Page 75 of Eyes Like Angel
Why do I get the feeling he was main objective was trying to talk to me? I’m not acquainted or familiar his intentions, his methods, his way of expression. His friends might’ve known his ways, so it’s possible. Or his blood relations might’ve compiled on his true demeanor. But I wouldn’t be certain if Adrian has friends or his blood relations, if passing onto the vast side of his world, a possibility will set in stone.
It’s all but bizarre to me. In the strangest way possible held at this moment, in this hustled hour. The ticking clock by the wall wasn’t any of great assistance, like a sound of my fainted pulse beating. Heart pounded into my ears, dulled and blocked from a chill wind, unable to draw a reply but a soundless air freed from my lips.
“Answer me,” he begged, his gloved hands flattened, not letting me go.
Trapped in between the cage—his cage. Pitch-black eyes locked onto mine, despite my sheepish gaze, rather intensely, his concentration hazed, waiting, for as long as he took whatever to spill things out from me.
The bronze and semi-large tattered and scratched sacred cross was on top of me, Jesus watched, his soul from a million years ago, was spectating the shared interactions between me and Adrian, spectating the modern social interactions between man and woman. Maybe if I ask him on knowing the future predictions, to avoid the confrontation, maybe it would savetime and scars. The cross above me was relying itself as a decoration, no interference.
I gulped once more. “I have nothing to say.”
My eyes reverted back to the ground, his expensive shoes. It didn’t help as I averted. The perfume loitered into my nose, the strong, elegant scent from his expensive coat.
He scrutinized at me strangely as if I was a strangest of them all.
“Nothing?”
“No, sir,” I found myself speaking again, devoid of stutter.
“Was it something I said?” he guessed, clenching his jaw.
“No.”
“Was it something I did?”
He was persistent.
“No.”
My breath drew deeper.
“Was it the people around me?”
He was losing his composure.
My gaze lowered. “No.”
Bitter tears nearly formed in my eyes, not liking the space, the humid air, enclosure on me.
“Then what is it?” The bitterness left in his tongue as he articulated. “Tell me what it is.”
I hated people who are persistent. Usually they never cornered me—some tried to, but they screamed once I scurried, but never reaching to a point where someone imprisoned me—quick to action. Until now.
I gulped again, unknown for my next words. Each time I opened my mouth, I couldn’t register to annunciate the sound.
I couldn’t tell him.
I couldn’t.
For what, I don’t know.
I don’t know how.
His eyes, I can’t stop gazing, dazed at the temptation—beautiful and deadly—a beguiling temptation seizing one’s heart to act and condone the misdeeds, like a fruit abiding for one’s forbidden taste.
And I was drowning into the abyss.
Hauled my conscious, invasive thoughts clouded, I met his gaze—longer and pronounced, I was braver than last.
