Page 56 of Eyes Like Angel

Endured through all tribulations he handed to me, but still writhed.

Shouted through the school halls, he called me a ‘fucking loser who can’t do anything right’, unable to please him and appease his urges by pressuring his weight and punching me, my head bobbed and beaten each time he threw a solid punch. Mom calmed him down, but this time, it’s with the school staff, dragging him away, and I’m left alone in the empty hall with red bruises swollen and vile rumors spread about me.

I had no friends to vent or be happy with at that time. I was a loser, stuck inside the bathroom stall, eating my fancylunch, and then proceeded to throw the leftovers at the trash, heading for my next school subject.

Days before, Mom justified that my Dad kicked and punched me because he loves me, and he doesn’t wish to see me fail.

And I believed her.

Soon, Fritz Bellwood spread the word about how I might turn out to be a monster, like my own father. Each time he sees me, he whispered to his fellow classmates, declaring I was a wuss, and feigning ignorance by mistaken me as a girl.

I chose not to listen.

With Bjorn around, he shook his head in dismay and left without looking at me, pretending that we’re strangers, saying that I was failure to Dad’s expectations on me winning the final round, and Mom sobbing—he blamed it all on me.

And I ultimately failed Dad, over and over again, like a broken record.

When I was seventeen, I was getting into tennis, seeing my new tennis idol on the screen; I giddied and gave another shot.

Maybe life’s cruel worth has given me another chance.

Only this time, Dad held a large newspaper in his hand, smoking his branded cigar on the other, Europe made, not hopping in joy for me; I couldn’t read his entire face since it’s concealed. So does Bjorn, head and body turned back, also reading newspapers despite in his late teens, he’s supposed to be hanging out with his friends or dating. But Bjorn was a fucking weirdo who mimics his master.

When I entered and announced my aspirations, they used to be in joy, but it felt like all smiles died when I entered, emotions spiraled uncontrollably, but I kept my ground and touched the fabric on my loose t-shirt. Mom, however, was showing a bit enthusiasm, but Dad was…disinterested, onlyresponsive with a huff or grunt. Bjorn doesn’t react, but he scurried, not wishing to hear or bear my news, or hearing annoyance from me. He slammed the door when he came back up to his personal space.

It irked me.

Jerk, he got some nerve. I hadn’t said a word to him.

Dad kept flipping his newspaper, as if I never entered the dining room to begin with.

Only the clanging silverware from my mom was holding to slice the buttery pancake and inserted it in her mouth, not eyeing on me, either.

“Mom?” I called, expected a simple answer.

Mom gathered a slice piece, lifting a butter knife to her mauve-shaded lips, and clasped in between her teeth for a good relish.

“Mom,” I tried again, dog-tired air plunged out from my nostrils, a way for my emotions to be checked and ducked. “Mom—”

She dropped her silverware down in anger. “What? WhAt? WHAT?! Can’t you see that I’m eating!? I cannot eat and talk at the same time. I might die from choking!”

My fingers placed, tipping altogether. “I was just trying to—”

“Stop it, Michael,” she hissed, warning. “I’m not having this conversation with you!”

I winced at the other name she sulkily addressed.

Michael’s still a hideous name, too biblical and generic for my taste. To Mom’s view, the name Michael is a sign of virtue, gift of God, it said on Google. To me, it rang a bad tune to my ears. Yes, I read the Bible once, too, and it was so fucking boring I fell asleep and snored like a filthy pig and puke like a sinner on a Sunday Mass in previous occasions. Pukefrom pretentious preaching, puke from their shared love and wisdom.

May the Lord be with you, they said.

Blech!

Get this boorish gospel off of me!

I don’t need Holy Scriptures and meaningless definitions of my middle name to be shoved down in my mouth, even Mom insulted me once by calling me ‘Judas’ with her whole chest just to add a fuel to the fire—fire like Satan’s Hell, you’ll be punished greatly, she said with her easy tears.

Licking his stubby finger, Dad flipped the page over, reading the headlines as if he heard no noise from either one of us, his reading glasses swept across the bold text.