Glass Cutter

After Delilah’s Halloween party, I had been fairly confident that Oliver, as well as everyone else, wanted to pretend it never happened. As far as anyone had been concerned or would talk of, Oliver Sykes hadn’t slapped his ex-girlfriend across the face; he hadn’t confessed to me about snorting heroin; and the words, “I love you,” had never left his lips.

At first, I’d been a little weary about this consensus of ignorance, but when the town had allowed Oliver and I to still be friends with not much more rustling than before, I had decided it wasn’t a bad thing. I’d especially grown to like the way he’d meet up with me between classes, scoop me away during lunchtime, and brush my hair behind my ears in front of the rest of the world; and while some of it unnerved me, it mostly made me happy.

It was Oliver’s birthday, and he held my hand tightly as we walked up the sidewalk to my front door, chuckling. “What a day,” he murmured, smiling. We had spent the entire day at his house, watching movies and eating as much food as we could physically fit into our stomachs, and it was a nice day—entirely sober and comfortable.

I nodded, grinning back to him. “Well, I’m thankful for getting to spend your birthday with you. I’m really honored you asked me to.”

He simpered and gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad I got to spend it with you, too, Amanda. It was all I wanted.” He softly kissed my knuckles.

I opened the front door to my living room, feeling goosebumps rise from my skin, and peered around, suddenly dumbfounded. It took me a moment to realize what exactly had happened—or, rather, what looked to have happened—but when the words, “What the fuck?” came from Oliver, I knew my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

The couch had been flipped over with multiple holes stabbed into it from what appeared to have been a large knife; the legs on the coffee table had been broken off—one poked into the 26-inch TV screen, two dangling from the window curtains, and the other stabbed into the wall beside the doorframe to the kitchen; the two picture frames my mom had kept on top of the TV, one picture of my father and one of me, had been smashed, the picture with me half burned; and spray-painted in large, black capitals letters on the cream-colored walls was whore.

Upon the sight, I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to the mess, but I felt my eyes immediately get hot. I didn’t know who whore had been meant for—my mother or myself—but neither were a sign of something good.

My mom came stumbling out from the kitchen, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of rum on the rocks in the other, and her sight was almost worse than the living room. Her hair was teased, messed up as if someone had been yanking on it over and over again; her white tee-shirt was torn in a number of places, making her lack of a bra evident; she was missing her pants, giving the world a scene of her bright red boyshorts; and there were multiple bruises discoloring her thighs and one of her eyes.

She laughed at my arrival, holding her drink up, and sucked a drag from her cigarette. The rest of my body burned with my eyes. The heat of my embarrassment was almost worse than the heat of my offense.

“Mom, what happened?” I asked quietly, my throat dry.

“Who’s this?” she slurred instead, smiling at Oliver. “He’s cute.” She grinned, swallowing some more of her drink and spilling some onto her shirt.

I took my hand from Oliver, who remained quiet, and stormed over to her. I snatched the drink from her hands, along with the cigarette, and demanded some answers once again; “What happened to our house? Who destroyed the living room, and who did this to you?”

She looked down at her thighs, still smiling stupidly, and rubbed a hand over one of the larger purple marks. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you.” She giggled, trying to take her cigarette back, and she leaned against the doorframe for support once realizing it wasn’t hers to take anymore.

Oliver took the drink and cigarette from my hands after seeing my body begin to tremble and walked into the kitchen to discard of the two.

“Mom!” I shrieked, my voice cracking. “Tell me what happened right now!” I felt the tears spill onto my cheeks. I wasn’t sure if she sincerely knew what had happened to our house or herself, but the frustration literally burned inside me. I felt like I was going to throw up.

“Deputy Cole is on his way,” Oliver murmured as he led my mom to lean against the couch. “Stay here.” He walked to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, handing it to her.

She smiled stupidly as I stood there in silence, my entire body frozen with fear, and said, “I like this boy, Amanda. He’s a cutie.” She stroked his cheek with a hand covered in dried blood, and he stepped away, closer to me.

I swallowed hard and heard the faint sound of the sirens around the block. I knew Deputy Will Cole would come into my house, question what happened, and I wouldn’t have an answer. I was at an utter loss for words, and I couldn’t find the anger in me for my intoxicated mom, couldn’t even find it for whoever destroyed my living room.

The sight of Deputy Cole in my house with his partner, Officer Lou Smith, the sight of the ambulance pulling up my driveway shortly thereafter, the sight of my mom staggering out in one of the EMS’ embrace—it all seemed surreal, like I was watching it in a movie. The feeling of Oliver’s arm around my waist as we watched the ambulance pull away and the cop car disappear over the horizon—it felt distant, like it wasn’t really my body he was touching. Even when I agreed to let him drive to the hospital to make sure my mom was okay, it seemed like it was someone else okaying the decision—because I would’ve never agreed to something so embarrassing had I been myself.


The hospital smelled like rubbing alcohol and Dial soap, and everything was such a bright white that it seemed like it all might’ve been dipped in bleach. The only splat of color was the brown doors evenly spotted down the halls, all perfectly distanced from another equally. The place was eery and bothersome, even as Oliver’s hand clutched tightly to mine.

We entered into my mom’s room, the faint light of dusk peeking through the blinds of the square, barred windows, and her body lay recumbent in the white sheets, her bruised arms above the thin blanket with an IV taped over the inside of her right elbow.

I took a deep breath, finally feeling some form of reality seep back into my conscious. It was suddenly very real that someone had been in my house and vandalized it; it was suddenly very real that my mom had been committed to an emergency room of Menlo Overlook Medical Center; and it was very real that Oliver was standing beside me quietly with dark bags beneath his eyes to tell me of his exhaustion when he wouldn’t.

“I don’t know who would do something like this,” I finally whispered, my throat dry.

“Your mom knows,” Oliver answered quietly. “She’ll tell someone eventually.”

I nodded and took a deep breath, my exhale growing shaky.

Oliver pulled away, and the soft scratch of wooden chair legs against linoleum floor tiles sounded. I peered over to him as he slid a gray, cushioned chair behind my legs and gave him a weak smile as I sat down.

“You don’t want to sit?” I asked.

He shook his head and leaned against the armrest. “Go to sleep. I’ll let you know if she wakes up.”

I closed my eyes and began breathing deeply. There was something very odd about accompanying my mother in the hospital, and it wasn’t the fact that Oliver Sykes was at my side. It was the fact that I cared enough about her to even be there in the first place. For years, I had been pretty sure I hated my mother; but there she was, in a time of need, and there I was, aiding her as best as I could. It seemed a little backwards because there was nothing fake about my time with her. Occasionally I’d go into public with her, and the smile I’d wear on my face was always guiltily painted on; but I never thought I’d genuinely care about her. She and I both had Oliver Sykes to thank for that newfound spark.

Oliver must’ve thought I was asleep because after a long while, he gently kissed my forehead and got up from the armrest. I listened to the soft tap of his footsteps lead out of the room; and oddly enough, even in my sleepy state, I had a fairly good idea of where he was going.

I walked out of the room shortly after him and caught the last glimpse of his frame turning a corner, his long legs carrying him almost magically in a smooth stride. I continued following and rounded the corner of the long hall just in time to see him turn into a room, closing the door behind himself.

My heart began to race as my hand lingered over the silver doorknob. I knew Oliver would’ve wanted his privacy, but the curiosity gnawed at my gut. I wanted to meet her, the woman that had given life to such a beautiful human being.

I twisted the knob and inched into the room. Oliver didn’t even budge as I tiptoed to the side of the bed next to him. His arm wrapped around my waist effortlessly, with not a single word said, and we stood there for a long time in silence.

His mother was a thick woman with a lot of wrinkles on her pale face. Her dark hair was just about the same color as her son’s, but gray roots had grown about two inches from her scalp. The sheet that had been kicked halfway off her body exposed dark hair on her legs and a lot of cellulite on her thighs, but in that moment, I didn’t find myself criticizing her appearance the way I thought I might’ve. In that moment, I felt sorry for Ms. Sykes because everyone in Menlo knew what was wrong with her and why she was in the intensive care unit; and in that moment, I wanted to just hold her hand and tell her that everything would be okay, that everything had to be okay eventually.

“Every time I don’t go to school,” he suddenly whispered, “it’s because I get myself so obliterated after visiting her.” He cleared his throat. “It kills me to see her, but I can’t not. It’d break her heart if I stopped.”

I bit down on my lip and swallowed hard. Oliver and I had similar issues, but we just handled them differently. I preferred to overwork myself to the point where I’d get so exhausted that I couldn’t think, and he preferred to do drugs to the point where he wouldn’t even be coherent.

I wrapped my own arm around his waist and buried my head into his chest, remaining silent. There wasn’t much I could say, but I hoped he’d continue talking so I could finally hear the story about his family from his own mouth, rather than the story that had just been a rumor spread like a disease throughout the town.

“But sometimes, even the drugs don’t feel like they fix any of it,” he added quietly after a long while.

I nodded and kissed his collarbone through the wool of his navy sweater. I could hear his heart racing, and I hoped my affection would make him feel better.

“She’s been in the hospital for almost a year, since right after my eighteenth birthday. Great birthday present, right?” He scoffed a little, more like a mocking laugh. “It’s just the way life goes, though, I guess.

“I never wanted to believe there was a purpose to life because a lot of times, I’d think about killing myself. I’d think about how ending my life would end all the pain and frustration and shit; but then when you told me that we all have a purpose in life, even if we never discover it, it kind of opened my eyes to real life, you know? I thought I had all the answers, but then you made me realize that I guess I don’t.”

He laughed through his nose, a very soft, somewhat voiced exhale. “I always thought I was really smart ’cause of my memory and whatnot, but I guess remembering everything that ever happens in your life doesn’t really make you such a smart guy after all.”

I felt my mouth open a little in amazement. I had never known that Oliver could remember everything in his life, but it all made a lot of sense—the way he knew all about chemistry, the way he remembered each time I’d get a defensive posture with him, et cetera.

As if he could read my mind, he went on; “It’s called hyperthymesia—what I have. I remember everything...unfortunately even when I’m fucked up.” He kissed my forehead and stroked my arm.

I pursed my lips, peering back down at his recumbent mother. I wanted to ask him more about his memory, but it wasn’t the right time.

“When was your mom first diagnosed with cancer?” I asked quietly.

“October thirty-first of last year.” It was so matter-of-fact.

“Does she still go through chemo or anything?” I wanted to ask how she still had hair on her body, but I didn’t know a way to ask politely.

He shook his head. “She went through it for about three months before she told the doctors to go fuck themselves. She’s taking it the natural way, but she’s in a lot of pain—even if she says she’s not.”

I nodded, frowning a little. I could tell from the crease between his eyebrows that he truly loved his mother, and the pain I could read in him physically caused an ache in me that I couldn’t quite describe. I felt sad because someone I knew was suffering, but the sadness was so potent that it felt like my own, like I was the one suffering; and it was in that moment, that short, little moment of maybe a second, that I became even more convinced that I truly did love Oliver Sykes.

“I think I know who fucked up your mom,” he suddenly whispered.

I looked up at him. “What?”

He continued looking down at his own mother. “Delilah’s dad was outside your house just before we got there.”

“How do you know?” I asked. I felt disbelieving, but a fragment of my thoughts knew that Oliver wouldn’t have been lying. I hadn’t felt Menlo’s marks in my mind for a while, but they came back in that moment simply because I didn’t want to believe that my best friend’s dad had laid a hand on my mother.

“He drives a black Beamer, and his license plate is Q-Y-Z-eighty-one-R,” he answered softly. “His car was parked down the street when the ambulance came to pick up your mom; and I smelled cloves in your house, which I remember him always smoking every time I’d go over their house.”

I swallowed hard, feeling a lump in my throat. “But why would he hurt her?” Mr. Weston was my mom’s best customer.

“I don’t know.”

I squeezed myself closer into him and buried my face into his chest, feeling the indent of his sternum beneath my nose. His Old Spice deodorant and the faint smell of cigarettes lingered in the thread of his clothes, and despite being in a hospital room with his dying mother, despite knowing that my mother might’ve been assaulted by the father of the girl I called my best friend, despite all of it, I felt complete in Oliver’s embrace. I wanted things for our mothers to get better, but a small part of me still felt comfortable knowing that things for us were okay; and maybe that was selfish, but I loved him, and having that emotion of complete and total care made it a little hard to feel sad sometimes.

“We’ll make him pay, Amanda, don’t worry,” he whispered into my hair; and it was then that I realized Oliver didn’t have to tell me all the time that he loved me—because as we stood in a hospital room with his mother on her last threads of life, he was more concerned about comforting me.


A couple of days had passed since Oliver’s birthday when Thanksgiving came around. My mother had surprised me the next day when she’d come home from the hospital by asking me to invite “my boyfriend” over for Thanksgiving dinner; but as I got ready for Oliver’s arrival the day of, the surprise slowly left me, and excitement started to take over. I had never had a “boyfriend,” per se, to bring home, and despite the resentment I usually felt for my mom, it made me forget those feelings to know that she cared enough to want to meet the boy that made me a complete person.

I felt a little foolish in a black high-waisted pencil skirt, a gray three-quarter sleeve sweater, and gray booty heels, but with my dad, it had been a tradition to dress up for the holiday and have company over; and despite how company had stopped coming over following his departure, my mother and I still seemed to find comfort in dressing up for ourselves.

I walked down the stairs with knots in my stomach and heard the sound of simmering oil in the kitchen. In the day that my mom had been home, she’d managed to tear down the curtains, toss the busted TV set, flip the couch back so it was upright, and paint over the black letters on our wall.

Something was strange about her since she’d gotten back home, but I welcomed the difference. For years, I had been used to her staying out of my business and the two of us conversing really only when necessary, but she was different when I’d brought her back home the day before Thanksgiving. We spent the car ride talking about Oliver, rather than in silence, and she came up to my room just before midnight to wish me a good night’s sleep. Most importantly, though, I hadn’t seen her with an alcohol-filled glass in her hands at all.

I walked into the kitchen to see her in a bright sundress with brown heels on her feet and her short, blonde hair straightened just above her shoulders. I couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Hey,” I greeted softly, stepping up next to her. “Can I help with anything?”

“Hey,” she replied, grinning. “Yeah, actually. You can start buttering the bread and put the garlic on it so it’s ready to go in the oven once the turkey’s done.”

I walked to the sink and grabbed the large Italian loaf from the windowsill above it. I began preparing the garlic bread in silence as she stirred around some potatoes in olive oil, and a few minutes of silence had passed when the both of us took a breath to start a conversation.

She laughed. “You go first.”

“I was just wondering if you remember who hurt you the other night,” I answered, offering her a sheepish smile. “You said you couldn’t tell us...but I’m not sure if you were just saying that.”

She shook her head, her smile slightly fading. “I don’t remember anything before you guys got there.”

I nodded and continued tending to the bread in silence.

She sighed. “I—” and just as she began to speak, the doorbell rang, signaling Oliver’s arrival.

I took a deep breath and walked into the living room, opening the door. “Hey,” I greeted, pulling him into a hug and giving his lips a quick peck.

A large grin overtook his face as his hands lingered on my waist. “You look beautiful.”

I blushed and patted his chest. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

He really did look extraordinarily handsome, too. He’d gotten himself fancy in a pair of black slacks and a white button-up with the top button undone, and his hair had been perfectly straightened, not a single strand out of place. I always liked Oliver’s sight, but I especially liked it then.

“Mom,” I called as I led him into the kitchen. “This is Oliver. Oliver, this is my mom, Carrie.”

He held his hand out to her as I spoke, and she grinned to him, shaking it. “It’s really great to meet you properly now,” she offered. “I’m a little embarrassed about the other night, but I’m really glad Amanda had someone to be there for her when it all happened.”

He nodded, smiling back. “It’s nice to meet you, too. You don’t have to worry about anything at all—I’m just glad you’re okay now. We both were really worried about you.”

She simpered to him and turned back to the potatoes. “Well, Oliver, why don’t you tell me about yourself? Amanda says you’re in a band.”

I went back to buttering the garlic bread, and the conversation between my mom and Oliver continued ceaselessly. He told her about Bring Me The Horizon, his hopes for becoming a famous rockstar one day; he told her about his tattoos, what a few of the larger ones meant; and all the while, I found it hard to get a word in. It was relieving, though, because something in me wanted my mother to accept the boy I’d come to love; and for the first time since before my dad had passed away, I wasn’t embarrassed or resentful of her.


When I told my mom I’d planned on spending the night at Oliver’s house, she invited him to stay at ours instead; and as Oliver and I sat in my room, my back against the wall and his flat against the mattress, he couldn’t stop talking about how honored he was from her invite.

“...She’s just so awesome,” he spoke. “She’s a really cool mom. I think she likes me, too, which I’m really happy about ’cause it means she approves of us being together, and—” He suddenly cut himself off, smirking at me. “Sorry.” He blushed. “I’ve just never had a parent like me before.”

I simpered, chuckling, and patted his leg. “It’s okay. I’m really happy everything went well tonight. I’ve never invited anyone over before with my mom home—not even Delilah.”

He grinned and grabbed my waist, pulling me down with him as he laid back once more against my mattress. “I get a little scared to tell you this sometimes, which is why I never do it, but...I really love you, Amanda.”

I smiled back to him and gave him a long kiss. “I love you, too, Oliver.”

He rubbed my back gently and brought his lips back to mine. The kiss was a little different than the others because the passion in it continued to just grow and grow until it became a little rough, which was odd for Oliver. He tugged at my shirt, untucking it a little from my skirt, and his breathing became ragged. As he wrapped a leg over mine, the silk of his pants smooth against my skin, I became completely aware of his excitement, his body hard as a rock against my hip.

The thought of it turned me on more than I knew possible, and I felt a familiar warm feeling between my legs. I wanted Oliver Sykes in every way possible, and up until then, I had become unaware of just how potent that desire could be.

He suddenly pulled away from me, gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, Amanda. We should probably stop...The last time I felt like this was when you got dressed up for Halloween, and that was hard enough to control.” He brushed my bangs out of my face and added, “I’m hard for you, love, and it’s not a good idea to keep teasing me.”

I swallowed hard in disappointment. Oliver and I had only ever jokingly talked about intimacy, but the most serious we’d ever get about it was just exchanging ragged breaths of air when kissing too passionately—of course, with the exception of him mentioning his excitement at Delilah’s Halloween party.

Oliver had turned me on before, but at that moment, something felt a little different. He would always make me feel like I wanted to go further with him, but I had never felt like I could. I wanted to be ready for him for his birthday, but I had never felt fully prepared to have him physically become a part of me...until that moment.

Whatever had caused the change in me remained unknown, but as I looked into him, his hazel eyes smoldering with desire, I tried to tell him without actually telling, Oliver Sykes, I want all of you right this second.

A form of my message seemed to get through to him, though, because he brought his lips back to me in a slow, gentle manner. His one hand cupped over my jaw while the other wrapped around my waist tightly, pulling me so close to him that it felt like not even a single air molecule was between us anymore.

Without pulling from the kiss, he led us into a sitting position and began untucking my sweater. He ran his hand under it, against my ribs and atop my bra, and the warmth of his skin sent jolts of lightning throughout every neuron in my body. A chill ran down my spine, and I wondered if touching me felt just as good for him.

He pulled away for just a second to pull my shirt over my shoulders and quickly returned without even skipping a beat. We somehow ended up flipped on the bed, laying down so that he was on top of me, his hands running up my bare thighs; and as his fingers pulled down my underwear, I felt an involuntary sigh erupt from my throat. I could barely even wait for the rest of it all.

I began unbuttoning his top and pushed it off his shoulders, pulling it from his wrists. My hands found his chest, his skin almost as smooth as the fabric of his pants, and I felt him shudder at my touch. I couldn’t help but smile.

He pulled at my skirt and quickly maneuvered us to pull it off and toss it on the floor. A part of me felt scared with only my bra left on—I worried that he wouldn’t like my body as much without clothes on or that he would maybe change his mind once realizing how inexperienced I truly was—but as his hands ran over my ribcage, down over my thighs, and between my legs, the fear left because it was only him, me, and some inextinguishable fire between us. I couldn’t even bring myself to caring that I wasn’t the first girl he’d touched anymore because I was the only one he was touching then.

I struggled to undo his belt right as he reached his free hand under my back and unclasped my bra, but the one hand he’d kept between my legs to tease me wrapped around mine and undid the buckle for the both of us; and as nothing was left to take from me and only his pants and boxers remained for him, I yanked his them both down simultaneously with impatience, and he kicked them off almost just as quickly.

There was an unrelenting excitement inside me as we continued touching each other, and from the continuing tremors that I felt in the muscles of his back, I knew something similar remained true for him.

He pulled away for a moment and looked at me with a small smile on his face. “If it doesn’t feel good for you, tell me to stop, okay?”

I nodded, and he returned his lips to mine, satisfying a deep hunger inside the back of my mind for him, for that kind of love and passion. He took his hands away from the skin of my torso, one holding onto himself and the other gently pushing my legs further apart; and I wanted to count down from three to prepare for the rumored pain, but just as I got to two, a type of sharp heat jolted from my thighs to my lower abdomen. I gasped at it, and Oliver remained still for a few seconds, but a sort of cataclysm took over my mind, and I no longer just wanted him. I needed him.

Goosebumps rose all over my body, and I couldn’t stop myself from raising my hips into his to push him in further. I felt him smile against my lips, and a slow pattern began between us, our hips pulling apart and reattaching in a rhythmic motion. My entire body felt hot, but all I could think about was how good it felt.

I couldn’t think straight as we moved, our pattern slowly growing faster, and I couldn’t bring myself to feel concern for the scratch marks my tightened hands must’ve been making into the colorless skin of his back; I couldn’t notice anything other than his fingers against the most sensitive parts of my chest or the pressure inside my abdomen; and I couldn’t stifle the gasps and moans coming from my throat. It was all so unimaginable, like no daydream could’ve ever served the experience properly.

It was suddenly all over too soon, the feelings of excitement and passion finally relieved. He yanked his hips from me and rested his head in the hollow of my neck, softly groaning into my hear and sending more chills down my spine.

“Jesus,” he sighed.

He collapsed beside me, pulling me into his arms, and I smiled against the moist skin wrapped tightly over his chest. “Yeah,” I whispered.

“What’re you thinking, Amanda?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

I pursed my lips. “I’m thinking that that was a lot better than I thought it was gonna be.”

He chuckled. “So Amanda Tate has thought about sex with Oliver Sykes.”

I snickered back and lightly tapped his chest. “Well it’s not like you haven’t.”

He smirked as I peered up at him. “I haven’t done anything with a girl since I hooked up with Delilah last year—that’s a long fucking time to hold back.” He laughed again. “So yeah, I’ve definitely thought about it.”

I smiled back. “Well I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.”

He kissed my forehead, still smiling. “It was the best for me, love;” and I felt butterflies set themselves free in my stomach with the faith I held in his words at that moment.