Read Online Cuts Like An Angel by Mason Sabre, Lucian Bane - Free Book Online
Authors: Mason Sabre, Lucian Bane
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shaking his head. “You’re dead to me. You need to be dead.” He opened the cabinet, pulling out his mother’s small, black scissors and reached for his hair. It had got long these last months—dark blond and dirty looking. He pulled one of the longer parts and set about it with the scissors. He didn’t stop until the sink was filled with dirty blond curls. “I hate you,” he said.
Without thinking, he opened the scissors and lay the blade against his arm. He pressed it down, his eyes on his reflection as he pulled the blade slowly along his skin. He watched the relief in his expression, utter peace as the blade cut, peeling open flesh and letting out the pain that his skin contained.
Peace, calm, solace. All of it rolled through him like a comforting hand touching his soul. Each cut was more freeing than the last. A sheer moment of bliss brought on by the burn in his flesh. “Oh God,” he murmured, his mind delirious from the onslaught of pleasure. He stopped when the last cut was at the crook of his elbow, his hand slick with his blood. It ran into the sink; into the discarded hair. He raised his eyes slowly to his reflection and smiled. The world around them both so still, like the calm of the water before the stone is thrown.
He showered and brushed his teeth., then turned out the light and went to his room. Closing the door, he locked it behind him and sat down on his bed. There, on his nightstand, was the piece of paper she’d given him. Rosie … He picked it up and stared at her name, at the way she curled her letters, the delicate way she wrote them. He didn’t know her, but … he needed to. She needed him. He’d call her soon. Call and make that appointment to work at the office. Josh could do it. He was the kind of man who could do these things. Josh was confident … Josh would call.
William climbed into bed. He didn’t close his curtains; he never did. It felt like he was closed in when they were shut, and he’d had enough of being closed in anywhere. In his bed, he could watch the night sky, he could escape whenever he needed it. He closed his eyes and let himself drift off.
The rain was heavy against the window, but the rat-a-tat-tat was more rhythmic than annoying. It had a calming facet to it. William watched the droplets on the glass as they slid down idly, like tiny water warriors on the glass. One droplet landed, clinging until the one above lost its grip and slid down the window pane, taking others with it. Sometimes a new droplet would land directly onto the one clinging for presence, for its space, the territory that belonged to it—only for a moment. Like people in his life … coming, going, never really clinging on.
The rain—mother nature’s song if anyone cared to listen, the music of her heart. Rain water falling, echoes in the otherwise silent night. The rain fell from the drains at the edge of the roof, the guttering overwhelmed from all the storms they’d had recently. The night almost cried for him—tears that he could no longer weep himself. Tears for the boy under the stairs.
The water flowed, echoing into the empty alleyway below at the side of the house—tiny tin drums of nature’s orchestra.
In the garden, his mother’s tulips held cups of water, bowing only when overburdened by the weight of it and then spilling over.
The notes of the night song played through the darkness, and soothed William’s skin. He raised his arm, staring at it with the moonlight that came in through the window. He traced his fingertips along each cut, some new, some old—all of them holding the invitation to play in mother nature’s band. He could bring the painful edge to the music, the part of the song that made you cry.
He slid his phone off the nightstand. 3:30 a.m. … again. Always this time.
Before he knew what he was doing, he swiped his finger across the screen, opening the world to him with a smear of blood from his fresh wounds. He flicked to the keypad and pressed
Without thinking, he opened the scissors and lay the blade against his arm. He pressed it down, his eyes on his reflection as he pulled the blade slowly along his skin. He watched the relief in his expression, utter peace as the blade cut, peeling open flesh and letting out the pain that his skin contained.
Peace, calm, solace. All of it rolled through him like a comforting hand touching his soul. Each cut was more freeing than the last. A sheer moment of bliss brought on by the burn in his flesh. “Oh God,” he murmured, his mind delirious from the onslaught of pleasure. He stopped when the last cut was at the crook of his elbow, his hand slick with his blood. It ran into the sink; into the discarded hair. He raised his eyes slowly to his reflection and smiled. The world around them both so still, like the calm of the water before the stone is thrown.
He showered and brushed his teeth., then turned out the light and went to his room. Closing the door, he locked it behind him and sat down on his bed. There, on his nightstand, was the piece of paper she’d given him. Rosie … He picked it up and stared at her name, at the way she curled her letters, the delicate way she wrote them. He didn’t know her, but … he needed to. She needed him. He’d call her soon. Call and make that appointment to work at the office. Josh could do it. He was the kind of man who could do these things. Josh was confident … Josh would call.
William climbed into bed. He didn’t close his curtains; he never did. It felt like he was closed in when they were shut, and he’d had enough of being closed in anywhere. In his bed, he could watch the night sky, he could escape whenever he needed it. He closed his eyes and let himself drift off.
The rain was heavy against the window, but the rat-a-tat-tat was more rhythmic than annoying. It had a calming facet to it. William watched the droplets on the glass as they slid down idly, like tiny water warriors on the glass. One droplet landed, clinging until the one above lost its grip and slid down the window pane, taking others with it. Sometimes a new droplet would land directly onto the one clinging for presence, for its space, the territory that belonged to it—only for a moment. Like people in his life … coming, going, never really clinging on.
The rain—mother nature’s song if anyone cared to listen, the music of her heart. Rain water falling, echoes in the otherwise silent night. The rain fell from the drains at the edge of the roof, the guttering overwhelmed from all the storms they’d had recently. The night almost cried for him—tears that he could no longer weep himself. Tears for the boy under the stairs.
The water flowed, echoing into the empty alleyway below at the side of the house—tiny tin drums of nature’s orchestra.
In the garden, his mother’s tulips held cups of water, bowing only when overburdened by the weight of it and then spilling over.
The notes of the night song played through the darkness, and soothed William’s skin. He raised his arm, staring at it with the moonlight that came in through the window. He traced his fingertips along each cut, some new, some old—all of them holding the invitation to play in mother nature’s band. He could bring the painful edge to the music, the part of the song that made you cry.
He slid his phone off the nightstand. 3:30 a.m. … again. Always this time.
Before he knew what he was doing, he swiped his finger across the screen, opening the world to him with a smear of blood from his fresh wounds. He flicked to the keypad and pressed
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