Page 37 of Eyes Like Angel
She choked at my girth, appearing like she was starting to regret her choices.
“You sound like a man when you choke. Squeak higher,” I told her firmly.
Holding onto her ballerina bun, she tried again, slurping and spitting on my engorged cock, leaking with its pre-cum after she spat her warm saliva again, sucking harder. When I thrusted, she went back to choking like a man again. Soon, I spurted a scarce measurement of hot semen in her mouth.
Swiping the sperm off her cheek, she licked a trickling substance onto her finger, humming. “Hmm, you taste delicious,” she said, smacking her lips in a sensual way, winking at me.
I didn’t react to her praises; I was annoyed at her manly gagging sounds and her forced efforts.
Instead, I forced myself to pretend I’m speaking to a girl with emerald eyes say this to me, with her meek, sweet sound without the bread and wine onto her palms. A girl with emerald eyes and a violet-and-obsidian crucifix pendant resting on her, as my recollections snapped—and it recollected perfectly. The veil unwrapped in my blurred vision, catching her from a drastic fall back at the church, her petite form in my arms. The crucifix caught the afternoon sunlight as she turned—mocking me, maybe. But her eyes…her eyes made me believe in tasting of sin more than reaching for salvation.
Eva.
“I think you should go,” I said firmly, averting her attention from my face. “Your mom and dad might be waiting for you, wondering what took you so long. The bathroom’s on the other hall. Wash your hands and face there. Wash your mouth also.” I pointed to the bathroom across the hall, near inches apart from Bjorn’s private room.
At once, she left to redo her makeup and lipstick; hopefully she washes her hands clean beforehand.
It might shortened her usage in the restroom; going back down to dine with my family on a long, droning process I wish to not endure myself on.
My phone beeped. I got a text from an unknown number and a bright screen flashed as I opened:
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Here’s your money, shithead.
I checked another number, where Saul sent the income, since the night before.
I blew a low whistle.
I shook my head, colored me impressed.
Saul was quick as a lightning.
On my spare bank account—one that my family were unaware of—I created separately—thanks to Saul’s help—from their system and connections, I have earned $555,000 within the instant, a result of killing Samantha, her boyfriend and her family.
Old or young, it doesn’t matter. The dead don’t hold their life and belongings anymore. I do.
Selling organs at the black market was worth it.
And paying the visit to an angel in the attic tonight was even better.
11
Eva
In the last few hours within the next day, I wasn’t able to gather my last energy due to the labor by the time my assigned tasks were in near completion. Labor after labor, I was reward less and less, sometimes none, which a droning results drained my last vigor, limped in my last vigor, limped at my last steps.
I was grateful for generous compliments, but accolades within accomplice were lacking in sufficient in payment.
Day by day, I was dragged all over by mothers in Fort Heaven, dragged for their sons and daughters, polished and poised, to be disciplined and aligned their parents’ expectations to follow the instructions within a consistency in homework and projects, in extension of a main objective to housekeeping—cleaning, sweeping, rinsing, lathering any dirt or soil might cause mold or diseases—room to room, storage and closets, scrapping mud, goo and gum, and unknown sticky substances glued under countertops and tables, sometimes feces and stained urine in the unreachable surfaces across their tiled floor. In other words, property needs to be pristine, germ-free—a perfection, suffice to say.
Needless to say, everyone in Fort Heaven neighborhood acknowledged and promoted me to wipe stains and heavy and grossest muck, in extreme measures of climbing, crawling, dashing to compile decontaminated from floor to roof, disregarding the shooting pains in my fingertips, joints on my elbows and knees from crouching and crawling under place to place. The smell of strong-scented bleach andWindexcloggedmy sensitive nostrils and gloved hands gotten stickier, and objectives neglected.
A disposable dust mask in the cleaning bucket is unsullied, wrapped in a clear bag; hence I took the chance on finalizing my working product, masking my face and get on with last attempts on dusting and swiping before the residential owners gets home.
Due to my hard-earning hours, until supper, all were impressed by my exceptional skills, and rewarded with food shortage—their frigid leftovers or me rummaging when no one’s in sight.
Shirked to my chores, I found myself grew listless and disinterested, to a point where I accepted I’ll never receive exchanges on currency, and grew fond of dreams, daydreaming and admiration of the plain-clouded sky. I could fly away if I could; I pictured my glorified wings, torn and burnt—bloody in overlapped wounds and ash.
Among a peaceful neighborhood, Mrs. Fairfield—Miss Fairfield—a new divorcee, through specified as a dowager, since her husband’s affairs was recently raw, as an older woman’s visage upturned from benign and sincerity to a sour and chaffed, wrinkles formed twice as the last I saw her. Wrinkles and crow’s feet drew longer and squished tighter, even when her newly-ragged face mellow.
