Page 17 of Eyes Like Angel

With the secret meeting ended, I have to head back into the house before Mom kills me again. God, I hate my life.

5

Eva

Sun’s warmth seared into my closed eyes, blinding me. Eyes fluttered, taking my time to open them carefully, as the multiple shots of pain surged in like a knife stabbed onto me.

Sore, I was unable to hug myself; bending the spine over was useless. On my back gushed in blood; it stigmatized the pretty shade of violet on my attire. My head pounded, not wanting to be awake longer than I should have. I repented and repented until sunrise, after my screams halted by a fresh water and sharp whip and drowned noise, only for dreams followed me awake.

Organs pained harder in my thin-waist belly, growling, punctured and rubbed the coils in my organs harder, rib cage in my bodice pained; embedded and stabbed on tight, soaked clothing. I recalled last night. I gobbled a piece of honey baked ham and I shattered plate, a plate that belongs to Sister Jane. A price of my actions being shoved and ambushed—gained twenty hits last night.

I haven’t been presented provisions by the Divine family. I had been a good follower of the Lord—did everything the Lord asked without a tainted mouth and hands. I’ve been ever so faithful; reparation for a sliced honeyed-ham and hot-mashed potatoes was all I asked for Thanksgiving night, hoping my depravation wasn’t setting me up for trouble.

But the priest declared my hunger is claimed by my gluttony.

A vile sin—one of the seven deadly sins, I’ve learned—and memorized to the heart—in the scriptures.

My greediness isn’t tolerated.

I remembered it all.

Looking at the narrowed room, the attic was in no good condition. Old—and molded—boxes stacked, contained with decorations and dolls, as well as gear and ladder—cobwebs blanketed over them, and I had none.

Leaning forward, the pressing weight on my fleshing wound body winced. The blood hasn’t dried.

A long and frozen journey is the one where I can’t seem to escape. I tried running, running to pray to God, and prayed harder until he listens. The air whispered in my ears, no words caressed.

Nobody was calling back to me.

No sign of return.

But I knowHewas watching me.

My voice croaked, dying of thirst and appetite. The hunger has set again. Growling in my belly never ceased. Today was the third day of starvation straining against hunger—third day of cleansing for my sins I’ve committed.

The priest justified about cleansing, where greed needs to be ward off. And once greed is no longer present in my body, I could eat and give thanks to the Lord without avarice and spare kindness in my heart. He told me that avarice is a sin, and wanting possessions—even the smallest things like nutrients or a blanket to warm my body—is a sin. Selfishness is a sin—a sign of Devil’s vile work. Lucifer was born with sin, his heart yearned, supplanted his intentions, planted his greed, and thus he’s casted out from the Heavens, disowned by his own Father, the Lord, the Old God—the Old Testament in the Bible.

The estimation was before Adam and Eve’s timeline, I believe.

Whether the Bibles around the world were transcribe or translated in accordance to own interpretations, the religion knew the passage regarding to the seven deadly sins.

Seven deadly sins, regardless of people’s varied beliefs, knew what those seven were.

The priest reminded me each time he sees me. Nothing more than a phrase to give such glaring caution if I dared anything to step out of the line.

Until it happened in a dark hour on a day of Thanksgiving.

For every sin I committed, depending how deep the wound I’ve set, or I’ve set myself for an ultimate failure, the priest given an exact timeline on how many days I should force my sins to overturn and purify. For every sin I relayed, for every action I’ve taken, the priest assigned the fate onto me in an instant. And within the sins I’ve taken willingly, he assigned the days I carry.

For sloth, as punishment, I must kneel down and pray hours until dawn—never fade to sleep. For pride, I must overturn myself with apologies, to chant the words that the priest has given me until it sets into my brain that my own faults are my faults and that my faults belonged to the devil and condoned the acts impulsively.

If I cannot recite the words; the priest poured a hot water in my back, where the old scars lies for me to shout to the blackest void, in God’s living land, of my sins—for the empty ears to listen except the rusted, narrow walls deflecting back at me. For wrath, as punishment, the priest plunged my body in bitter water, let the water preserved, drowned me as the vision blinded in darkness, being pulled back up so that I could taste and choke the drowning water again, my ears missed the words from the priest’s lips, hummed and hymned in prayer, begging the God to forgiveness due to my imperfect nature.

The holy priest’s words replayed, over and over, until it sinks in.

An imperfect sinner—the priest’s words marked.

That’s what I am.