Page 59 of Eyes Like Angel
Poking the spicy crab meat with his fork, Dad said, “A fine job.”
“Keep up the good work, Michael,” she finally said and gave a peck on the cheek, sparking my motivation to gobble up the fantastic feast held just for me.
I felt special and up on a high pedestal.
Like my ideal of home had come at last.
My stomach hasn’t felt good since the day I went to Disneyland. Perhaps showering with grand compliments and favorite food was the next best thing. Maybe it could be taken first place and Disneyland as second. After showering from an intense death-long match at the tennis court in a heated summer, I laid down on the bedside on my newly-washed bedsheets.
Blue was my favorite color. To be victorious, it didn’t occur to me that I seized the day—‘carpe diem’, knowing what those words meant and translated.
Snuggling up, my dreams and wishes had come to fruition.
And my life is the greatest I could be thankful for.
All my sacrifices and tears have been paid off.
At my door, the door knob twisted, and pushed outwards, revealing my dad at the doorway; the hall behind him wasn’t switch on.
Delightfully intrigued, I sat up and watched my dad entered, expecting my dad to give me a goodnight hug or asking me how I’ve been now that I became a star champion in the Rivers family.
He slipped his left palm and tucked it under my chin, directly angling it at his face; his closed lips formed a wide smile.
“You look so winsome, just like your dearest mother,” he said lovingly, eyeing on me, up and down.
Dad unbuckled his belt, and loosened his black trousers and white boxers, slipped down onto the bedroom floor—
***
My breath labored as I awake, stirring with a heavy confusion in my heart, my hands clenched in between my blue blanket, ruffling in my wake, the air conditioner turned off, assuming theelectricity was high, an electric fan thrummed, and a darkened room searing my desperate attention leading to her.
To Eva—a ghostly image of her veiled appearance and her pale emerald eyes came to visit me. My palms soothed me, pretending as if it was Eva’s hands roamed over my prickly goosebumps, thinking about how I needed Eva’s ghostly presence to fill me in from a recent memory visited in my occurring dreams.
And up until now, I didn’t know her last name. Eva is a shroud of mystery.
I counted my heartbeat, and it gradually escalated, thumping.
Lips parted, and choked a cold air to seize this adrenaline rushing in every fiber of me, trickling and dropped.
I counted again in repetition, like the heart machine. Sweat on my back dribbled. I peered over at my bedroom door. A petrifying vibration rests on me, I let out a miserable groan at a strange vision peaked inside a dreamland, hearing voices I never thought I’d reunite, and the unsettled misery, the pain on my physique trembled as if the frosty air blasted mercilessly to my vulnerable position.
Hands trembled, as I picked on my cuticles, and I picked them much it caused a spare amount of bleeding to stain my white shirts and blue shorts. My lengthy hair prickled in heated temperature, my habitable instincts couldn’t halt myself into a terrible habit. Rivers family has perfect skin, perfect hair, and perfect face and nails and wardrobe to maintain, like my physicality in exercise and exercise control.
Tattoos on my hands and arms prickled, and it’s not from the cold sweat tickling and fizzling. But this control is untamed. My wrists heated in pain from keeping still, altering my brain chemistry to go mad. But I shouldn’t be vulnerable or miserable.Those things are vile and stained to the family name, in the name of Rivers family.
Rivers family is meant to achieve perfection.
Someone has to be the bread winner.
The yellow sunrise entered my scattered room, automatically getting up and rinsed my sweaty face with chilled water, erasing the night’s dream alongside, water dribbled and slid over my arms as I cleansed with foam liquid, flushing its natural oils and unnecessary residue laying my complexion. After rinsing for one minute, I headed for the shower, to rub the nightmares from a humid steam and waterfall.
After that, I left with my black tank top and black denim with chunky combat boots and a baggy biker jacket I purchased online, heading downstairs in quiet tremor, silver chains swung on my neck.
Mom observed me intently as I descended. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
“My outfit,” I said dryly, eyes lulling.
She huffed, clutching her fork and a newestiPhoneon her other hand. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Michael, put on your proper attire before I shove this butter knife up your ass.”
