Page 41 of Eyes Like Angel

While my brother and father were shirking to Mom’s last straw, I was lounging on the cornered sofa, gagged and stifled my random guffaw at her temper tantrum.

Ah, watching all these idiots was fucking hilarious to my memory core, like I was watching an exotic tiger eating the circus performers at the circus, clapping my way like I was fucking six-year-old kid. Or a cursed witch shoving the needless and wedged it down on a voodoo doll.

Alas, she flounced her way to her private yoga studio she renovated and decorated, doing girly things despite at her processed age. This has become regular; she comes down every morning, in her tight-looking yoga leggings and sports bar, displaying her wrinkled arms and flat belly, a dab ofmoisturizing skincare on her visage, overlaying it with a Korean makeup she got cheap online, but look greasier than a food-chain at a fast food restaurant.

Mugs are shattered, almost a cost a fortune to $200 each, but Bjorn’s was twice as expensive. His $500 mug splat to tiny bits as the imported coffee drops dribbled and trailed onto the high-end coffee table by the farthest corner, as the newspapers slipped onto the pooled surface with a wet thud, the inked articles shrived, soaked the chemical aroma and softened the hard paper’s texture. The mess has been made, and I’m not cleaning this shit up anytime soon.

I blew a low, whimsical whistle.

“That was a good show! Mom should win an Oscar award and have her picture taken right next to Leonardo DiCaprio and Meryl Streep,” I politely joked, having my arm splayed across the hard couch frame behind me, grinning ear-to-ear.

It has settled on her final straw weighing on us.

Mom’s anger went sky high, and both veered at me with petty disdain, wondering if they’ll spare their money for an equivalent exchange for newer mugs. They hated to spend money on stupid or useless shit now that Mom’s word is final. Mom will rain cash on some fake, nosy maid I can’t stand, despite not meeting the employee yet.

Dad left at the kitchen, and Bjorn—once again—slammed his bedroom door after he fled upstairs.

Poor mugs, poor furniture, poor door—all were under mercy at their colossal hands wreaked havoc.

At this rate, there’s no going back. We’re seriously going to have our own personal maid soon, and God knows what this new maid might do, either this maid might be as a disgrace as a pathetic whore, or she does her job diligently. Either way, Mom’s God was testing our patience and money to spare tomorrow.

Tomorrow is another challenge.

Tomorrow, there’s no going back.

13

Adrian

One hour late.

She’s one hour late.

Where the fuck is Mom? She’s supposed to be here, answering the door and tell the maid to do some cleaning. She’s supposed to be here around 11 A.M., as I was looking back up the spiraled staircase, she’s nowhere to be found. But no, she’s not here. I could take three guesses.

She’s at the spa, getting her manicure and pedicures done, entirely forgetting the new employee she fucking hired.

She’s online shopping again in a maximum of two hours.

She might be sleeping with someone.

She really regretted her decision and prefers more shopping than paying her new employee to clean the fucking manor.

Mom was fucking Dad in the bedroom after he complimented her fresh haircut again.

Okay, that’s five! A total of five assumptions I had!

Probably I shouldn’t be concluding my ridiculous verdict, but was it ever really an assumption, when Mom did all of those things? Or even my dad, but he’s Mr. Rivers, a stoic, bossy CEO, who had money shoved up in his own ass. Ah, who would’vethought someone thought highly of themselves to not being able to be so responsible at certain protocols.

The doorbell rang.

Hesitating, I was battling myself whether I should answer the door or not.

Moments later, the doorbell rang, pricked my seldom good mood overturned into a bad one. I marched ahead and had the door handle pressed and pulled inward, a pair of familiar emerald eyes and a crucifix pendant gawked at me in return.

My infuriated attitude diminished.

“H-hello, I’m looking for Mrs. Rivers,” her voice spoken, somewhat faint yet melodious for to blessed the ears like mine.