Page 10 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

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 know He was 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.

Still am.

In the eyes of perfect, I was a defect—a defect to their system. At least the townspeople accepted and came to a conclusion altogether and nobody wants to talk a cursed soul like me.

None of my emotions has yet to stride on lust and envy, thankfully. But given to the context on lust and envy, I had no particular reasons to know or condone to act.

As a nun in a divine monastery, the priest laid three rules I must follow—poverty, obedience and chastity. Obedience and chastity bound together. Was it for the sake of safety, to shelter my pure innocence? Or was it just for the vows to take in order to be accepted with open arms by God in Heaven?

For God, I knew he has the solution, has the answer to all answers.

God is absolute; people had often told me, as does the members from Divine Miracles Church. Wherever He is now, I’m sure He was watching over me and contemplated my inner questions drove me awake.

A soft sound glided on a wooden floor. Looking below, I spotted a white linen handkerchief with pink rosebuds on the fabric, contained in pieces in bread—with a cold turkey meat sandwich, cherry Danish bread and a tiny box of orange juice.

Roamed around the far back in the dark attic, I came across a portrait of a young man with a long, blond hair and a timeless suit with a family ring on his finger with encrusted ruby atop, and a box.

Other boxes I stumbled up were mostly decorations for the holidays, holidays people mostly respected.

I scanned to each and every one of them, but it wasn’t a bright idea to touch them.

Spiders might live there, so I trudged along back to where I came from, and then I paused in my tracks and spotted an ivory box with laced silk ribbon.

Inspecting over, I scanned over the items—a silver brush, violet dress, red rouge lipstick, silver bracelet with green gemstone with an engraved in a cursive letter of ‘ E ’, and several pieces of skeletons.

Ah, it’s a Halloween decoration. A bride costume, perhaps?

It’s what I initially thought first before claiming this property as my own. I used and claimed these items for quite some time now, but as for the skeletons, it’s a simple decoration, almost as if it looks real.

Plentiful and uncoordinated stacks and a few supplies to carry within this attic—no food, no water, no bathroom, no toilet, no bed and blanket and no dresser, not even a dining table or a silverware or refrigerator.

My life in this attic has been a lackluster, but it was better off living here than living in the streets, during time of season, I’d rather sleep on a floor, not so much dirt and diseases carried like in the outside streets.

Therefore, I was blessed. It’s better to receive a little gift than no gift at all, all because in God’s favor.

My teeth crunched at the meal in my hand, chewing its savory content and swallowed.

My stomach stopped growling for a short moment, only to be begged for more.

I shoved another portion in my starving mouth, roaming and strolling back to my originated place on a wooden floor, held the napkin in on one hand, swallowing more content.

Cherry Danish bread had my tongue quenched, so I pierced the unwrapped straw and stabbed it through the top container and drained it all.

Dizziness swept and erased, and my stomach is filled.

Somehow, I feel…satisfied, a point I don’t need to face my sadness and the drownings I endured yesterday, yesterday was a history, and today’s a mystery—this is God’s gift, for the gracious courtesy and hospitality, and for today’s mystery was the food in the white linen handkerchief with pink rosebuds.

I took the linen material in between my fingers and ran my thumbs for its texture.

It was light and airy, and the material was as gentle as a dove’s feather. Inhaling the scent in, it smelled like

The door frame shifted, hearing several locks as the doorknob, unable to rotate and got stuck in twisted the handle back and forth, I hid the food contents I consumed and stuffed them into my deep pockets in my nun dress, and had myself sat still, watching the door handle hauled downwards, revealing Sister Edith had her head low, and Father Divine smiling at me, as if nothing transpired from last night.

“Ah, Sister Eva,” he began, had his hands intertwined. “Good to see you again. I hope you learn your lesson after yesterday.”

“Yes…” I uttered meekly, lowering my gaze downward, peaking at their lush robes.

“Answer me,” he said with a grin on his face.

I provided a small nod to Father Divine’s probing.

“Good,” he replied, his voice mingled in satisfaction and discontent. “Sister Edith, would you mind taking care of her? I have other personal matters to attend to.”

Sister Edith obliged and hoisted me up unkindly, stripping my thinning habit, and replaced with a new and shiny attired she threw at me.

Her eyes gazed at me angrily without uttering a single word.

Dress, she might’ve said, but giving an indication I must do it on the spot without another wall to shield me from judging glare.

Not long before, we’ve been asked to go downstairs at the church altar and gathered information for today’s assignment.

***

Soon after we met up with Sister Joanne at the porch step, we clambered all the way down and promoted the flyers in Fort Heaven, reminding them to always attend to Father Divine’s church every Sunday.

“Give these flyers to the people, to remind them to come every Sunday at Divine Miracles Church and report to Sister Edith about these distributions. These distributions are for the newcomers, not the locals,” Sister Joanne instructed without darting her dark look in her eyes at me, after what occurred last night.

I tried to be strong, but I felt weak, not wanting to do anything or meet everyone’s eyes.

I was accompanied by Sister Lucia, who was dreaded from Sister Joanne’s instructions, but didn’t bother and given her obedience.

Hours went by; we slid the flyers at every door in the neighborhood to save time.

“We should try knocking onto their doors and insisted on them coming to the Sunday Mass,” Sister Julia insisted.

Her instructions were the same, every day and every year. I wonder if she gets tired of doing this, too?

I nodded listlessly, and went over to one of the doors, and knocked.

Behind the door, it was Emily. Emily Curtis. One of the nuns who served the Lord every Sunday, clad in her mini tank top and sports shorts. Her sandy-blonde hair was a mess. But she’s meticulous with her appearance.

“Can I help you,” she said, almost bored.

Her dark eyes darted and judge on my form.

“Emily,” I said, smiling ever so sweetly despite my tired form. I handed her the flyer. “Come to the church.”

She snatched the flyer in one swoop and crumpled in her fingers. “I’m a nun, Sister. I go there every Sunday.”

“I know. I just want to—”

In her sickly sweet smile, she said, “I’m busy.”

She slammed the door on my face.

Sighing, I trudged back on a main block; another flyer to distribute before giving my report.