Page 124 of Eyes Like Angel

“Oh, you’re looking at her,” she said, scoffed in disbelief. “Not like this nun means anything to anyone.”

Eva’s glassy emerald eyes darted to me, then slowly collapsed.

Emily’s ugly laughs echoed in the thick forest.

My jaw ticked, and my hand gripped on a swinging weapon.

“Come on, dude,” Matthew said, stepping in, “it was just harmless fun.”

When Matthew walked towards me, I swatted a bat at his jaw and heard a loud crack, his mouth bled with a horrified cry. Three girls attacked me, but I broke their legs and tripped them over and swatted them as if their heads were a bright tennis ball, and my bat is the badminton.

Without hesitation, I drew a knife and slashed their flawless faces in quick precision and killed them in one stab. While Emily and Romano tried to fight it off.

Romano swatted his bat at me, but I ducked under and jabbed the knife on his torso. He grunted and tried swinging again. I pretended that it was another fencing lesson with Fritz Bellwood back in a prestigious school, trying to attack Romano with ease, but within each swing he made was reckless and fast.

Tired from his feeble attempt, I tripped him over, and had my knife out, stabbing him on his crotch. His pants bled red, and he cried like a little girl. As he cried harder, I lifted the knife in the air, but Emily tackled me, but quickly reflexed, and stabbed her by the knee. Emily wailed in agony, sounding like a dyingdonkey, with Romano and his bleeding crotch, he ambushed me, but I gave a good punch and it landed him on the boulder.

I had my knife lifted again and stabbed Romano’s face and body around thirty times; his blood smothered my goodly expensive outfit, but I didn’t mind.

Red was my color.

When it was Emily’s turn, I hovered over her shivering body and had my face mask unveiled.

“Adrian,” she said in terror, but slightly happy to see me, happy that I got too close to her pathetic and weak form. But I wasn’t thrilled that Emily was behind Eva’s tonight suffering.

My tongue clicked. “Hurting my darling angel like that…you’re tasteless and pathetic.” I angled my bloody knife against the pale moon, trickling down on her frightened form. “Besides,” I began, tying my hair up, my cold stare scanning her terror tremored on her shivering frame. “I never liked you, anyway.”

Her ugly smile turned upside down into terror, and gasped.

Then a sharpened knife stabbed her deeply on the throat, watching her blood drawn and drowned in her mouth before passing out coldly—permanently.

She looked ugly in life, as she looked ugly in death, all dolled up in dirt, perfectly suited for a stupid bitch like her.

After that, I gathered the sleeping Eva into my arms and rushed her into the car and had their bodies buried into the ground forest, somewhere where the living can’t find them, and prayed to their pathetic God for their living flesh to be returned, but it’ll never come.

I don’t think the dead will answer anytime soon.

I’ve sent them to Hell myself.

34

Eva

My body was in pain, and I’m confined in my own grieving solitude.

The pain rushed, coursed in my bruised veins, blood swathed on me like red flowing silk, bleeding and coursing, unable to move or process of what’s occurred within me or within the surroundings I was in. Jabbed and bruised, the forest bleed red, so does the leather on the backseat. My skirt has bled and an amethyst crucifix on my chest, painted in red, soon turning brown.

I felt useless. Everything was my fault. I didn’t know what else to do. My voice was unfound, my throat bobbed, a sharp, dry pain surged into me, unable to grasp or steadied myself in a tangled end.

At the backseat, I laid still. At the backseat, I was useless and lifeless, numb like a purchased doll being taken out from a wrapped gifted box, ready to pull me, throw me and tainted me and tear me limb to limb until a new pretty doll comes along. At the backseat, I was paralyzed. Paralyzed with unstable emotions swirling inside me, not knowing how long I could endure it. Endure it all.

Limbs were worn out and fragmented, scratches tallied my flesh, I wished to cry this pain for a release, for a good erasure to measure and balance my sanity to be placed back again.

I dreamt of being back at the dark attic at the church, trying to convince myself it was all a dream, that a dream resided in the mist and it would puff away. The attic compacted in old usage and decorations, where I thought of the objects as a part of me like family.

The forest was a maze I couldn’t escape, even the vehicle bumped on the side of the road, unsure where I am. Unsure of my decisions—of my past decisions—was it really all worth it?

Sometimes the closeness in the dark attic was the safest place for me, enclosed me like a blanket from its wooden walls and creaking, soaked floors. Swirled of cobwebs and white moths swirled around the light on the window.