Cuts Like An Angel (3 page)

It really was a sign.

Chapter Two

Rosie

Rosie stumbled, literally, out of the hospital doors and into the blinding arms of the 11:00 a.m. Tuesday morning. She squinted and paused, looking around. Shit, where had she parked? She scanned the parking lot, feeling like she’d been at work for twelve days, instead of twelve hours. Putting a hand over her brow, she shook her head. “Big dummy,” she muttered.

Her gaze paused at a guy sitting on the cement bench, next to the bus stop. In two seconds she realized he seemed familiar. She tried to place him just as he turned and locked gazes with her.
Crap
. The way he looked at her said she was right about knowing him. The stare became one of needing to recall who he was or glance away. Was he a fellow worker at the hospital maybe?  She decided to toss a wave and smile, because she was at stalker-weird staring point now.

Aaaaand
he didn’t wave back. Just … sat staring.  Ooookay. She hurried into the parking lot, embarrassed to hell, only to realize she’d still not located her car.

Dead tired, dead stupid, and dead dumb.
That’s the same as stupid, stupid.
She paused and stood for several seconds. The last shred of self-preservation gave her the bright idea to pretend to check her purse for something. Keys, look for your keys. She gazed around as though appreciating the gorgeous day just as her fingers touched on her sunglasses. She pulled them out and slid them on—officially out of stall time. At least the tint of the shades felt like a protective wall as she went back to locating her vehicle.

Where the Goddamn hell did she park? Geeze, he was probably staring at her. The notion suddenly produced a burning on her backside. She hoped to God her panty lines weren’t half way up one side of her ass.

She turned enough to put him in her peripheral vision. Not finding him, she causally swung her eyes right over the bench he’d occupied.

Oh my God. He’s not even there. You idiot.

She looked around the parking lot, again, and finally found her stupid Volkswagen.  She headed casually toward it; no hurry, no rush. Woman of confidence and leisure, that’s what she was. And no life.

Stop your whining. What you seriously need is a lick of self-esteem. Jacking love interests off a random guy who happened to randomly glance your way? Really? Correction: glance through you.

She unlocked her car, peeking one last time for any signs of the guy. Still none.

The dinosaur that lived in the door hinge, gave its tormented squeal as she opened it. She was glad he was gone, or else she’d have to find reasons to take forever just to not have to start that thing she called transportation.

Her Volkswagen was like that hole in your shoe—too big to hide. Or the sign over your life that said
Failure in progress.

“Or disaster waiting to happen,” she mumbled, turning the rear-view mirror her way and removing her sunglasses. “Oh, dear God,” she whispered at her reflection. “You look like the walking dead.” She gave a light snort at the puffy-lidded eyes staring back at her. “That’s why the man stared for more than a second. And why are you obsessing over a guy staring at you for a couple of seconds?” she mumbled to herself. “Quit talking to your reflection,” she added, turning the mirror away.  “You’re at the right place to go crazy, Rosie.” She shoved the key into the ignition. “Maybe if you went to one of the hundred parties they’re always having, you might have more than your reflection to talk to.”

Looking around the parking lot, she spied several people coming and going. Grabbing her purse, she pulled out her little personal calendar. She wasn’t about to try and start her car with an audience and finish off her already shredded ego.

She dug out her jumbo pen and clicked the top, opening the calendar to the spot needing another X. She marked it perfectly and counted how many days left before being promoted to a paid position. She already knew how many, but she had to count anyway. It did something for her—she wasn’t sure what, and had quit trying to figure it out.

The tiny pages popped out from under her thumb, and she stared at the
other
X’s.

The caller that never called back.

Don’t do it, Rosie. Just don’t. Even as she said it, she did it. She turned the pages to the first day when she’d started marking the calendar for him.
Don’t count. Don’t you count it.

But she did. She knew the numbers on that, too. As she counted, she felt it. The negative vibes of doom eating up the X’s she’d put on her good girl goal’s side.

Wow. She shook her head, amazed. Thirty days. When would she leave it? Accept he wasn’t going to ever call
ever
again?

She let her eyes close while shaking her head a little. Stupid dance in her stupid mind. She was sick and tired of hearing the fear of what could have happened, might have happened, likely had happened to him.

You know, he could have very easily gotten his second wind, Rosie. Your words could have helped him. He could be in a new life, starting over. That is just as plausible and possible as the other wretched scenarios you conjure up.

The attempt at positive thoughts only served up a burning pile of dread in the pit of her stomach. She stared at the taunting X’s. There were only twenty because she’d gotten pissed, and quit marking. She filled the empty squares to get it current, digging her pen into the squares. The ink skipped and she scribbled roughly on the side of the paper. Piece of shit. The ink returned, only to run out again on the next one.   She pounded the pen tip onto the book, making holes. This time she pressed hard enough to rip the X’s onto the squares, one after another until she’d completed all thirty, then threw the pen on the floor.

“See, I don’t give up,” she said to the calendar. “You know what? I don’t think you need to be in my life at all, messing up my schedule with your stupid no calling bull crap.” She ripped the pages out, then ripped them into pieces and threw them as hard as she could onto the floor. She ripped all the pages out now and slammed them to the floor, too. “You don’t own me,” she yelled, pointing at the mess. “You don’t make me or break me, I do.” She poked her chest a bunch. “You want to give up? Fine, you give up.  Just give up. It’s not my fault you’re not going to fight, Mister. That’s on you.”

She swiped away the stupid tears and glanced around, holding back the mountain of sobs.
Don’t even, Rosie. Don’t let go of your determination. Don’t let anybody decide shit for you. You’re in control here. No one else.

She eyed all the shredded paper on the floor and seat now. That was her life coming apart, ripping into shreds. She had nobody but herself to keep her on track. And getting off track was not a Goddamn
option
.

Wiping her runny nose on her shoulder, she quickly picked up the pieces of paper and began putting them in her purse. “Sorry, buddy,” she quipped at the ghost that had haunted her every waking night since he’d promised to
call.
“You said you would; you promised,” she whispered, shoving the last of the papers in. “Piece of shit,” she said to the paper. “You’re the piece of shit for
lying.
Lying piece of
shit.
And I’m taping all this back together later, because I’m holding your ass to your word. And I
will
mark the calendar. I will mark until you do what you said. I will X up a hundred calendars until I’m ninety-nine years old,” she finished in fair warning.

She took hold of the key in the ignition and began stomping on the gas pedal, forgetting to count the ten pumps required to start the engine. Turning the key, she held it through the waaa-waa-waaa-waaa-waaa. At the first sign of sputtering and choking, she ramped her foot pumps to climactic speeds, forcing the junk-bucket to life. It felt more and more like beating an elderly man every time she started her vehicle, and today … she didn’t really care. She would so beat anything right now.

She eyed the white plume of smoke in the rear-view mirror, cursing at it while bracing for the canon-sized backfire that often came. Go ahead, what’s another hole blown into her ego. Fuck all of it.   

Usually she parked at the edge of the lot with the butt of the car near the bushes. Better to asphyxiate the shrubberies than the people, had been her thought. Then it occurred to her that she was probably killing the foliage. Being the ever faithful servant to all life forms, she parked at different locations to give the shrubs a chance to heal from the toxic abuse she put on them. Plus, the last thing she needed was to have to pay for landscaping in addition to the rent, food, gas and utilities she couldn’t afford.

The car finally idled past the point of backfiring and she let out a shaky sigh with eyes closed. Wow. How many people suffered anxiety attacks just starting their cars? That was okay. She’d get that promotion. First thing she’d do was fix this thing, then she’d pay six months in advance on her rent. And buy fresh meat and vegetables. She couldn’t remember the last real meal she’d had. The cafeteria food was her salvation, allowed her to save her pennies, and oftentimes that was the only place she ate. Probably why she was emotionally raw and on the edge. She’d eaten herself right into mineral deficiencies.

She pulled out of her parking space, gunning the engine to keep it from dying as she went. The food thing was no big deal. She’d just eat herself back to health again.

Chapter Three

William

William absently rubbed his hand over the sleeve of his jacket. It wasn’t even his jacket and that was part of the problem. It itched and chafed against his skin, protesting that it was not his and had an owner, somewhere out there. His own jacket was at the bottom of the river somewhere, and his shirt? Well, that was probably torn to shreds and being used to wipe up piss and vomit in one of the geriatric wards. Or even better, the morgue. Not that the dead could vomit.

He sighed at himself. It didn’t really matter. He didn’t have his own clothes—he didn’t have his own jacket. This jacket was a donation from the lost property box. Everything he wore was from there. He’d done his days in second-hand clothes—hand-me-downs that never really fit properly, already stretched out to the shape of someone else’s body. He’d sworn to never again wear clothes from the local flea market. Karma this was. A big fat slice of it.

He cast his eyes skyward, feeling the difference in this day. The disapproving notions that usually permeated his thoughts were missing “You can’t keep me here if I don’t want to stay,” he murmured, just to make it clear to whomever might be up there. This day was his choice. Living was his idea. He wasn’t waiting for answers, or a sign, or something that let him know he was being heard, anymore. Nobody heard him. Not all those years ago, not all those nights when he had pleaded to be allowed to die. Today and tomorrow were his to decide.

He shoved his hands into the coat pockets and his fingers hit the hospital wallet. His heart raced as he touched the very reason he’d chosen to live. It sat right there in the form of a slip of paper. A slip of real heaven named Rosie.

He pulled at the waistband of the trousers, the legs of which reached above his ankles and made him look like an idiot. He pushed the waist down as far as he dared, hoping to give some inches at the bottom and hoping he didn’t look as retarded as he felt.

He spotted a bench and sat on it, his file in hand.
Discharged
. It seemed a lifetime since he had admitted himself. The night … that night. So much of a distant memory now. Everything had changed. He had changed. He had clarity. All of those talks with Carly and Dr Broadhurst had helped him because he’d let it—because he’d
chosen
to let it. It had only been a month, yet everything was different. He didn’t remember ever choosing to live. He didn’t remember ever wanting to. The change was so massive he’d not have been surprised to look out and see that cars could fly, or that people sat in chairs and hovered above the ground. His old life was worlds ago.

But she wasn’t a lifetime ago. She was today. She was this second, this instant. And she was tomorrow if he played everything just right.

He looked around at the people going about their usual business. Of course the world around him was all the same. The same boring people walking the same boring way. Never understanding life. Never understanding what was meant of them. The same complaints, the same disappointments. Though he had moved on to another place in his mind, everyone else had stayed behind. Did they not get sick of it? Did they never realise that most of their complaints and ailments were nothing more than bullshit—
their
bullshit? They wouldn’t know hardship if it came along and bit them on the arse.

He leaned back on the bench, arms of the jacket pulling tight at his broad shoulders, constricting him. He’d be out of these clothes soon. He’d be home, and then he could change and dump them all. His house—God, what state was that in? He closed his eyes and imagined going to his room, locking the door and lying down on his bed. He’d have peace now. No more fighting. No more banging on the wall at 3 a.m. Just him and the house to himself.

He stretched his legs out, no longer caring about the way the trousers rose up, revealing bare legs and bare ankles. He’d drawn the line at second-hand socks and wasn’t for the life of him going to wear those stockings any longer. At least the shoes were his.

Those stocking ... He patted the pocket, checking that one stocking was still there. The one with the medication in it. Medication that was meant to make him sleep. He’d need them another time … if he made other choices about living. They were his back-up plan.

His shoes were scratched at the front and one of the laces had frayed. His mother would be mad if she could see it. He scoffed at the thought. It didn’t matter any longer, did it? She couldn’t see a damn thing. She couldn’t do a damn thing. He’d finally seen to that. She’d never control him again.

The ache in his neck and shoulder started, the reminding tug of his life and everything that went with it. William let his eyes close again, letting Carly’s words seep in.
Focus on the breath
.
Feel it. Feel it go in. Feel it expand your chest.
Grounding exercises. When his mind stopped racing and thoughts of his mother were cast aside, he let his eyes open slowly, letting the calm flow though his body and releasing the tension that only his mother could bring.

His gaze landed on a woman and his heart resumed a mad hammering pace.
It was her
. She was right there. His mind back-pedalled, his thoughts taking a dive that created chaos in his head. He could hardly believe she was right there, and he was right there. In the same moment in time. Another sign.

She balanced files in one arm, a bag on the other shoulder. She darted around like a scared rabbit on a mission.
I’m late.
The phrase echoed through his mind as he watched her in silent awe. She stopped for a moment and his stomach clenched, but he couldn’t peel his eyes away. She was going to turn around. She was going to see him and know
… It’s the guy from the crazy place
.

Then she did. She turned, and her eyes landed right on him, locking with his and sending his mind into a frenzy—conflicted between wanting to hide so that she couldn’t see him, couldn’t see what a waste of space he was, and the hunger to see her, really see her. The one who brought about more than just feelings of sorrow in his heart; the one that gave him a reason why. He’d stare at her all day if he could. It was just like last night when she had met his gaze. She looked at him in a way he couldn’t explain. Not like she was seeing him, seeing William sitting on the bench, but that she was seeing
him,
the real him. The way she’d seen him on the phone that night without ever laying eyes on him. The way she had touched him without touching, heard him when he’d barely said a word.

She lifted her hand and waved at him. Why was she waving? She felt sorry for him? She was probably waving at the guy behind him even though he was sure there was no guy there.  It would be pity more than anything. That’s all it could be. He didn’t wave back. No one as beautiful as her would care to make contact with someone like him. Not after what he had done. No one would ever wave at William.

They all laugh at you. Do you know that, William? No one likes you really.

William shook his head, shook away his mother’s words. “I’m not listening. You’re wrong.” Even now, when she wasn’t there to say those things any longer, they rang through his mind, cackled out between yellow, rotting teeth. From a face that had once been beautiful, too. From sunken grey eyes that used to shine so blue. He had done that to her—she had told him that often enough.

William fought to stop the thoughts, stop the things that had driven him to call the helpline that night. This was a new life. He’d left that. He’d chosen to live.
I’d have been better without you. I was good until you came along and tore my womb from me.

She turned away then. William felt like he’d been yanked from life support as he watched in dead space. Everyone turned away. They would always turn away. She rummaged in her bag, probably disgusted at what she’d just seen. She’d seen that he was nothing.

He got up abruptly, needing to get away. He’d walk home. He wouldn’t wait for the cab. He had no one to call. No one to ask to help him. And that’s how he liked it. It was better that way. No one could leave when you were already alone.

Fuck, what was he doing? What was he thinking? This was not the plan; this was William’s pathetic plan of non-existence. He wasn’t that man anymore; he was reborn. He was Josh. She’d never be interested in William, that was true. But he wasn’t that person. He was a man with a purpose. A man with courage and confidence.

He raced over the path to where the buildings were and snuck behind a pile of bricks and timber ready for construction.

He found a safe spot from which to watch her. She was lost, wasn’t she? She looked lost. She pulled a pair of sunglasses out of her bag and put them on. The sight of it brought a smile to William’s lips. Such a simple action, but it warmed something inside of him. There was something innocent in the way she looked around her. It made him need to go help her.

She glanced back to the bench where he had sat before, and she seemed to stare for a moment at the vacant spot. When she walked over to her car and paused before getting in, William ducked out of sight. What was he doing? What the hell was he doing? Like a bloody stalker. He listened hard and only when he heard her close the car door did he dare to pop his head out and look.

She had taken her glasses off and was staring at herself in the mirror. William couldn’t keep the smile that teased the corners of his mouth. She seemed to be telling herself off for something. Whatever it was, it looked serious.

Her head bobbed, then she looked down at something in her lap, tilting her head as she did so. William couldn’t see what it was that had her attention, but then she yanked some papers up, her face twisting as she tore them. Maybe it was a love letter. Maybe she had thought he was someone else when she had waved.

He watched as she wiped her eyes, but then … she got mad … At what, he couldn’t see. She was crying and talking, but no one was there. God, she was fascinating. He leaned closer, almost giving himself away, but he couldn’t stop himself. He needed to see her. She was the one. He knew it. It felt right.

He pulled the leaflet out from the wallet and turned it over. He’d call them when he got home and set up an interview. That was how these things worked, right? It was voluntary stuff. They didn’t turn anyone away no matter what they had done, and they didn’t need to know about his mother. Or William. No one would. She couldn’t talk and spill her shit about him like she used to, warning them all about her son—yelling at people at how evil he was. They’d not know about him being in the hospital. Josh was there, not William. William could stay lost now. William was gone. He’d gone that night. Josh was the one now; Josh would do this. William had walked in that night, all bloody and messy. But it was Josh that walked out, whole and free.

The woman in the car wiped her face across her shoulder as she started the car. If he could just go over and knock on her window to ask if she was okay. Wouldn’t a normal person do that? The car spluttered, yelling its protest as she turned the engine over and over. William held his breath. This was it. Another sign. God stopping her car so that he could go to her.
Go and help the woman to start her car.
He could start a conversation with her.
Yes. Yes. That was it
. But how? He could work that out afterwards.

He took a step and the engine turned over and started. Shit. No, it was a sign. All of it was. She needed the car fixing. He could do that.

She drove out of the parking space, stopping and checking the mirrors. This was his chance. Maybe the only one he had. He’d asked for help and now here it was. He just had to take it.

She pulled out onto the side road and headed in his direction. He leaned out, letting his file slip from his hands onto the road, spilling its contents. She’d not hit him. Not if this was meant. He dashed after the mess, glancing at her, making sure to make eye contact. She wasn’t going so fast. The car park had a 10 mph limit. No one was going to die getting hit at that speed. He saw the widening of her eyes as she slammed her foot on the brakes, bringing the car to a halt just before him. She sat gripping the steering wheel, looking petrified. William offered an apologetic nod at her and raised a hand. As he crouched down to retrieve the papers, he smiled.

He’d done it.

He’d stopped the car.