Page 35 of Eyes Like Angel
Of course.
She had a spur in the moment.
To Dad’s view, it’s considered inappropriate on Mom jumping ahead without him. Technically, in Dad’s lawful ways, in the house, he’s the law, and everybody else follows—no questions asked. But Dad found himself questioning her as shejumped ahead without considering on slowing her pace down to summarized a full explanation.
I guess I missed the whole crucial of the event.
Considering the unanticipated guests pointed their wide-tight grin at me, they’re anticipating harder than Mom did watching me from the window, then jumpscared me after I enter the household. As ridiculous as it is, I find the guests to be more tolerable, but not entirely acceptable—I finally understood Dad.
Gradually stepping forward, I gave them a brief handshake. But what shocked me the most was there’s a young woman right next to them. On the far right corner of the wide couch, a dark-haired young woman proceeds to stand tall before me. Standing, she’s adorned in a citrus-colored dress tied on her neck, orange and yellow ruffles swayed at her small movement, making her way towards me with her hand extended outward. Her extensive hair coiled into a ballerina bun, which her hairstyle reminded me of a preppy cheerleader rather than sophisticated woman.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adrian,” she said, seductive eyes eyeing on my body, or height, depending what girl likes to look at. Her head tipped sideways, her sandy blonde locks fell onto her one shoulder, making it seem like she’s interested in my outfit.
“Likewise,” I affirmed dryly, and withdrew my hand back.
Mom rose to her feet. “So, shall we dine?”
Cringing at her improvisation with a customer service smile, I wanted nothing more to be a stuffed marinated turkey cooked inside the heated oven.
***
Despite the tremendous effort I made, Samantha’s gone, and the weight on my shoulder blades have been lifted.
But not close enough. Not even an inch. So far, no police were alerted by my killings and Saul’s disposal.
Nothing’s good enough if I set myself into that place again, not after the spectacle I caused at thelavishchurch, imagining Dad’s patience broken and fuming in maximum rate, Mom would panic, mixture of anger and upset, as for Bjorn…he’s nowhere to be seen, and if I did see him, I would know his reaction before anyone else’s. Subtleties outstood, and for Bjorn’s were taciturn, but louder under a forming expression.
Formal dinners weren’t Bjorn’s thing; he’s much rather be in a confined solitude than dealing with the guests at tonight’s dinner.
In comparison, this dinner and Thanksgiving was majorly an improvement. As much as I’d like to comment on the Curtis family delicacies, it might cause a wreck on Mom’s sensitive emotions. But chewing their cooked fodder was a delay gratification while Mom’s cooking felt like it was prison for me to shit on a toilet, especially her holiday specials.
Ah, speaking of Thanksgiving.
Thanksgiving was an occasion—a tradition to uphold as families attended and eat lavish food together. Up until a grown age, I don’t see the full potential of a one holiday.
As pretentious as it was, I was never a type of person to follow a path—let alone a parasitic occultist’s path to respect and to give thanks without question.
Thanksgiving dinners were anything but homely nice or comely sweet. Some holiday happens once a year in our lives. In fact, if I were to describe the feast, the closest thing to mind was the occasion was as dry as a black-toasted turkey, even the burnt-toasted bread with loaded butter tasted delicious. And if I were to be generous in a thoughtful manner, Mom’s cooking was stale and lacked flavor, despite the plentiful efforts on adding spices and salt, as for Dad’s drinking choices for the sundown wasn’t as splendid. His wine choices were fruitier, less strong—stronger in sugary substances and less burn for the throat—Mom suggested to make the drinks for everyone to have a softer palette, whatever that means, as far as I could recall. Dad made no attempt to comment on this.
Bjorn, on the other hand, prepared the plates and silverwares, without so much of spewing from his pouted sneer and constantly plastered on his lips. Just as boring as a C-graded restaurant or as lacking asMcDonald’s happy meal in a full set of ten-piece chicken nuggets and icy drink that’s mostly flavorless. For the record, fast food restaurants were coming in prepared, but it’s no more than a plain decoration.
The C-graded restaurant had pleasant decorative palette than what the family dinner offered. The stench loitered in the air as far as I can describe the previous occasions. As far as I concerned, turkey wasn’t a real turkey; it was pure organic vegan styled meat. So does the meat in the stuffing or the meatballs on the pasta. Mom tricked us for the last few years or so. The gravy and cranberry sauce were the only ones that stand out from the dinner meal, and those weren’t a proper meal to solidify from engorged appetite, hence why I prefer a less formulaic meal.
If Mom decides to eat vegan pancakes and drink vegan milk for breakfast, I went straight to starvation, hoping she wouldn’t spot me munching on spicy chips with soda on the side. Mom goes ballistic if I do it or if I do it in front of her. She’s particularly sensitive to her thin-waist and dainty ankles she’s trying to stabilize after giving birth at the hospital room. Dad didn’t want to hear her nagging.
Regardless, if I were to dine, I eat at a table with authentic meat and a carbonated drink—no negotiations.
But this, this is much slight better alternative than an ordinary dinner meal Mom makes.
As it turns out, I was never going to be at the party Samantha expected; it was a poor excuse on my end. If I go at the party, things will get ugly; she’ll humiliate me on the spot. That’swhat girls do best. I had a feeling what that girl’s name is, if I had her name correctly.
Besides, I had my own idea of party, my ways of starting a celebration.
Yet here I am, being stuck in between guests, bored than ever.
Here I sat, playing with my food while listening to a grown up conversation. They were all over the place.
Nothing’s good enough, not after the spectacle I caused at thelavishchurch, imagining Dad’s patience broken and fuming in maximum rate, Mom would panic, mixture of anger and upset, as for Bjorn…he’s nowhere to be seen, and if I did see him, I would know his reaction before anyone else’s. Subtleties outstood, and for Bjorn’s were taciturn, but louder under a forming expression.
