Page 22 of Eyes Like Angel
“Sometimes I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking,” she continued on. “I don’t understand why you’re acting like up this. While you were out there, Bjorn helped out. He knows howto appease when I needed it. He knows how to be a good boy—a good son. And you…you caused me so many headaches. Do you know how much I have to dye my hair to keep myself look young and healthy for the men to look at me? Older women judged me harshly, something that you won’t comprehend. Plenty of things I had gone through, and you did nothing but caused a scene, left, right and center. You never rest on anything and do everything to keep satisfied.”
My head shook in dismay. “I don’t know why you’re so bothered by me. Maybe you should attend to the church to get some answers since you’re so eager going there. Try to befriend a priest. I’m sure that he’ll take you to see the Lord in the flesh I’m sure he’ll give a right answer. But I don’t think God wants to see you wearing that outfit, I’m sure he’ll have an early heart attack also.”
My mother wasn’t having it.
Without a doubt, she grabbed my hair and snapped a sharp pull down to meet her eyes. I yelped, but kept my stance intact from collapsing, not giving anything away to appease her anger. Hot breath stank into my nostrils, a breath stink of alcohol.
Her blue eyes angered. “Since you never listen to me, I won’t let you walk off that easy, so do me a favor,” her teeth gritted, near to my ear. “If you dare try to walk away from me again, I’ll have your dad break your bones again. You need a lesson, a lesson to learn, a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your fucking life. Do you know why your dad moved here in this city? Because we’re too fucking humiliated by the last attempt you caused! Do you even remember what it was?”
I withstood and held anguish inside. Roots on my head were deafening, sharply clawing its way out for a good pull.
“Well, of course you don’t,” she went on, “because you’re selfish; you don’t care about the consequences, you don’t careabout other people’s feelings and reputation to uphold. You go on about your day and say, “Hi, I’m Michael, I like to do whatever the fuck I want and not care about the consequences to the people around me.There’s nothing they can do about it because I’m a crazy person!” That’s how stupid and blind you are! Fuck this up again, and we’re screwed. We’re going to become homeless, and nobody will love us, no one will give us money. For months, I had to fucking put up with your attitude. That shit,” she said, grasping my hair harder, “has to go. Either you’re going to be the son thatIwant or you don’t. If you don’t, everything will be your fault; everything in our perfect life will crumble. In the real world, you’ll never survive. You’ll never,ever, survive without me or the fucking money your dad earned. To the outside world, you’renothing!”
With all in its glory, my dad’s fifty golden—newly shined—trophies lined up against the high glass cabinet, I’m not sure if the trophies could cover the stress Dad has. He loved gold, and taken gold as his wife.
I wondered if Dad matched his sentiment towards Mom.
“Be grateful you’re here, living in luxury, because of me,” she vexed, grunted sharply. “If it weren’t for me, for my benevolent mercy, you would be out on the streets, begging for a change or dime or a shelter. Out there, you’re going to be digging up filthy garbage for food, for clothes, and you’ll rot, and nobody’s there for you but those maggots and cockroaches eating your corpse. People will beat you up when you sleep, when you eat, when you’re vulnerable nobody will able to take care of you. Fix your fucking life before I fix yours,” she said, still grasping the slight curls of my whitish-golden locks.
I pulled myself from her iron grip and trudged straight to the ivory door.
“And remember, when you’re tired, you can rest and be lazy when you’re dead or when you have a severe plague,” hervoice echoed through the annex. “Maybe you should pray to God for tonight to fix that tiredness you’re having, since you’re so great at making excuses. He works wonders for your life and for the good of his heart! Once you’re done having this emo phase. Tonight, you’ll be there at dinner early! End of story! And go fix your room, for fuck’s sake!”
The door slammed shut and blocked at a grating voice from a godly woman.
Setting the car keys down, I took a quick breather and scan in my room. The scalp on my head was close to being torn apart. Sweat glided onto my brow, my breath staggered, motioning for the agitation to subside. It hasn’t been subsiding. The roaring pain in my chest tightened in hot pressure.
As I marched ahead, I hopped to an empty spot. The room wasn’t as severely messy as a hoarder like Mom described, but a few pile of branded clothes scattered and flung, my desk work is cluttered in potato chips, a large empty chip bag and soda or energy cans, nothing like the oddly systemized fridge downstairs. Despite I took care of my well-being, there were some days where I can’t go on living throughout the day without consumption on junk food.
The air became icy and dense, assuming the heater is broken again.
Not bother on discarding my fancy getup, loosening the Italian loafers; I plopped back on the bed, facing the ceiling while having an icy drink in hand. Sipping, my tongue rejected the saccharine flavored drink and threw it in the trash can beside me, and gathered a small-sized bottle of merlot in hand tucked from a safe drawer, drinking, coping to erasing my mom’s words, scorching, clawing its way into my system.
I had enough of people scolding me over smallest things, but I’m glad it was over.
Unbothered to answer the phone, it beeped and vibrated in my pocket, ignoring the notification ringing tuning an annoying ring tone.
Letting it stay silent was an awful idea.
Lazily, I picked the phone call up, only for the caller to end abruptly. I headed straight for the text message, a few words popped up onto the screen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Don’t forget our next meet up, asshole. I’ll hand you the reward you requested since you participated.
Drinking the entire merlot away, without a solid breakfast, my hand lifted for my lick the red substances. Nothing goes to waste or soil my red suit, apart from the blood I had to clean when beating a man with a bat. Aside from that, I’m drinking responsibly, not once I drink and drive. That’s the difference between me and all the jackasses in the world.
It was a good post-Thanksgiving dinner, for something I don’t mind replace with typical stuffing, honey-glazed ham or oven-baked turkey or hot fresh mashed potatoes with mushed cranberry sauce and gravy sauce on the side. Or an organic, tasteless meal to stuff my stomach just to puke it out and fed the mushy portions in the toilet to a good flushing.
Golden sun peeked behind the heavy red curtains, and I couldn’t resist for a nap after my reward. Arm propped behind my head, the dark cushions tucked me in, my breathing steadied, my posture relaxed, vibrations droned, and my sight went dark.
In my dreams, across the widened room, I caught a glimpse of a girl, the amethyst stones on a crucifix pendant flickered, rested on her chest, a pair of pale emerald eyes glaring at me shined brighter than a cross, covered in a nun outfit from head to toe. The bells chimed, ringing into my ears, but her voice was clearer than the white noise. Who was she? Why didshe appear in my dreams? Dreams meant to serve a message or warning; a meaning behind the motivations has been driven, not guided by my hands. Somehow, it was oddly calming. Despite her glares, her voice was tender, the roughness in her tone sturdy, and her chin tucked up, stood across from me. We both stayed in place. Elongated skirt on her violet nun outfit and a pendant fluttered in a soft breeze.
She hasn’t been gone off in my dreams.
She looked up at me—green eyes daring, crucifix trembling—like temptation wrapped in faith.
The body of Christ, given to you,she echoed, handing over the bread and wine. An unchangeable expression stilled further, though her words—her voice—sounded kind, benevolent and strong.
Alleviated, a voice resonated in a dream world, like a song.
