Page 39 of Cuts Like An Angel: Part 3

Chapter Seventeen

William

It was hard not to stand outside and eavesdrop on Rosie’s conversation, even if it was only with her father. At least it wasn’t her mother, then William was certain he would have stayed there, just for the moral support, even though he could do nothing better than hold her hand during whatever verbal beating her mother had to give her.

When it was her father, sometimes the calls were normal, a father and daughter moment. From what William could gather, these calls happened when her mother wasn’t the oppressive presence in the room with him.

With a sigh, and a lot of reluctance, he closed the bedroom door and left Rosie to it while he went down to make them drinks. The good thing about not hearing half of her conversation was that he couldn’t be driven mad by the beating of questions his head would throw at him, to ask what was being said, and he wouldn’t pause every time her voice rose an octave, ready to storm in and protect her from the people who were supposed to love her the most.

It was a shame her mother couldn’t see her as an adult—as the woman she had grown into. She was kind, loving, independent, even if she didn’t agree half the time. But moving half way around the world, by herself, was something to be proud of. It was more than so many people achieved in their lifetime. Hell, so many people never make it out of the same lazy towns they grew up in. Why could her mother not be proud of Rosie and what she had done with herself?

When he was outside Maria’s door, he stopped for a listen, waiting for any sign of wakeful life on the other side. The television was on, but for a change, it didn’t blare out. He could only hear the muffled mechanical sounds of whatever she was sleeping to. It stilled him—an odd comfort of being a child. She’d always slept with the television on when he was growing up. Perhaps that was why he preferred silence—an inbuilt rebellion to her ways.

Rosie had suggested that Maria turned the volume up on purpose to annoy them—her—when they were home. It was possible. She had used it as punishment when he was a child, waking him at all hours with the loud television or loud music, and on the rare occasion, housework at ungodly hours. Sometimes she did it so many nights in a row that he became dysfunctional in the day, drifting off when people were talking, not forming words, or carrying out tasks like he was meant to. Then she’d hit him for it. She’d hit him because he was useless and lacked co-ordination.

He narrowed his eyes as if he could peer at her, centred himself and then walked away from her room and shut himself in the kitchen.

He didn’t flip on the main light. The way the house was, meant the light from the kitchen window would cast shadows against the small window of the lounge where Maria was. It was highly unlikely she would see it, but he wasn’t taking that chance. He wanted to know what Rosie’s father wanted, not listen to his mother bleating on about being woken in the middle of the night. The cupboards had lights under them, and he turned the light on over the counter where the kettle was.

He filled the kettle and put that on to boil. While he waited, he leant himself against the counter and listened to the faint murmurs of Rosie’s voice that carried through the silent house.

Outside, the temperatures had dropped, and ice crystals sparkled across the garden furniture where the dim light managed to touch them. There might be a frost soon, William hoped. Rosie had never seen snow. Not in real life at least. He wanted her to see that. He wanted her to see so many things.

Rosie had recently discovered the taste of hot chocolate with orange in it. How she could stand it was beyond him. It was tangy and too sweet for his liking, but then any chocolate and fruit made him grimace. He pulled out the tub, along with two mugs, but as he went to spoon Rosie’s orange chocolate powder into the mug, his hand froze halfway, and his eyes widened as his stomach clenched. The mug held a dark ring around the bottom where whatever drink had been in it previously had left its mark.

He grabbed another mug for Rosie—just the same. The inside was flecked with spots of tea or coffee and the odd crumb of whatever food clung to its sticky interior. He grabbed another cup, and another, and another one after that. All of them the same.

His heart quickened and he put the chocolate down. The spoon in his hand held a sticky residue on the handle. He opened the cutlery drawer. Spoons, forks, knives, all of them coated in varying things, butter, jam, bits of mashed potato from dinner, carrot. The prong of one fork even had a pea stuck on it. Impaled as if someone were planning to eat it and then changed their mind.

His hands grew clammy with every item he pulled out. His head swam with it as if some part of him was trying to separate himself, pulling at him, making that leap so what William was seeing wasn’t real. Plates, pans, bowls … all of them with bits of gravy on them, stains, dried egg. He jumped back and accidently knocked a plate off the side. It shattered beside him.

It crunched under his bare foot, biting into the skin, but he ignored it as he went to the dishwasher and flung open the door. He’d loaded it before going to bed and set the timer so it would be ready for him to empty when he got up in the morning. Always his routine, his slice of calm in the storm of the house.

The droplets of cold coffee swirled at the bottom of the machine, with the dribbling of other things. He backed away, feeling the way his chest tightened and his breaths became shorter. He backed all the way to the small table, not seeing Rosie’s bag there. He knocked it off and it tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents when it landed, including the tub she’d had her evening meal in. The lid cracked off and spilt out small pieces of pesto covered pasta. It smeared red across the tiled floor.

The door burst open, almost slamming into William, and Rosie dashed in. “Is everything okay? I heard a …” she trailed off, her eyes focusing on the kitchen which looked like unholy carnage had taken place. The shattered plate, her box on the floor, the open cupboards and cutlery drawer. Mugs splayed around the counters. “William …”

“Did you do this? Did you put them away like this?” His voice raised at the end, his throat constricting and making him have to force the words out.

“No. I …”

“The dishes are dirty. They’re all dirty.”

Freak, his mind threw at him. Stupid fucking freak.

He grappled for the back of the chair, for something solid to hang on to. The room might as well have been covered in the spray from a sewage plant. It was as contaminated now. Every ounce of the kitchen was dirty, crawling with germs.

“You didn’t empty it?”

“No. I … I just came upstairs when I came home. I …”

“I put it on before I went to bed. It might have been done when you got back.”

“I didn’t, William. I swear.”

She took another step closer to him, but she was like the rest of the room now, tainted, dirty, needing to be scrubbed and put back in order. He was like that too. His skin burning with it, with the pain of every dirty piece of crockery. He ground his jaw and forced a breath out, trying to pull in the echoes of Carly’s words when things like this happened.

Think logically. Pause, and think, and list the alternatives.

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