Page 2 of Eyes Like Angel
Aloof greetings bled a passage though the core in my soul, the warm air above the air ducts touched over my veiled head and hit down to my shoulders, a senseless tingle flooded in my covered body, even the black velvet gloves shivered, taste buds tingled, as if the buds tasted a flamed ash in my mouth. Only then I tightened a large yet elegant crucifix pendant within myleft hand to ease the awkward, suffocating air locked, merely dizzy, a rich shade of amethyst and black glinted back at me. Teeth tugged to my dried lips, enough pressure drawing the blood in to coat the surface, but my teeth weakened its force in.
By then, the priest announced and prepared for the upcoming line for the bread and wine ritual.
I sighed, my lips sealed. It has come to a close.
One more, Eva. One more round, and it’ll all be over.
Another day, another terror.
Nothing’s worse than dealing with crowd, who are in a dire entail of sin and greed, tainted. The tainted needed cleansing—a proper shield and stone of guidance and affection of truth against societal expectations.
The priest didn’t say a word; his narrowed eyes turned at my direction, waiting for me, something I’m unable to refuse. I pushed myself onward, gathering the bowl and tray and descended onto the last step of the staircase, pulling my thoughts together.
The line poured in. Some of the elderly cut themselves in line, impatient for the children but wore a masked dedication on their way. Teens and children shoved their way in through the crowd, but only then thelovingmothers told them to behave, plucked their ears and dragged them, their candies and toys are confiscated. And just like that, children had their tails tucked in, pouting, yielding, like poor pups getting beaten to the streets.
As the choir sang the hymn for bread and wine, crowd came closer, anticipating for their compensation, eager to rush back to their seats. I watched people who knelt, somber head dropped and eyelids shut, hands enclosed together, whispers came out of their despairing mouth, wondering if their devotions are true, wondering if their prayers are confirmed by the Lord.
Usually I said the words to them before they were heading back in their seats, but this time, I can’t bring myself to markmy statement and to grant them a blessing for this stupendous holiday. Or perhaps I forgot what the words are.
One more, Eva.
My hand nearly slipped from holding the golden bowl stacked in bread and tray to another, but kept it stagnant with all my might—the last strength I had. The metal stung against the velvet glove. If I bow my head, I would fall sooner than keeping myself motionless.
My hand clutched harder, tired.
One more, Eva.
The pressing pain in my stomach clutched further, and my head span, like the room was spinning, and the people’s faces blurred, a long monotonous hymn distorted, and it grew hotter, and hotter as my throat dried, wanting to consume every bread and wine in this scared ground.
Unable to hear the footsteps pounded on a carpet, a hand appeared with several of large rings on each finger. One is a golden round ring with a head of a lion on top, the two on a silver ring were plain and shiny, and on his index finger was the red ring with black stone and thin silver carvings on the side.
I darted my focus up to him.
Him.
My body stood there frozen, unsure how to handle or assess.
I didn’t expect him to come up and obtain the possessions that belonged to the blood and soul of the Lord.
It didn’t occur a thought in my lifetime it was him.
I stumbled upon a young couple touching each other as they shared a passionate kiss in a holy church of all places not so long ago. I envisioned a thickly of mist and passionate flames spreading around as the angels weeping, the murals echoed in cry. Diverting my attention from the Sunday bells, gawking atthe passionate man slipped his hand under a girl’s mini skirt as the watch glinted under a blazed sun.
To think that the young couple—mainly him—would be in full participation in a mundane ceremony. Holy Communion is exceptional to individuals who confessed their sins and immoral deeds, to earn forgiveness and cleanse redemption, seeing the same individuals who confessed their sins in everyday basis, and kept on cleansing their souls to reach high into the heavens.
I never had a communion because they told me I was a bad girl.
I’ve never seen him nor never interacted with him. Maybe there were others who are identical as him—from afar, at least. But no men in the church all dressed in red.
Hewas the only one who stood out from the rest—a thorny red rose among the white flowers.
The outsider among the locals,I pondered.
A pair of pitch-black hues darted back, brightened with amusement, which it’s nowhere near to a funny contentment in scared grounds of the church.
The late afternoon glow lingered on a long, palest of blond locks rested on his collarbone, his hair almost became paler, not a single piece of hair out of place, only held by a red ribbon tied to his silky locks and his widow’s peak is neatly tucked. His stance and his poise, a subtleness of lively mischief, arrogance, perhaps unbearable to anyone who dared to cross in his way, depending on who and how they interact or so much avoided him at all cost.
He was wearing dark red suit with his sleeves tucked up on his muscled arms, his white shirt underneath untucked, rather unbuttoned. The sun accentuated his hues it was close to being in a shade of pale, his immaculate pale skin outlined his sharp cheekbones brought a softened glow at a natural light, as the other side of his beardless, chiseled yet pointed face carvedto a sharper outline, his dimple impeded when he approached, towering over my short stature.
