Page 55 of Eyes Like Angel
When I was young, I was never a people-person; I stopped and motioned my view on them, as if I was detecting something and aiming at them, caught them red-handed.
That thought alone was brought up.
I never spoke in years. Usually, babies talk around the age between three and six. Mom hoped I talked, but I was clueless, despite the leaning education I received, being spoiled and all.
When I was four, all girls took an obvious curiosity and ruffled my blondish-white hair locks, and giggled to a loudest degree, where the teacher shushed them and had them receiving a timeout.
I hadn’t said a word yet, and girls strayed when I couldn’t accommodate.
For the boys, they laughed at me and my longish locks and fluttered golden lashes; they tempted to give me flowers and chocolate, called me “Adriana” on purpose on multiple occasions. From kindergarten to primary school, boys knew how to make a use of their spare time to see an alienated boy with light-golden lashes and wispy long locks; shockingly “mistaken” my wardrobe choices for wearing a school uniform to follow. On that day, I was wearing a sailor collar with cardigan shorts, teased me how my cardigan shorts resembledas a skirt. Stupid as they come, I ignored them, which is a mature decision for me to imply. Teachers were impressed and the students whined. My parents, my mom specifically, gave a hug and a kiss to my head, ranted on about how I handled things maturely at a very young age.
When I was six, I played a piano. The grand piano downstairs used to belong to my grandfather at my dad’s old house in California. The first song I ever played from a piano was Ludwig Van Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in first few notes by the music sheet. Dad heard it all. He was a fanatic in classical music, he’d listen to them in the shower, and he’d listen to them when he was drinking scotch, he listened while. Dad thought I was a grand maestro in fullest potential to known demand, assuming my future would be bright, so he decided to put me on a talent show at a primary school. I lost, and Dad slapped me across the face, telling me I should be better than the nerdy kid with a fucked up haircut and botchy glasses at the grand talent show.
He bellowed across the school hallway, no teachers or school staff or dean in plain sight. Only my mom could calm him down, calling him ‘darling’ or ‘baby’ or ‘honeybunch’, giving a suggestive touch across his chest as she hauled him back, pampering and cooing him with sloppy kisses to calm his urges.
Later, as Dad was in the driver’s seat, Mom justified to me at the school’s hall, declared that Dad said he slapped me because he “cared”. That’s how he showed love in his own way.
And I believed her.
I believed her that my dad loved me dearly in a different way.
When I was thirteen, I was interested in fencing, watching the summer Olympics in the old tapes and seeing the photographs, the days of my grandfather’s glory in his youth,I wished to honor him in some way since I never met him; he’s long dead before I was born. Dad was proud again, and I was happy, so I took fencing classes willingly—day and night—before school, after school, weekends and vacations, including holidays and sickness—having a drastic fever. I studied fencing through watching ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’, and Edmund, aka The Count, was my blueprint to fuel the fiery passion to hone my skills, hoping to make Dad loud and proud.
I was ecstatic, and I was defeated.
Some smart kid—a jackass—named Fritz Bellwood is a top-honored student at the prestigious school and everyone worshipped him, and is the principal’s favorite. Also has light-blond hair like mine, but his was short, closer to Bjorn’s hairstyle, except his eyes were green, but his hair color was more white-silver, ever so graceful and arrogant.
Fritz was a senior. I was only a freshman.
Fritz was not only a senior, but he’s a full-time gossiper and a liar, like his single mother, gossiping to her friends and relatives that are not relatively relevant to her pointless life. Anyone who gets under his skin, including the newbies, he spread false rumors as much as he can in order to stay on top of his game. I once overheard Fritz cheated on the test, and blamed and framed it all onto another top-honored student during the exam, and got the top-student expelled, which lead the top-student becoming a full-time working prostitute at the sole nightclub in Las Vegas when she was sixteen. Most memorable year was the last time he spread gossip to another newbie named Alexander Gillespie, he committed suicide on his birthday, after his ex-girlfriend dumped on him for Fritz for an upcoming ball for the senior prom night for the sake tasting the experience once in a lifetime.
From what I gather from a boisterous chatter, valuable information transferred between my classmates, and hisfriends, rumored to give Geneva Polansky $3000 or $10,000 in order to ditch Alexander and a prime vacation in Ibiza.
And that Fritz finds Geneva “hot”, around the time she was dating Alexander.
Ouch.
Long story short, Alexander’s parents attempted to sue Fritz and Geneva, to tarnish his family name, but they outed Alexander’s family instead and sent both parents to prison, falsified the claim as for ‘vengeful assault’, while his younger sister has been adopted by her relatives who cared more in regards to chasing money and gambling to casinos more than taking care of their niece, guiding her every step of the way.
Fast forward in three years, Geneva went to prom with a different guy for the second round by the time she became a senior, and broken up due to Fritz, saying she’s too ‘old’ for him, after applying herself with Botox five times, buccal fat removal, a nose job for a buttoned nose, and an abdominoplasty at the age of fifteen. The first surgery she had was a lip-augmentation and brow lift when she was thirteen—typical solution to rich people with poor problems; some boy told her straightforwardly that Geneva’s lips were thin as a pencil and her brows were as thin as a thread.
Geneva went with Sebastian Bellwood, Fritz’s cousin for her senior year at prom.
Boys in my school were a huge fan of a girl, whose brows were thick and angled, and blue eyes popping out with extensive lashes and full, pouted lips, creamed in a sticky, waxed-smelling lip gloss and a cheap floral perfume from Victoria’s Secret.
Geneva’s wishes came true; she’d often had her way; her parents were filthy rich to spoil their daughter anything, including a Benz at the age of sixteen and an expensive tan line on a tanning bed located somewhere at a Miami Beach she flewaway for on her grand birthday. When she got back, her tan lines outstood, and she appeared more orange than a natural tan—supposedly she got inspired by the fashion magazines.
Despite that, all those attempts are futile because Fritz disliked her greatly each time she tries to ‘impress’ him.
Fucking humiliating when he bested me; I saw him cheated his way out to be on top of the game, to keep his coveted dirty ways from shame, so he made his final call. He tripped me on purpose, which was profoundly shocking when there’s a massive audience sparked by his fantastical and graceful performance.
Anyone could’ve spotted that ill-intentions by now, but they’re all enamored with the excellence of Fritz, the honorable and diligent one.
My dad slapped me again, punched me, jabbed me on the ribcage with his large rings and kicked me on a hard surface, crushing my organs with his new loafers as I folded.
My limbs and nerves convulsed, writhing. My skin and bones rejected him, and resisted.
How I resisted was incredibly and immensely surreal, to which I survived.
