Cuts Like An Angel by Mason Sabre, Lucian Bane

and fall into that pit of obsession that would surely bring up the hurt and rejected William.
    Maybe the sound is off.
    He let himself check. Sound was on. He didn’t look at the screen, shoved it back into his pocket and out of sight. Each minute that passed moved painfully slow; another minute she didn’t reply.
    Probably didn’t want to.
    She’d not asked for your number. Probably didn’t even give the right one.
    He stood at the landing, holding the broken mirror wrapped in paper, his mind on his phone. He could ring the number, see if it connected?
    No.
    Maybe she was at work. No, sleeping. Yes, that was it. She worked nights, didn’t she? She was sleeping. Probably had her phone switched off like any normal person. But last night …
    He squeezed the paper in his hand, feeling the hard edges of the glass and chasing William away. No, she’d spoken to William last night. Not Josh. Maybe he could text her later and tell her that William was dead.
    The door to his mother’s room called to him with its still presence, the gloomy creature in the corner of his eye, beckoning him to come in and dance with the demons in there, to face what he had done. He forced himself past it, to the kitchen. This would be enough battle for today.
    He dumped the paper and glass into the trash. The first cupboard was filled with junk, useless, packaged, dried mounds of food. He took each item one by one, lining them up on the counter, checking the date. He paused, staring at all of it. He’d never eat this stuff again. Dine on these Just add water cuisines. He grabbed the rubbish bin and slid them in. And then—a man possessed with sudden clarity—he opened the next cupboard and pulled out the contents. Tins and packets, boxes so old that even the dead moths at the back had whittled away to nothing but shaped dust. All of it went. All of it. Cupboard after cupboard, he emptied them all until not a single item was left.
    He cleaned everything, working with bleach until his eyes and nose stung. Until the stench of life that had lived here—her life, William’s life—was erased. This place wasn’t for them anymore.
    He cleaned all the plates, washing them and stacking them in his new, sterilised cupboards. He worked meticulously, washing everything until every last moment of their existence was gone.
    He stopped when he reached the three drawers, two of them containing utensils. One for knives and forks and another for cookware, fancy spoons and gadgets that had never been used. But the bottom one held papers and bills. He spotted an old folder and pulled it out, stroking his thumb across the emblem of the school he had gone to.
    He opened it to the fake smile of the boy that had been here. Scrawny, lying eyes that shone with happiness he never really knew. A façade he had perfected. Always smiling, always happy, always the kidder. He tossed it into the trash.
    The phone in his pocket vibrated, making Josh jump and his heart thump.
    He stared at the name on the screen. Rosie.
    Hey, Josh. I’m free today if you want to meet up for a chat.
    God, he did. He so did. The kitchen wasn’t finished, and he couldn’t leave it half done like this; it would niggle at him. A bloody alarm in his head, in William’s mother’s wretched voice. Each item out of place, every piece of crockery signalling at him, judging him. Giving him that same fucking expression that she had. Why isn’t it done, William? Why? You’re useless.
    This afternoon? He typed defiantly, ignoring his mother’s words. He punched every damn letter in, each one of them another step to victory and another chain loose on his shackles. He hit send and waited.
    The message marked read instantly, and he watched. He waited. He gripped the phone tightly, eagerly anticipating that buzzing in his hand. And when it did, he held his breath, ready for the shunning, for the moment she would change her mind.
    Sounds good.
    He typed a few letters then deleted it. The Pepper Mill? At