Page 125 of Eyes Like Angel
I missed the wooden dark attic and the moths, the safest thing that’s close to home, a comely place for me to be tucked in and tangible for my muddled consciousness to be altered, an appeasing concept for my mental wounds to heal.
A white flash from the car’s headlights, I saw a flash of glowing blond hair, crowning his head like halo, and dark-shaded hues peering down at me, with a glowing smile, and the golden basked of sun glowed atop his head like halo. And his smile—his sweet genuine smile—savored the look on me, on my beaten face.
How could I look to an angelic face with a shame on my face? When my reputation was nothing, but stagnation? A cursed leads to me and embraced me like a chilling snowstorm, waiting for me to die and filled my dead heart with shame and blackened soul.
A blackened soul, a tainted one, I should’ve been better, but I was far less capable. I let my stinging wounds lick me; the skin bled and stripped part of me.
Even in the House of God, nobody was present except for a ghostly wind. A ghostly wind caressed me like a song, singingits sweet, empty words to delve; a flimsy familiar consolation shielded me to swim in.
Water frightened me, but the blood seeped in deeper.
In my laying position, I stayed frozen; my rib cage bruised and limped, air choked and drowned.
My chafed lips parted, yearning to call out. The blinding spot across from me, the windshield is glossed with bright light, unable to take a good glimpse of my savior, except for the soft outlines of his dark hoodie, steering the wheel.
I parted my lips again, my voice croaked, broken and breathless, I yearned to call out, with a bruised and blood-stained hand stretched out before me, reaching for the heaven—this heaven, this heavenly savior before me. Who was this person escorting me to the light of heaven?
The breathy and guttural gasp drew in; the hot blood gurgled and choked me, unable to sound it out. The ribcage pounded as I drew my wet breath inward, a pain hadn’t ceased. My soundless breath caught in, and my palms sweated, collided in a mixture of someone’s blood, caked my fingers.
A fading vision once brightened me, collapsed to an emerging darkness, pretending it’s the dark attic has welcomed me back like I was part of the family, a family in which is inanimate, a space of familiarity, pretending I was falling from a bright sky and darkness plunged in willingly.
I needed it back.
My heart felt heavy and scorned.
But as it turned out, in this recent time of events, for the past few weeks, I’m the stupidest of them all.
35
Adrian
Infiltrating the spacious, plain and white lobby after going up on the elevator at a higher floor, the air has gone quiet and thickly, drowned in alcohol-musk. I despised hospitals; doctors were often depicted as dumbasses in a white cloak, all talk and no action so does high-paying nurses—snooty little glares in their drained eyes and sneering, snickered on their glossy lips and exchanging gossips told me otherwise.
Being in a hospital was like being in prison. I hated hospitals so much I wish to burn it to the ground so recklessly and wildly, I don’t mind getting arrested.
I should’ve include them on disposing the bodies, too, if there’s no one around us—chasing them to a dark corner, pierced their organs with my deadly knife and butcher them to pieces until my knife becomes useless and blunt, wanting to hear their screams and cries out until they’re dead—I do this to avenge for someone I care about. That’s what love does. That’s what love does to everyone. Love makes everyone crazy, but it’s worth the shot—the shot I called in, commenced and raced to a finish line.
Accomplishing it alone was easy.
Before it was an intimidating task, but without relying on plans or have one way out without making so much intricate steps was easier on killing people. Most people died and have been buried in rivers, lake and even forest ground. Let’s hope to God it worked like in a crime documentary, and it doesn’t haunt me.
Killing became a solace instinct for me, like chopping off vegan or carnivorous, tender protein and bones on a cutting board in the kitchen, dicing with onions and garlic, powdering with salt and pepper and diced bell peppers, meat cut smaller bits to be fit in a metal box and stir with beef broth, to a scrumptious soup. Like the chef, he finds himself his teachings and tribulations, his coping in seizing perfection to slice and dice the food content.
I ignored the doctor’s monotone voice on the first half when he introduced himself. My god, the procession of him talking was making me feel deader inside than a morgue, wanting to squeeze the life out of him on my fingertips, strong enough to break the doctor’s voice box and my knuckles were sturdy to break at a lackluster, the lifeless expression in his eyes. I dislike how people looked, at this disarray, but I didn’t mind. Focusing on my appearance wasn’t my intentions on garnering everybody’s attention. My priority has set sight on one thing.
I wasn’t in a mood to give a pleasing smile to cooperate the doctor’s nerves and his loaded work he ushered himself door-to-door throughout the hospital.
“The bruises on her legs were wounded deeply, but should require rest,” he informed in a monotone soundwave, tucking the office pen on a coat pocket. “As for her back and her flesh….”
‘What?” I somewhat snapped, resentment glided in.
“Her flesh was unsightly; the scars on her back were damaged, and the burnt scars on both of her hands need a full tending.”
My movement staggered. “Isn’t there medications to apply for those wounds?”
The doctor’s bored expression was visibly clear. “Yes, but, sadly it will take some time to heal.”
I restraint the impatience tone I’ve had ever since I arrived. “For how long, doctor?”
