Page 13 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

“Be grateful you’re here, living in luxury, because of me,” she vexed, grunted sharply.

“If it weren’t for me, for my benevolent mercy, you would be out on the streets, begging for a change or dime or a shelter.

Out there, you’re going to be digging up filthy garbage for food, for clothes, and you’ll rot, and nobody’s there for you but those maggots and cockroaches eating your corpse.

People will beat you up when you sleep, when you eat, when you’re vulnerable nobody will able to take care of you.

Fix your fucking life before I fix yours,” she said, still grasping the slight curls of my whitish-golden locks.

I pulled myself from her iron grip and trudged straight to the ivory door.

“And remember, when you’re tired, you can rest and be lazy when you’re dead or when you have a severe plague,” her voice echoed through the annex.

“Maybe you should pray to God for tonight to fix that tiredness you’re having, since you’re so great at making excuses.

He works wonders for your life and for the good of his heart!

Once you’re done having this emo phase. Tonight, you’ll be there at dinner early!

End of story! And go fix your room, for fuck’s sake! ”

The door slammed shut and blocked at a grating voice from a godly woman.

Setting the car keys down, I took a quick breather and scan in my room. The scalp on my head was close to being torn apart. Sweat glided onto my brow, my breath staggered, motioning for the agitation to subside. It hasn’t been subsiding. The roaring pain in my chest tightened in hot pressure.

As I marched ahead, I hopped to an empty spot.

The room wasn’t as severely messy as a hoarder like Mom described, but a few pile of branded clothes scattered and flung, my desk work is cluttered in potato chips, a large empty chip bag and soda or energy cans, nothing like the oddly systemized fridge downstairs.

Despite I took care of my well-being, there were some days where I can’t go on living throughout the day without consumption on junk food.

The air became icy and dense, assuming the heater is broken again.

Not bother on discarding my fancy getup, loosening the Italian loafers; I plopped back on the bed, facing the ceiling while having an icy drink in hand.

Sipping, my tongue rejected the saccharine flavored drink and threw it in the trash can beside me, and gathered a small-sized bottle of merlot in hand tucked from a safe drawer, drinking, coping to erasing my mom’s words, scorching, clawing its way into my system.

I had enough of people scolding me over smallest things, but I’m glad it was over.

Unbothered to answer the phone, it beeped and vibrated in my pocket, ignoring the notification ringing tuning an annoying ring tone.

Letting it stay silent was an awful idea.

Lazily, I picked the phone call up, only for the caller to end abruptly. I headed straight for the text message, a few words popped up onto the screen.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Don’t forget our next meet up, asshole. I’ll hand you the reward you requested since you participated.

Drinking the entire merlot away, without a solid breakfast, my hand lifted for my lick the red substances.

Nothing goes to waste or soil my red suit, apart from the blood I had to clean when beating a man with a bat.

Aside from that, I’m drinking responsibly, not once I drink and drive.

That’s the difference between me and all the jackasses in the world.

It was a good post-Thanksgiving dinner, for something I don’t mind replace with typical stuffing, honey-glazed ham or oven-baked turkey or hot fresh mashed potatoes with mushed cranberry sauce and gravy sauce on the side.

Or an organic, tasteless meal to stuff my stomach just to puke it out and fed the mushy portions in the toilet to a good flushing.

Golden sun peeked behind the heavy red curtains, and I couldn’t resist for a nap after my reward. Arm propped behind my head, the dark cushions tucked me in, my breathing steadied, my posture relaxed, vibrations droned, and my sight went dark.

In my dreams, across the widened room, I caught a glimpse of a girl, the amethyst stones on a crucifix pendant flickered, rested on her chest, a pair of pale emerald eyes glaring at me shined brighter than a cross, covered in a nun outfit from head to toe.

The bells chimed, ringing into my ears, but her voice was clearer than the white noise.

Who was she? Why did she appear in my dreams?

Dreams meant to serve a message or warning; a meaning behind the motivations has been driven, not guided by my hands.

Somehow, it was oddly calming. Despite her glares, her voice was tender, the roughness in her tone sturdy, and her chin tucked up, stood across from me.

We both stayed in place. Elongated skirt on her violet nun outfit and a pendant fluttered in a soft breeze.

She hasn’t been gone off in my dreams.

She looked up at me—green eyes daring, crucifix trembling—like temptation wrapped in faith.

The body of Christ, given to you, she echoed, handing over the bread and wine. An unchangeable expression stilled further, though her words—her voice—sounded kind, benevolent and strong.

Alleviated, a voice resonated in a dream world, like a song.

Otherworldly.

A sanctuary.

In my dreams, it brought unholy notions, a smile etched onto my face.

My heart, on the other hand, has spiraled to an obsession.