Page 15 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

Adrian

After skipping attendance to a holiday meeting I couldn’t care less about was one, but skipping for a different kind of party is another. Leaving the house was as excruciating as it was leaving an electric fence.

Usually I set the body pillow under the blankets and tucked it with pillows atop—sneaky kids know how to do that type of shit when ‘heading’ out from either being grounded or suspended from hitting their buddies up for whatever.

That’s what I often did, whenever I leave the house—their house, their territorial property—since when I was a teenager.

After all, it’s a redeem quality, a very special fact about myself.

But with the cameras, can be a lot trickier, according to my past experiences on sneaking out, typical bad son behavior.

A special supper for a special holiday dinner has passed, but I trudged my way through. Trudge and headed at the foyer, strolled around the town and meeting whoever I bumped into—that was my original plan—and has been a routinely, yet tedious effort I did in most days.

Unbothered to change, laziness has gotten to me.

Laziness lasted for days, sometimes two weeks. But today was the only day I’ve grown weary and…embracing my incompetence. And I stayed in my room without eating or doing anything, two days later. Absent in a pointless festivity, and then…here I am, awake, eyes fluttering and all.

Today’s Tuesday. Meaning, I slept the whole day on Monday, avoiding responsibilities like a child wanting a dog to eat homework.

The thing is, I wasn’t guilty to make this choice.

On the contrary, this is what I get for hyping up for my killing spree and my secrecy on previous night.

Killing spree took a toll me. It took precision in time and planning to shove their bodies up in the Fort Heaven forest, thickened in dark twigs and natured leaves, stacking and hovering—a perfect setting to trash dead bodies, but Saul and I argued, debated the those bloodied limbs and organs and soil hand-to-hand, Saul suggested entirely, otherwise.

After moments of hissing and throwing a mishap of violent fits, I surrendered, following Saul’s revolutionary alteration, specifically in two words: selling bodies.

In other words, organ harvesting.

He intended to sell the deceased organs in the black market, a darkest place within website and contact information while the bodies were still fresh.

Despite being in a crowded town, a place contained and livens up their lives through gossip, no matter how trivial or expansive, happily among witnessing the misfortunes in mundane basis, standing in all events.

The black market—three words endorsed to the enclosure on a wired brain, wired enough for Saul to give me at least half of his greatest salary in the black market.

A curl on my lips went upward.

Suddenly, it’s not so much of a bad idea anymore.

Meaning, I’d get twice as currency, almost to Dad’s prized salary, possibly higher, higher than the king’s, if I estimate correctly.

The king’s salary might’ve been under estimation, a grand total of $25 million he earned each year.

If not king, then perhaps, I’d become a God, a better God than a God in a Catholic church.

Saul’s idea boosted me, my ego, my ideas, my aspirations, my self-esteem piling into a bank account.

Selling organs, newer organs from young bodies like theirs is easy for me gain more…heist and the lackluster I missed out in my life, will be proven victorious on my end. Old or young, depending their health status and money, a promising notion of becoming richer, will be my family’s last straw.

Then I could finally say ‘fuck you’ to these Rivers family and escape this hellhole, once I gather all resources and goals.

I must plan and act out as meticulous and cunning as I can be.

They can kiss my ass if they try to give me an ultimatum or punishment.

Prison was the last thing I want to face.

My hopes were high on becoming more than relying on the Rivers’ investment—their inheritance.

I surrendered and followed along with Saul’s proposition, probably the only time I feel good on surrendering my ideals on a previous night.

Moving to an inch, my mouth slipped a heart-wrenching groan muffled in between the silken sheets.

I reminded myself back on a first day after moving here in a large rural town; never dress the same twice, or else people think we’re penniless—Mom told us on social calls whenever we head outside or attending to an occasion.

Protocols meant importance, and people take us seriously, audience watched us as if rich people fascinated them like how exotic animals caged in a glass at the zoo.

That’s the order of things. Being handsome and presentable is to be rewarded, and if taking advantage by the ugliness and late efforts—laziness and crass, so to speak, we won’t go anywhere, or strive for the better—being stagnant in appearance by going missing is like being absent in school.

Basically we might miss out on important episodes or hysterical moments and unseen the results, or worse, going downhill if one of us is distracted.

I’m starting to gain notions on how I feel like a tax collector, not an associate to family who cared their expenses in highest regard.

Mom believed in order, primitive etiquette and mannerisms as Dad believed in money and work. Bjorn believed in obedience and carry on tasks without spouting a word or whine, a belief of humungous rewards paid off in the end.

Doing a civil duty was boring. But to retain the image—a good son of a rich CEO image—a double life between well-mannered, well, soft-spoken son in daytime and a burglar at nighttime, anything is possible as long as I carry cash with me everywhere, and not a single problem would plucked a strand off of my scalp.

Paced my way in the bathroom, sliding the light button on, only for my eyes snapped shut from sudden brightness I installed, and spared another glance at the bathroom mirrors.

Exhausted, I hated the way I appeared.

I looked buggy.

Damn, this is a fucking nightmare.

I looked crap as hell.

Is the effect on gaining bloodlust to the people I hated? And killing the people I don’t know?

Rubbing my eyes, I examined over the crystal glass mirrors, I pointed out numerous things I had a problem with.

One, my wavy blond locks tangled and messy, alabaster skin bashed, as for the outfit I recently purchased—and secretly tucked away in a duffle bag—pursuing my goals and objectives for today, and entered inside the wide-glass shower.

My torso felt like it was beaten over by an elephant, stomping bones in my chest and ribcages to pieces, back of my skull felt like a mud mushed on puddle.

Nightly activities were fun until it became a nightmare in the morning.

Having a bathtub was a hassle, and I wasn’t a type of guy to relax—a heavy spritz of warm shower bedding onto my hair and limbs and my lean and fit body, rinsing and scrubbing—scrubbing with foamed liquid soap on a glove and swiped any traces on alcohol smell and silly fuckery I had at the stupid church.

Or any other substances and dirt I never knew.

And if I carry any diseases, I would never hear the end of it.

Getting rid of defiled stains and rambunctious smell was a paramount on keeping best appearances.

I didn’t want anyone to think I’m a lazy son of a bitch or belong to a polluted trash, but what I can do?

What could men do, aside being superior with their dumbass mindset, believing they know what’s good for everyone?

Some men I saw, whether it was on the internet or a YouTube , often look decent, but totally out of style—or plain getup with basic hairstyle or basic mannerisms, but most appeared belonging to a polluted sea, polluted in black oil from an oil factory, and greasier.

On the dating sites, even apps on the smartphones, most men resembled as a greasy, expired mayo jar climbing out from the public trash dumps or muscled body with a childish facade on their face, plus their spiky haircut, hence why women deleted the apps, maybe saving their phone storage or not wanting to share the same breathing space as greasy-looking and sloppy men who lack experience.

Women prefer men, who are well-dressed, well-mannered, punctual and given a thoughtful gesture into littlest things, things that fully matter to women, something like out of a fairytale, or a filthy magazine or an imaginative pornographic modern romance novels and cheesy movies, hence why girls ambushed me like a bunch of hound dogs wanting special meat to eat, salivating tongues and clenched teeth altogether.

Pumping another liquid soap, my hand furiously deepened the scrub, and lathered the soap across the skin, forcing to erase the gash and putrid smell, hoping for the best. Shower water descended and prickled onto my chapped skin, letting out a heaving sigh, my lungs smeared in smoky steam, erasing traces on a massacre—only a few stabs.

While I stabbed Madison’s—sorry, Samantha’s humdrum boy-toy, killed.

A quick kill wasn’t in my job description; I like to kill slow and painful way.

Descended on the curved stairway, I marched at the entrance by the foyer, passing a towering statue of a replicated version of naked David stationed at the center, trudging across the mosaic flooring, I unlocked the broad entrance, only for Dad to pop up like a horrifying ghost in a horror film.

Oh, for fuck’s sake! Why now?

“Dad,” I greeted dryly, stepping back.

“Ah, Adrian,” Dad replied stiffly, “perfect timing! I’ve been meaning to introduce you these…people.”

I didn’t like how he said ‘Perfect timing’, like I was his personal servant or some shit he ordered someone at the working office.

His voice was droning, droning in his late work hours and wine-drinking. My god, as expected from him.

Wait…what people?

When I stepped ahead, the way Dad’s calculating eyes pierced behind me was tempting to me to get away.