Page 12 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

“Are you serious? If anyone’s being cranky, it’s you. You came yelling at me the moment I entered the foyer,” I shot back.

“Don’t test me, Michael,” she scolded further.

“So help me God if you bring another Jezebel again into the estate or the church or skipped the curfew, you’re going to get punished accordingly.

You ruined our appetite for the feast! We didn’t get to eat last night; your father has to process himself and medicate, locking himself up in his godawful study for—for god knows how long since!

Doesn’t even want me to come and bother knocking at his door.

He doesn’t even want to go into the bed with me.

Did you even see what that wretched girl was wearing on that day?

! Oh, I could almost feel myself faint when she has her huge tits out in the open for the older men to see!

Her outfit nearly gave me an early heart attack! ”

Slightly, I winced. Bothered by the name Michael—my middle name. Truth be told, I disliked it.

Up until now she used that name, and all I have to do is to grit my teeth and shut my brain down to cuckoo-land.

According to my grandmother—an old family member on my dad’s side—to her personal experience of witnessing the scene, both of my parents had a huge fight during Mom’s longest second labor located at the hospital’s top private floor, where my mom is provided the most luxurious room and godlike services in order not to sit or be next to middle class patients, after a lengthened discussion whether Mom should give natural birth or a C-section, which unsettled me in great measure.

Long story short, while giving birth—giving birth to me—my dad laid his stiffened back on the grey couch, tired from office work, strongly suggested to give me a name ‘Adrian’, meanwhile Mom’s short-fused temper strongly recommended—and fought hard for—to settle with a name ‘Michael’, considered on carrying me in her belly for nine months.

Name wars in a birthing room was a nightmare for the Rivers family and my mom’s side of the family, the Lovelace family.

The debate lasted twelve hours straight during the procession of Mom’s birthing process, the in-laws and relatives excused themselves to wait outside at the lobby to lessen the tension, though it didn’t consider the subject dropped. Dad was persistent.

Persistent was an understatement.

While giving birth, my head poking out, my dad argued further, reasoning out—his back ached, honey-colored eyes were blood-red at passing hours, shouted in full-sentenced complaint from a severe case of a hard-rock leathered couch—until Mom’s energy surrendered at the last second and collapsed into a deep sleep.

By then, Dad was happily rested when she got his way, birthing room quietened, and not long, she kept Michael as the middle name. Dad objected but yielded, grumbling on his ongoing rant on Mom’s stubbornness.

My grandmother found the whole hospital situation funny, funnier than a comedic stand-up show on Netflix .

By then, it’s been finalized on several documents, on birth certificate and medical records, born as Adrian Michael Rivers.

I tried to roll it off of my tongue a couple of times.

Adrian Michael Rivers.

My name wasn’t as memorable, to say the least, a bit of a mouthful. And the word ‘mouthful’ was an ‘nice’ understatement. Maybe nice on the paper, but not a form into someone’s mouth when give a lecture.

Up until this day, Mom called me Michael, Dad called me Adrian, Adrian Rivers, often competitive to get in first place.

Talk about match made in heaven—or hell, I insincerely thought.

Years up to now, Mom’s greatly insisted on calling me Michael, which it irked Dad at some points in his career and personal time, then leading up to retirement in a town.

Back then, at the age of four, at first I got confused, which one to use my name, but then time came and outgrown to a stage where they called me either one.

Basically, Dad personally called me as ‘Adrian’ while Mom personally called me as ‘Michael’.

“No, I didn’t see what she’s wearing,” I pressed, a smile smirk curled. “In fact it must’ve been invisible to the naked eye. Jesus, maybe it’s a see-through dress she’s wearing.”

Mom’s eyes bulged in terror, atrocious at my statement.

As always, she doesn’t appreciate sarcasm or a slight joke. She’s been a stiff woman to talk to.

“Are you fucking crazy?! Are you out of your mind? That kind of reputation you’re holding is going to cost us dearly!”

Slamming the expensive door fridge, I strayed, storming into the next room.

She trudged behind me.

“Hey, I’m not done talking here, asshole,” she furthered.

“I’m actually tired,” I remarked, uninterested, my back slumped. “We can discuss about how pathetic I am later.”

“Your tiredness doesn’t dismiss you, I do. You live at my house, and therefore, you live by my rules. Obey them,” she shot back, rubber slippers spilling a several loud cracks on white smooth tiles.

“Don’t you mean his rules?” By that, meaning him, Dad—the ever-so-professional Dad—who would do anything to keep family close, and pristine, money-stacked reputation closer.

She staggered. “I don’t care. I gave birth to you. I sacrificed my life and my breath and blood to bring you into this goddamn world. Use your fucking brain and maturity for once.”

Tempting to have my hand punched at her, I paused in the middle of the grandiose hall at the large estate my dad tried to replicate from Los Angeles, but far grander and boxed-like structure like it belongs at a gated community for elderly.

What got me shocked is not a single friendly neighbor come marching and pounded at the gated doors, close on destroying the door camera from scolding us to lower voices from my mom’s uncontrolled tantrum.

We were the only people who have gated doors. Never know who might try to intrude and break into the building.

“Sometimes I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking,” she continued on.

“I don’t understand why you’re acting like up this.

While you were out there, Bjorn helped out.

He knows how to appease when I needed it.

He knows how to be a good boy—a good son.

And you…you caused me so many headaches.

Do you know how much I have to dye my hair to keep myself look young and healthy for the men to look at me?

Older women judged me harshly, something that you won’t comprehend.

Plenty of things I had gone through, and you did nothing but caused a scene, left, right and center.

You never rest on anything and do everything to keep satisfied. ”

My head shook in dismay. “I don’t know why you’re so bothered by me.

Maybe you should attend to the church to get some answers since you’re so eager going there.

Try to befriend a priest. I’m sure that he’ll take you to see the Lord in the flesh I’m sure he’ll give a right answer.

But I don’t think God wants to see you wearing that outfit, I’m sure he’ll have an early heart attack also. ”

My mother wasn’t having it.

Without a doubt, she grabbed my hair and snapped a sharp pull down to meet her eyes. I yelped, but kept my stance intact from collapsing, not giving anything away to appease her anger. Hot breath stank into my nostrils, a breath stink of alcohol.

Her blue eyes angered. “Since you never listen to me, I won’t let you walk off that easy, so do me a favor,” her teeth gritted, near to my ear.

“If you dare try to walk away from me again, I’ll have your dad break your bones again.

You need a lesson, a lesson to learn, a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your fucking life.

Do you know why your dad moved here in this city?

Because we’re too fucking humiliated by the last attempt you caused! Do you even remember what it was?”

I withstood and held anguish inside. Roots on my head were deafening, sharply clawing its way out for a good pull.

“Well, of course you don’t,” she went on, “because you’re selfish; you don’t care about the consequences, you don’t care about other people’s feelings and reputation to uphold.

You go on about your day and say, “ Hi, I’m Michael, I like to do whatever the fuck I want and not care about the consequences to the people around me .

There’s nothing they can do about it because I’m a crazy person!

” That’s how stupid and blind you are! Fuck this up again, and we’re screwed.

We’re going to become homeless, and nobody will love us, no one will give us money.

For months, I had to fucking put up with your attitude.

That shit,” she said, grasping my hair harder, “has to go. Either you’re going to be the son that I want or you don’t.

If you don’t, everything will be your fault; everything in our perfect life will crumble.

In the real world, you’ll never survive.

You’ll never, ever , survive without me or the fucking money your dad earned. To the outside world, you’re nothing !”

With all in its glory, my dad’s fifty golden—newly shined—trophies lined up against the high glass cabinet, I’m not sure if the trophies could cover the stress Dad has. He loved gold, and taken gold as his wife.

I wondered if Dad matched his sentiment towards Mom.