Free Cuts Like An Angel by Mason Sabre, Lucian Bane Page B

speak and beckon him into unknown and dark places. His mother wouldn’t know—he’d still held onto that childish belief that she would actually save him from them, if she were there. Truth was, she wouldn’t. Years later, the silence had been replaced by sounds—noises that filtered into his room in the middle of the night—a room bare and tired, with nothing but a bed and a mattress, just a place where he could sleep. He’d hear his mother’s squeals; the breathless sounds of things he didn’t quite understand. Sometimes, he’d hear fabric ripping and the slapping of skin. All of those sounds came back to him, echoes of memories that had seared into his mind—William’s memories. He’d used blankets and pillows, anything that would block them out. But nothing had.
    The grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs chimed at the hour, startling him out of his musings. He raised his eyes to the mirror in front of him, seeing the worn out face, tired eyes and messy blond hair, uneven from his prior butchering. He saw the reflections of the boy that had been there once. The boy she had taken sometimes, when that guy … He shook his head. He wouldn’t remember his name, wouldn’t even say it in his mind. He didn’t deserve it.
    “It was you,” he said to his reflection. “You. All of it was you. Not her, not him. You.” His nostrils filled with the scents of the room, the scents of that night when his mother had summoned him. She’d been wearing nothing, her skin glistening in the night light, her femininity bared. William gripped the phone trying to crush it in his hand.
    “Look at your mother’s ….”
    Josh slammed his hands into the side of his head and scrunched his eyes shut, just as William had done that night. He doubled over, screaming into the empty house. No. He wouldn’t see it; he wouldn’t listen to those words or do as he was told.
    He stood himself up, eyes piercing the ones in the reflection. “I fucking hate you. It was all you. All you. Why did you do what?” He’d cut William out. He’d make him fucking leave. He’d kill him if he had to. He was no longer William.
    William was dead.
    Josh charged forward, face contorted, spit filling the corners of his mouth as he rained his fist down against the glass, smashing every shard, every piece of William’s face out of the frame, until only the red-stained cardboard behind the mirror was left. “I hate you so much,” he spat, collapsing to his knees on the pile of glass on the floor. The distorted reflection mocked him, laughed at him, pointed the blame back. “I’ll fucking kill you.” He snatched up a shard, his shaking hand pushing the jagged edge into his bare thigh. Electrifying pleasure raced through him. He let his head fall back, his mouth fell open as the glass silenced the evil in his skin.
    The cuts breathed air into his soul, releasing him from those mental binds—a man freed from the bars of his memories. He dropped the slick glass on the floor, blood dripping down his thigh.
    He found himself in bed with no memory of getting there. He sat up, his head weary and sluggish. He unfurled his stiff fingers. The phone … the phone in his hand. He had forgotten about it, lost in this world, this toxic place that was home. He reopened the message screen …
    He typed furiously and breathlessly, punching in each letter and stopping when he was done to stare at the message. He stared at the name. Josh … Josh, yes. William was gone. The boy who had done unspeakable things. That whore’s son. William was dead.
    Hey Rosie, it’s Josh. I am just messaging you about the helpline and vacancies.
    He hit send and threw it onto the side table before getting out of bed to dress. The kitchen would be his main hit today. He cleaned up the glass in his room. Cleaned up the bathroom … an easy feat. His mother hadn't been able to use it in a while … now she never would. He kept his phone in his pocket, refusing to check for a reply