Cuts Like An Angel Read Online Free Page B

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