Page 67 of Eyes Like Angel
His touch wasn’t as slithering as the snakes, or his voice wasn’t insincere as Judas Iscariot.
Were they all real to begin with?
Thoughts, countless thoughts paced as I went back to clean the last traces of dirt and stains on countertops and kitchen sinks, devoid on burning myself at a steaming temperature.
At last, Micah returned, spotting a weary and lifeless look on my face.
“Are you okay, Sister Eva?” he asked, setting the hand towel down. “You look tired.”
“I’m alright. It’s the heavy rain,” I said, convincing him.
The first lie I ever sounded through my teeth, the first lie I sang a tune on, as my stomach coiled into hot pain searing, not knowing when it’ll stop.
***
Tossing and turning in my listless sleep, the wooden floor hardened its cold temperature for my back to sting, as the little white moths hid under at a newfound chill, springing and basking in the dark attic.
By the time, I woke up, a discovery unfolded—a silken embroidered quilt lay atop of me.
21
Eva
Weeks within December, the temperature depleted in the attic at a darkened dawn, and I awoke from the cold. Groggy from my sleep on a quilted bed, I checked the time on an antique grandfather clock. Silver pendulum swinging, arms of the clock ticked, pointed at the bolded numbers. It’s already six.
Perfectly well-behaved on the exterior, but on the inside, I was going haywire.
Recollected…purged…seared…reminisced.
Purged and submerged.
Belly ached, and the shivers ran hot, and I wept—kept quiet to myself—in nightly hours of my dubious sin, a harsh stir in my chest plucked and pushed in searing pain.
Tears dried, jolted my aching body upwards, not knowing whether I should stay awake and fall back asleep. Instead I daydreamed, stomach grumbled on what food I should eat for breakfast. Feeling listless, food was my main priority in essential for survival, to avoid sickness and death. And like all days, in previous months, in previous years, not a single food absorbed. Temperature on my forehead ran cold and beaded in sweat, remained in the same outfit.
Another day, another sickly moment arrived.
Sickly as a pale weather, I rose to my feet and inserted my feet in—my worn socks have several holes, but thanks to my own critical strategy, I sewed and repaired the damages each time the socks were washed or worn on a daily basis.
The bedsheets were washed again. Sister Lucia pampered and adjusted the quilted bed with new sheets and soft pillowsshe brought in. The floor itself wasn’t as cozy but with a folded quilt she handed over was a nice change. The floor wasn’t as empty as it was before. The bed wasn’t as extravagant as Jane’s high quality queen sized bed, but this is more comforting to hold than grasp at nothing. Or an imaginary blanket and pillow to grasp onto. Sleeping on the floor is what I had accustomed to in several years, but sleeping on a soft fabric was…new and weird.
Sensing the new materials I laid on was beyond how I could describe, but one thing came to conclusion was my heart gladdened in gratitude at given opportunity when struck. Perhaps someone had given it when I didn’t ask, but needed.
The quilt she brought was in a shade of darkest blue, dark as a shadow, embroidered in gleaming orchid flowers alongside of crimson and yellow butterflies stitched, stretched trails of starlight sparkled and scattered, and along the darkened sky, there’s an delicate detail of an angel flown in the darkened sky, the angel’s hand extended outward to the clouds and bright-twinkling stars, dark manes flowed, imagined a wind caressed through her and mine contrasted on a white-feathered wings with a tinge of gold on the outlines, glittered and traced lines of golden tips on the intricate, ruffled feathers.
Tracing, I found myself in awe.
The embroidery was beautiful as it’s gifted and blessed. When the material grasped in my scarred hands, softness glided in, prickled my fingertips—delicate in silk and soft as cotton, not too scratchy or heavy, just enough for my body to endure and collect its temperateness, not to be frozen, nor to invite sickness and be ahead to a misfortunate fate.
“Did you have a good sleep?” she asked, light-hearted and jovial.
Her hazel eyes sheened, inviting me in for a light conversation.
Sluggish, I nodded. I hesitated at first because of what reaction I might summon. Clueless, whether she has likeable intentions, I can’t be sure. Emily’s words were stinging, lingering.
“Wonderful, we’re heading out again.” She delivered the washed clothes over—the sole clothes I have—for now.
My brow flicked. “Again?”
