Page 3 of Eyes Like Angel
Breathing lightly, took my breathing to steadfast, as if I’m seeing the God’s creation itself—a living statue. A creation wasn’t meant to born in this world, but to be born in the next. In a way, he’s graced with refined, or an everlasting impression where I mistook him as a lonesome and lofty nightly creature, forever bloomed under a pearly moonlight, awaiting for a long lost lover or hunt for another prey to sedate in pleasure. Poetic as it may be, it’s a fig of an untamed and random dreamlike state.
I shouldn’t be having these thoughts, these unholy, unwanted thoughts.
But no thoughts came to arise whenever I met and be struck by a man’s undivided beholding until him.
On the other hand, I didn’t like the way he stared at me. For one who’s born with an unearthly appearance struck an unsettled irritation within me.
Vile and volatile.
Impure and soiled.
My conscious filled and combined all four descriptions to a particular man.
Stomach churned and bubbled at the considered, evidently believable notion, and not be driven by famine.
What a sinful way of displaying love and affection. I wondered if their parents are aware of their secret love at a secret garden they decided to impede on a late Sunday afternoon.
His right hand—where he once rested underneath a girl’s skirt—took a piece of communion wine and sipped to the last drop, eyes remain pierced, motionless. And out of polite, he snatched a piece of bread and ate, savoring the lacking ingredient of church bread, taking it in smaller bites, nibbling itas his eyes closed to slow and melt in his taste buds, when the communion bread is in the same size as a pebble.
Normally, a person would obtain the bread and wine, they eat it in quick precision and head straight back to their pew chairs and say their holy rites, but he took longer to digest the offering. With a last sip of red wine—which was actually a simple swill of cranberry juice—savored, hum vibrated in his mouth where I perceived his smile stifled, Aaron’s apple bobbed in delightful taste from a last quench.
My lips curled in slight disgust.
This man made a mockery out of me. Whatever his intentions, it will be rid by evil.
But evil must show their tainted ways first. Evil prevailed when temptations are set in motion, in chaos, in all sorts of selfishness.
An animosity instilled, looking past over his lean frame, several people who I never once spoke, aside from the priest and the sisters or the choir of the holy church.
On the last row of the pew seat at center, the family—his family—three members sat tall and proud. One man, who I assumed is the father, had dark suit, contrast to the young man’s red suit and an expensive silver watch as his lips curled into annoyance as he checked the time. The man beside him was an older woman, clad in rosy pink suit and gold buttons, beaded diamonds clasped on her neck, straightening her rosy pencil skirt and tucked a layered hair strand touched behind her slim collarbone.
She was thinly as a twig, but nonetheless, her skin is flawless and taintless down to perfection. Beside the older woman, a younger man, probably older and clean-shaven, wore an office suit like the other two men, except his was in a pin-striped suit with a green brooch and a black watch on his righthand. His hair was short like his dad’s, maintaining a sleeked side part; his locks were on a brighter side of golden-blond.
One thing men have in common is their sharp, lidded, dead-stare gaze and their neat, tucked hairstyle. The father had gray streaks on his jet-black hair, all slicked back to a neat tuck, but the boys have yellowish contrast hair were light-blond, the purest color in a possible closest to a shade of silver-blond—white, to be exact, whereas the mother is chestnut, but rather likeness on a silk of caramel shade. Two men possessed honey-colored eyes whereas the mother’s eyes are pale blue.
However, the man in a dark, fancy velvet red suit who was standing before is unstirred, eyeing up onto my withered form with his pitch-black hues, glinting in mockery. I was anything but a mere joke to him.
Frightened, I stared at his tall figure, inclining his head downward in slight motion, and his posture forward, unable for me to step back, afraid I might trip and fall back on a stair podium.
“Thank you, Sister,for this blessed offer,” he said in a husky voice, his lips somewhat stained in a reddish lipstick smudged on his smooth lips.
The mole under his eye crinkled.
I frowned in thought.
You didn’t clean yourself properly, is what I wanted to say, but made no effort on pointing it out, not cause any scene, watching him leaned back on his towering form shadowed over me, his silk hair flowed over his broad shoulder, the red ribbon illuminated as his persistent smile grinned ear-to-ear, eyeing me, anticipating to what I should say.
But I gave no satisfaction he longed for.
“The body of Christ, given to you,” was all I uttered, drained, teeth gritted, chills in my body heated rapidly, given asoft polite answer, but my annoyance chimed faster than a calm restraint.
His long, light golden lashes fluttered. “The body of Christ,” he said, rather teasing. His voice carried in softness, stilted and refined, raspy and soft, not obnoxiously deafening like the boys or men I have spoken to who desperately to shout to anyone who cares enough to lend their ear.
Despite the sound, he wasn’t supposed to say it back, not following the spiritual aspects of communion, the normalcy on a Sunday Mass. My guess was he’s a first timer for attendance to praise Almighty Lord and his angelic servants, the carriers of wisdom to guide the lost and innocent.
This man was certainly, positively lost.
In some aspects, he might’ve enjoyed this.
