Page 28 of Eyes Like Angel
But sending Madison and her boorish boyfriend and sent into frenzy before chopping them off the pieces was gratifying than the drink I generously gulp, itching to drown in.
Wait, was her name really Madison? I swear she corrected me by saying another, aware it doesn’t start with ‘M’. Back of my brain droned, drew a blank, it blanketed like a thick fog.
Anyhow, dumping their bloody bodies into a trash bag was bothersome, and beyond irritating, a fucking nuisance splashed on a fancy getup, a nightmare to rich person if a tiny scratch or a drink trickled and coated on a high quality fur and leathered shoes. Rich people would cry, wiping their tears with money. I cry while buying a replacement, not that I ever cried,I don’t intend to, I like replacing broken things with new ones, unless if it’s planning on discontinuation.
But I liked mess; I liked red, dark and smudged, not to mention broken beneath beige-colored bones, sturdy and shattered, smelled like molten chocolate, but worrisome when Mom thought a worst of me, displaying her true expressive grandeur on me bringing a pair of Jezebel to fuck before and after church until sundown. Conjuring back to Mom’s personal offense, she’d thought I’d fuck Madison—sorry, Samantha—to sunrise.
She’s incorrect.
Samantha’s still a hideous name with an obnoxious, overbearing cunt, sounded like a dying banshee when getting fucked. Killing her was better.
Who needs a personal arcade when I kill annoying people in my spare time as a considerable exchange?
Like Samantha, any girl who touches me, commands me, were no better than an unstable prisoner. Even bears behaved properly in comparison to a woman’s greedy nature. When girls fight, they yanked each other’s hair out until they gained a bald spot—it happened in high school.
Several fights three days in a row, and everyone got pepper sprayed, being sent in the nurse’s office, as for other students they rushed in the restrooms, rinsing their reddened eyes with bitter water, they winced and flinched as if someone cooked them alive, forming a loud hiss like cooking oil chemically mixed with water, or how the meat flipped over on the raw side, hissing and splattering hot oil to my skin. Wishing I had a pepper spray to blind Samantha’s eyes, I knew it wouldn’t advertise financially in the black market—eyes were the most vital organ. As long as I jabbed my knife or swing with a bat, it’s all according to plan. A flesh wound on the first layer was no problem.
But boy, she clawed on me like a little bitch.
They crave more and more, greedy as they go. If I didn’t dispose her soon, I know the means of ending someone’s reputation in front of the entire crowd, sometimes internet. If I let her live, alongside with her goody-two-shoe boyfriend, she ruins me, then ruin each other.
Games are no exponentially fun if a killer let a victim loose and run its mouth to the police sometimes a sheriff, sometimes a close friend or a family member.
Little did I know, Samantha’s boyfriend’s parents were asleep out of an early habit, due to their old age.
The moment I stepped out from a Sunday mass, my brain has set an automatic goal.
Despite my efforts, I considered it as a victory, without edging myself over a dumb girl running off her blabbermouth.
“Yo! Adrian, wait up,” a cheery voice called aloud.
Over my shoulder, I spotted two of my closest friends in Fort Heaven. One, his name is Aaron, with his red-brownish hair and his cordial eyes, his dimples shone as he coiled his mouth to a nice smile, in his loose shirt and baggy pants with black sneakers, waving his hand up in the air.
“Aaron,” I greeting him back, and did our usual weird handshake.
“Ugh, you guys are so weird,” a girl’s voice said behind me.
Peering over to my left, a girl with smile, her silver piercings flickered under the morning sunlight.
“Geez, I thought it was my ex-girlfriend who was calling me,” I said, half-jokingly.
Marcy—I called her that because her name was a mouthful. Her real name goes by Marceline. Marcy is in her usual punk-rock Gothic getup and chunky platform boots, reaching to my broad shoulder, but with a twist of Neapolitanhair on her head, tied into a half-up do, two little pigtails swished, looking like a fucking fairy got stuck in a glass like in aDisneytale or some shit, being trapped, but it won’t matter to her. Marceline is the type of girl who doesn’t give a fuck about her appearance as long as she’s satisfied with her design. Wherever she goes, people whispered about her, but she kept walking with her head held high, and had her bills to pay to get her spunky getup—her and her mother argued, expecting Marcy to be…girlish.
Marceline threw up at the concept of girlish, not that she’s against it, but her mom was expecting her to be less weird and more…normal.
Normalcy wasn’t in Marceline’s vocabulary. At least, not ever, it’s been banned.
“Why’s everyone rushing?” I inquired.
“It’s the leftovers from a Black Friday sale,” Aaron replied, blowing a raspberry. “I mean, what else is there to be stoked about other than a Sunday Mass? Shit got pretty wild yesterday so they shut down by the last minute curfew the store owners decided.”
“What happened?”
“Some women were pushing and pulling each other because they wanted to get the cheapest sales, and as for the men, well let’s just say they wanted an upgrade to their electronics and shit.”
“God, I can’t stand seeing people like that,” Marceline groaned, jerking her head. “It makes me want to rip my hair out and eat it, they’re acting like fucking children.”
My chest rumbled from chuckling. “Well, they never get to be kids, so this entertaining to watch. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are two women had knives cutting at each other.”
