Page 85 of Eyes Like Angel
The air glided in me as soon as I recollected myself, hoping Eva didn’t witness my brother’s countered attack on me.
But when I pivoted over, Eva’s presence was remain unfound.
Disappointed as I was, my heart elated a notion of Eva running and appeasing me—my appetite on injuring my older brother, but Eva would’ve been scared of me if I didn’t.
She’s fragile, fragile in a way I have mind my own tongue and actions around her—I didn’t want our relationship—friendship—to end because of my reckless act. Punching guys in front of other girls is not an issue; they can take and deal with my anger like no problem, but Eva’s a precious being I couldn’t stand her witnessing it all.
Maybe with a mask I have I don’t mind, as long as she doesn’t identify or spotted me, I’m good.
The thing is, I feel empty.
Empty and stranded, nothing to relief my inner pain or my inner demons, clawing their way in deeper. Holy water isn’t going to repair me, so does confession in a confession booth, or the food the River Foundations provided. Or be instilled by the pastor’s enlightened wisdom.
Life is futile. So does taxes and contributed laws to a less formed version in civilization, in Fort Heaven town.
They said that the House of God is safe and warm-welcoming, where confessions have been set free, free from the heavy burdens of silver chains and spiked thorns slashing and bruising our souls. But malicious thorny vines clambered and soiled me, and invisible chains linked, restricted and clang in my head, spiteful pressures of fate from unchaining me.
People were saying it’s a way to relieve and relive their souls to an ultimate cleanse, a chance of a new prosper and blessings will arrive.
I doubted it.
On the contrary, I sense danger and unsettled business roamed in the halls, so many sins to grieve for in forgiveness and redemption.
Took a little air, and I’m drowning, searching for a refuge to confine myself in, refused to cry like a little boy, who used to cry hours on end.
23
Eva
I’ve spent my remaining hours during the fifth day on catering to the homeless, an event better that what I’ve usually done, gone faster on my assignments and done all I could to surpass and exceeded Mrs. Rivers’ expectations. A former employment, before the Rivers Foundations, I previously passed the printed flyers or brochures and something presenting myself by talking aloud by the time they opened the door underneath a hot sunlight was painful, but passing around food on a silver tray and ambled all over the place was freeing.
In one hour break, I’ve spent time on people watching, sometimes strolling in lavish gardens, sometimes hiding away from social events. Social events drained me as much I would like to admit.
When I delivered the last piece of cherry cheese Danish and a coffee to the homeless, the woman commented, “You look dreadful, dear. Did you get enough sleep?”
My head shook in a soft sway. “I…had a good rest.”
The homeless lady smacked her lips; eyes squinted into sympathy, cooing almost.
“But you’re so pretty, you shouldn’t be wasting your potential and worried about us,” the homeless lady complimented. “Why aren’t you spending time with those young people over there?”
Looking over my shoulder, I spotted women at my age playing and joking around, like they’re doing the assignments as a hobby rather than for money going to be provided for thecharity event—all simply beautiful and bright-eyed with wide smiles.
“I’m afraid I’m stuck in my duty,” I said, stifled my sadness.
Shoulders slumped; I faced the homeless lady, didn’t bother on nudging my eyes over her sluggish figure, skinny and frail. Wrinkles set on her forehead and crow’s feet, more pronounced and drier compare to Mrs. Rivers meticulous skin. The homeless day, in her pink scarf and her black shirt and tattered skirt, was smiling.
I don’t know how to give a proper smile, much to a degree of being told I shouldn’t smile over the smallest things.
I never been taught to smile at a genuine moments, no matter how silly or reoccurring the silly acts, whether listening to a funny song, or a show or movies, or book to read to relish them in a positive direction, for onlookers to appreciate me. In my hectic occupation, from time to time, people were curious to why I maintained a stoic expression. Given them an explanation might be futile and compacted a new pressure layering over, like a disease to vulnerability.
“Why won’t you smile?”
“Be grateful you have a lovely face to carry with that frown.”
“Why won’t you smile? This is customer service. Every worker should smile.”
“I can teach you a thing or two about smiling does ‘wonders’ for an everyday occurrence.”
