Page 54 of Eyes Like Angel
I hated the way she accused Eva, who was mainly known for being a godly woman.
“How the fuck should I know? I tried looking for her!”
“What are you partying for, anyway?” she tested me.
“What’s it to you,” I fought back.
“Michael, I swear to God, you’re making me have a high blood pressure and an early heart attack! I’ll ask again, what is this party for?” her voice roared.
If any of these neighbors heard her unhinged screams, they’d be running for the hills.
Gulping, I was trying to come up with a lie, a good white lie. But for some reason, I couldn’t. It’s best when Eva made a right choice of not being present, not while my parents are livid at the strong outcome.
“So, you’re giving me the silent treatment?” she accused, crossing her arms. “Michael, you’re grounded.”
“Grounded? I’m fucking twenty-three years old,” I objected.
Stomping her shoe, she said, “And I don’t give a single fuck about that. All you do is testing my patience and I’m done with that crap! Your punishment is to go with your dad at the charity foundation, and you’re going to cooperate at the church. I don’t care if you’re going to sing, perform or do a civic duty forthe community. You don’t talk back to us, and do your job well. Am I clear?”
Meanwhile, behind Mom and Dad, Bjorn shot a furious look at me.
And I was drowning.
A part of me was screaming angrily, wanting to kill my family on the spot. Another part of me was screaming happily, jumping for joy. From there, I might see Eva.
But then, with a sudden disappearance like that, I don’t think I’m going to see Eva here at the estate and watch movies and eat and dip Oreos on a milk with her at midnight or snooping into my room any time soon.
19
Adrian
Before
Back then, I was a perfect boy, a perfect son, and my existence was for everyone to see and touch me and praise me like I was God reborn. One touch, either a girl or boy were blessed by me, like a glowing angel sparked their cure through their darkest times in life.
When I was young, I had long hair and fluttering lashes.
They’re glowing, they said.
Good grades, good attendance, good tone, good poise, perfectly gentleman mannerisms—they name it, and I had it all.
I was a perfect little angel.
In fact, they called me a lot of things.
The River Prince, Little Rivers, a gentleman, boy with flowing goldilocks—those are the most used and notable ones.
No signs of troublemaking were found, nothing to ground me in the bedroom or taken phone privileges aside in a tucked drawer.
In kindergarten, the girls called me the prettiest boy in the planet, due to my fluttering eyelashes and silky hair locks and a shy persona I beheld, while the boys were plotting on the side, exchanging whispers, word after word, rumors insinuated I looked more like a girl than a boy.
Some called me princely, however most mistaken me for a little girl, believing my long lashes are born from an angel’swings, or even a dove’s feather, that even they called me “pretty” when I cry, when I sigh.
I’m no saintly figure, but I used to think everyone was…attentive.
Attentive was an understatement.
My grandmother cooed at me, swayed me in her arms, singing lullabies to me, singing me songs I couldn’t decipher. Mom and Dad would stand by and watch, Dad with his third scotch refilled, and Mom settled by before returning back to her bed and a massager for her back neck and shoulders.
