Page 72 of Eyes Like Angel
“Yes, she is! She deserves every bit of last gift she likes!”
I stood over to the sidelines, over by the kitchen counter, unable to eat, I witnessed the family gathering over the fact they celebrated Sister Jane’s birthday. Sister Jane’s birthday was elaborately extravagant.
Elaborate was an understatement.
She seized the opportunity as if her life depends on it. She listed on what she wanted for her birthday. She got her pink outfits and pink Jimmy Choo shoes.
Pink wasn’t her favorite color. It was turquoise.
Mine was pink.
Each year, she gets presents, especially when it’s not her birthday. The last time she received from her birthday was a Pilate yoga mat and amazing, clean new shoes she had gotten for $200. Father Divine gave her a large birthday cake, decorated in pink with white pearls atop that turned out to be a candy. Brother Josh gave her a velvet black box with pink roses in them, the floral aroma scented in the air.
I received nothing.
She got all of those presents during and after my birthday.
They’ve forgotten about mine.
For my birthday, I was stuck in a dark attic, and played with little white moths and got myself a silver hairbrush I’ve found inside the brown box, along with a one pair jewel of silver bracelet with green gemstone, at the back it engraved with a cursive letter ‘E’. Since then I placed it on my left wrist, hiding underneath my velvet gloves. During my birthday, I had no cake or colorful confetti to shower on me, chanted me ‘Happy Birthday’, not remembering how the tune goes. Instead I got myself a leftover of waxed candlelight and a last match stick, and blew myself a wish, but don’t know what I’m wishing for.
The Divine family told me that it’s selfish to think of what I want in my birthday, and warned me to behave properly and going to Hell very soon if I don’t keep my mouth shut, no room to object—the day of all days.
All that’s left for my birthday gathering was the other half portions of my birthday cake being thrown into the trash,since Jane hated pink and pearly, and all things flavor which were coated in pink and white. Without them looking, I picked the cake up inside the clean trash bag and ate the whole of it before returning back to my dark attic and slept well on a wooden floor with a full stomach, best feeling I had in a while.
Then they beaten Jane’s dog up for chewing something is made for humans to eat on the next day, and set a shock collar on a family canine.
Sister Joanne’s shrilled voice snapped my thoughts. “I heard one of the neighbors had a daughter who is, what, depressed? Good Lord, is the word ‘depression’ really exists?”
“It does, yes,” Mrs. Rivers answered, disinterest at the newfound subject from Sister Joanne from alternating. “Catherine had a severe depression lately, I heard. She went to the doctor not too long ago.”
Her baby-blue eyes darted at the younger men in suits, assuming it’s Mr. Rivers’ co-workers.
“So, what is this ‘depression’? Is this a trend? Like, a Gen-Z thing? I swear, kids don’t know how to properly behave nowadays! Every young people I know were either rude or nasty—no respect for the elders and so lazy they had to talk back. Back in my day, I can’t answer my mom like that or let alone telling her that I’m ‘depressed’—whatever that word means. I swear young people like Catherine is such a disgrace to us normal society—cutting their parents off because they don’t ‘want to die’ are so overly and profoundly dramatic, it’s hilarious to watch. At least we function normally. If Catherine wants her parents to be proud of, she should’ve just shut the hell up and followed she’s been told. This depression of hers is just nothing but a stupid teenage phase when they listen to rock music along. If my daughter or niece acts like that or brings a taboo up, I would kick her out without hesitation and tell her to ‘fix’ her brain if shewants to get back to my graces—or even send her to the hospital. Thank God my daughter isn’t weird like Catherine.”
Then at the end, I overheard Sister Joanne hissed under her breath in a quick additional words which I didn’t expect to come up.
“Or like thatwretched witch Eva,” Sister Joanne hissed, her long fingernails clenched the foam cup and dented her marks.
She had never calling me by my first name.
Never in her lifetime.
The first time she has whispered aloud in public, calling me a witch.
Witch.
The golden"W"embroidered on my chest, seared into my memory, reminded me of shame and marked me as an outcast for as long as I live.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” Mrs. Rivers spun around, meeting Sister Joanne, who had her eyes widened in terror.
“Ah,” Sister Joanne giggled, recovering with another statement that is identically sounded with a tone of forced laughter, tucking a red strand behind her ear. “I was saying that kids shouldn’t be as wretched or as blasphemous as Catherine. Let’s hope she…recovers well. Don’t you agree?”
Mrs. Rivers bopped her shoulder blades, not paying attention Sister Joanne’s words, but she nodded along, as if she’s actually hearing Sister Joanne’s words.
Not long after a shared opinion, Sister Joanne rotated her focus on me with calculating eyes and a sinister smile, letting me know that she meant each of her uttered words fallen in her lip-stained mouth, still wearing her subtle grin.
I didn’t want to hear anyone more veiled slanders, and absconded back to where I came from.
