Page 25 of Eyes Like Angel
Rubbing my eyes, I examined over the crystal glass mirrors, I pointed out numerous things I had a problem with.
One, my wavy blond locks tangled and messy, alabaster skin bashed, as for the outfit I recently purchased—and secretly tucked away in a duffle bag—pursuing my goals and objectives for today, and entered inside the wide-glass shower.
My torso felt like it was beaten over by an elephant, stomping bones in my chest and ribcages to pieces, back of my skull felt like a mud mushed on puddle.
Nightly activities were fun until it became a nightmare in the morning.
Having a bathtub was a hassle, and I wasn’t a type of guy to relax—a heavy spritz of warm shower bedding onto my hair and limbs and my lean and fit body, rinsing and scrubbing—scrubbing with foamed liquid soap on a glove and swiped any traces on alcohol smell and silly fuckery I had at the stupid church. Or any other substances and dirt I never knew.
And if I carry any diseases, I would never hear the end of it.
Getting rid of defiled stains and rambunctious smell was a paramount on keeping best appearances. I didn’t want anyone to think I’m a lazy son of a bitch or belong to a polluted trash, but what I can do? What could men do, aside being superior with their dumbass mindset, believing they know what’s good for everyone? Some men I saw, whether it was on the internet or aYouTube, often look decent, but totally out of style—or plain getup with basic hairstyle or basic mannerisms, but most appeared belonging to a polluted sea, polluted in black oil from an oil factory, and greasier.
On the dating sites, even apps on the smartphones, most men resembled as a greasy, expired mayo jar climbing out from the public trash dumps or muscled body with a childish facade on their face, plus their spiky haircut, hence why women deleted the apps, maybe saving their phone storage or not wanting to share the same breathing space as greasy-looking and sloppy men who lack experience.
Women prefer men, who are well-dressed, well-mannered, punctual and given a thoughtful gesture into littlest things, things that fully matter to women, something like out of a fairytale, or a filthy magazine or an imaginative pornographic modern romance novels and cheesy movies, hence why girls ambushed me like a bunch of hound dogs wanting special meat to eat, salivating tongues and clenched teeth altogether.
Pumping another liquid soap, my hand furiously deepened the scrub, and lathered the soap across the skin, forcing to erase the gash and putrid smell, hoping for the best. Shower water descended and prickled onto my chapped skin, letting out a heaving sigh, my lungs smeared in smoky steam, erasing traces on a massacre—only a few stabs. While I stabbed Madison’s—sorry, Samantha’s humdrum boy-toy, killed. A quick kill wasn’t in my job description; I like to kill slow and painful way.
Descended on the curved stairway, I marched at the entrance by the foyer, passing a towering statue of a replicated version of naked David stationed at the center, trudging across the mosaic flooring, I unlocked the broad entrance, only for Dad to pop up like a horrifying ghost in a horror film.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Why now?
“Dad,” I greeted dryly, stepping back.
“Ah, Adrian,” Dad replied stiffly, “perfect timing! I’ve been meaning to introduce you these…people.”
I didn’t like how he said ‘Perfect timing’, like I was his personal servant or some shit he ordered someone at the working office.
His voice was droning, droning in his late work hours and wine-drinking. My god, as expected from him.
Wait…what people?
When I stepped ahead, the way Dad’s calculating eyes pierced behind me was tempting to me to get away.
Behind Dad, there was an obstacle, an obstacle of two people anticipating me, and Mom, who was still pissed at me arriving late at the household.
“Dad,” I began, “I have to—”
“This,” he began, emphasized, is Mr. and Mrs. Curtis,” Dad casually pointed to the middle-aged couple. A man, beside mom, wore a grey fedora hat and large chunky squareglasses behind narrow-shaped eyes, blue eyes twinkling at my appearance. For the older woman, she wore a buttoned grey blazer and a grey A-line skirt with kitten heels, a fake Prada bag hanging off of her forearm, greeting me with a wide grin, standing on her fake Prada heels it nauseated and ruined the aesthetics, but I halted this garnished and passive belief I constricted.
Pausing for a moment as Dad droned a monologue, where they’ve come from and how they immigrated—moved into Fort Heaven, and has been their home since.
Meanwhile, by the grandiose pillar, Mom was watching on the sidelines, her arms crossed and her eyes pinched, glaring, tequila in her haggard-looking hand.
Evidently still pissed at my rebellious nature I made in a previously bad timing.
“It’s nice to meet you,” my voice was pliable, dipping my head in short, uninterested reply.
Mrs. Curtis playfully cooed at my dad as I found myself weirded out by a scenery which felt more like a groundhog day.
“Aww, your son is so well-mannered and polite,” Mrs. Curtis commented in outrageous delight, clapped her hands altogether, appearing like a seal in a faux getup barking for a scrumptious treat.
“Adrian’s a very handsome fellow,” Mr. Curtis chimed in an agreeable tone. “Doesn’t he look like that one celebrity we see at the TV this morning? He should become an actor if anything.”
“Oh, now that you mentioned it, Adrian does have a look-alike! But Adrian’s way handsomer, I’m sure. He could be a top model,” Mrs. Curtis restated her cooing. “Very desirable for the women! Girls would throw themselves whenever he’s near.”
Dad chuckled awkwardly, rather dryly, blowing a fat smoke from his imported, special edition cigar.
