancient thing to load. He closed his eyes for a second. They were so thick and heavy with sleep. Another yawn escaped, and maybe he’d be able to sleep like this. At least in here, his mind didn’t fall all over the place.

Last night’s work loaded when his machine had run through its usual start-up programmes. He’d been working on designing a flyer for an event at the local centre. Some charity, antiques thing they were holding. Junk, he’d told Rosie when they’d commissioned him to design it, but she'd smacked him on the arm and told him to get on with it.

Just staring at it now was enough to make him want to close his computer off again. It wouldn’t go right. No matter how he arranged the three images, or moved the words around, or changed the fonts, the damn thing was missing something. He cupped his coffee, letting the steam from it make his face clammy.

The door opened behind him, and the weight of the air in the room moved.

“Hey,” Rosie said.

He didn’t turn to look at her, just kept his hands on the mug and his eyes on the screen as if he could stare the image into submission.

His chair rocked a little when she stood behind him and leant over the back of it so she could wrap her arms around his chest. He stretched to reach into her. “It looks good,” she said.

“It looks like a piece of shit. I can’t get it to sit right.” He’d started and deleted the thing three times already. “I’ve got a week left to get this in. At this rate, they’ll be better off asking someone else.”

She kissed the top of his head, and he pressed her arm to his chest. “Is this why you can’t sleep? Why you’re up at such an ungodly hour?”

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