Page 20 of Eyes Like Angel
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” my mother ranted, I nearly saw vivid flames on her head, earning streaks of white hair.
“For me to go to sleep,” I answered, walking off. Each time I strode a small movement, my arms and legs were about to fall off from hopping house to house for burglary and good payment towards the end.
“So, where’s Bjorn?” I asked, though I bother myself to not care of my older brother’s existence.
“You missed dinner,” she retorted, foot tapping. “You missed everything last night—you didn’t come straight here in the estate.”
Still, Mom didn’t give me a straight answer I hoped for.
“Did you even realize what you’ve done?!” she ranted on.
My heart skipped a beat for a moment. A level of shock shouldn’t be this big since I lived with the family for so long.
“What is it this time?”
Mom shook her head. “Unbelievable. You came back here around seven in the morning and you act like nothing’s wrong. Do you have any fucking clue what’s been going on around the house?”
A faint smirk flicked on the corners of my lips. “Should I care to know what happened?”
Without backing down, she followed me to the kitchen, all in gunmetal grey, paired with the silvery marble island the handles at the cabinetry decorated in bronze. Lights above dimmed, and turned it all the way up as I entered to grab a drink and snack in the built-in refrigerator. Illuminated lights on the ceiling buzzed for quick seconds before it went quiet. As for the smoke detector, Dad managed to buy spare batteries in case it beeped again.
First thing I opened; I saw the fridge restocked fresh food, filling every corners and shelf inside. Proteins and vegetables stacked. White cartons of coconut pressed milk filed into an organized line on the side. Sometimes I feel like whether I’m entering in a house or in a manufactured company for achieving an unattainable perfection.
Fruits and vegetables were all lined up in neat formation; imperfection is non-existent, according to the household and who laid these rules. Healthy beverages and non-carbonated drinks don’t last long in the fridge. So does the fruits and vegetables. No unhealthy portions and carbonated drinks to soothe famine in the system.
Every single item in the fridge was straight up superficial—all color coordinated—a sight for sore eyes to anyone who visits the Rivers residence. Each fruits, vegetables and meat stacked separately, fruits and vegetables stored into thecontainers and resalable bags and air-locked jars while the meat stored in the freezer, and fridge for what meat to cook.
As for the refresher, drinks, it’s all a different story. While Dad’s was on a greener side and Bjorn’s side was in a collection of blue bottles, Mom’s color-coordinated drinks stacked in all shades of pink to a deep shade of a dark pomegranate. As for me, I’ve chosen a shade of red, which my mom despised. She advised a shade of purple or grey, but, I insisted on the crimson.
Honestly the color grey was ugly ever since I saw my aunt’s choice of decoration in her place, almost equivalent as a low-budget horror film, rather living one of the ancient houses at countryside.
Regardless, my stomach wasn’t in the mood for hunger and satisfaction.
“Have you had any shame? I don’t appreciate the way you unattended at the Thanksgiving dinner, and putting up a vulgar show at the church yesterday. It’s fucking unethical, impure—filthy, I can’t even fucking look at you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Bringing your personal prostitute in the formal church was the last thing we needed in this fucking household. Not when your Dad is on his way to fix the reputation here in this town. He’s been struggling and far worse—he’s been working and riding back at the hospital. We don’t need another problem like yours in the mix.”
My eyes rolled at her antics. Though she has a dramatic effect, I give her credit when it’s due.
“She came to me, Mom,” I said to her, through placid tone, uninterested. “Madison just wanted company because she’s bored staying at her place.”
“Is that her name? I could’ve sworn she introduced herself as Samantha or Sam—whatever the fuck her name is—when she shook hersluttyhand with your father yesterday,” she scorned. “Are youhornyso much you decided to take itout onto the Sunday Mass? Running off—having cold feet to Thanksgiving feast? You know that this family has a protocol when it comes to that shit.”
My brows knitted at her statement.
Nonchalantly, my shoulders bopped, pretending to not hear my mom’s attempt on keeping up with the modern slang.
“Look, I don’t care what you do or who you do it, it’s…whatever! But if you bring another slut into the holy steps and ground at the church or run off elsewhere again, I swear to God—”
“So you swear to God? Please, I didn’t know you love Godthatmuch.”
I’m no believer, but it’s was odd that Mom only uses this excuse to fit a beloved or loving reputation.
Something tells me she needed more than a good yell.
Her darkish eyes hardened. “I don’t appreciate your sarcastic tone, young man.”
I said nothing but a low groan, shaking my head as I distracted myself to keep busy by scouring every grub I could find in the cold, stacked fridge.
“Are you serious? If anyone’s being cranky, it’s you. You came yelling at me the moment I entered the foyer,” I shot back.
