Page 2 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

Eva

I wondered if prayers of grace and love often come true as they said. For that, God might know. As for me, I may never reach the conclusion.

Nothing is worse than being at a church on Thanksgiving on a Sunday Mass with an empty stomach pain.

A gut worsened with brutish burn as I mindlessly watched the spectators—the dedicated followers of Almighty God, bowed their heads down in silence, in merriment or in solemn, mouthing the prayers they memorized from the Scriptures, from the lips of a preacher.

Thanksgiving was a wondrous day for the family to be blessed on a holiday where they gave nothing but meaningless gratitude, masking behind their grins. It’s always been like this, on the ordinary days, too.

Like the hours and days were constantly in repetition—living in the constant routine.

“Let us pray, with the blessings of the Lord in this joyous day.” Silence prolonged.

Candles flickered. The air grew thicker.

“Our Father who art in Heaven, hollow be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven,” the priest’s preaching boomed on the old mic at the small podium, each time he spoke with vowels, the mic’s sound crackled through the speakers, buzzed until it reach to high-pitched noises, ringing in the ears, like a burst on the eardrums.

“May the Lord be with you,” the priest said.

“And also with you,” the followers responded.

“Lift them up to the Lord—”

My mouth is tempted to yawn, but teeth clutched and dragged, provoking to draw blood.

Each and every one had their ducked their heads, followed and acclaimed to what the preacher spoke.

His hands lifted as he chanted his holy gospels minutes pass.

Hands pressed altogether, and spectated through a sea of crowd in obedience to the gospel in such a stretched time.

A newborn baby roared with cry behind the glass—a separate room from the main section, possibly terrified at the preacher’s booming voice at the installed speakers.

The mother tried to appease the blatant noise down, but some men were mercilessly furious at the newborn child.

“And you may—”

Please God, no. Anything but that!

“Offer a sign of peace,” the priest encouraged.

There it was.

My eyes darted on every single one offering each other’s handshakes as for the family giving each other’s hugs. Stubborn children clung into a mother’s embrace and gave peck on the cheek; despite some children cowered at their mother’s aggressive grips and pinches earlier.

They gave peace one another as I remained motionless with fingernails grazed against my other hand in light strokes. No greetings were handed to me; only a stiffened bows from two nuns, with a faint flash of blurred look they darted and fell away in wince.

Aloof greetings bled a passage though the core in my soul, the warm air above the air ducts touched over my veiled head and hit down to my shoulders, a senseless tingle flooded in my covered body, even the black velvet gloves shivered, taste buds tingled, as if the buds tasted a flamed ash in my mouth.

Only then I tightened a large yet elegant crucifix pendant within my left hand to ease the awkward, suffocating air locked, merely dizzy, a rich shade of amethyst and black glinted back at me.

Teeth tugged to my dried lips, enough pressure drawing the blood in to coat the surface, but my teeth weakened its force in.

By then, the priest announced and prepared for the upcoming line for the bread and wine ritual.

I sighed, my lips sealed. It has come to a close.

One more, Eva. One more round, and it’ll all be over.

Another day, another terror.

Nothing’s worse than dealing with crowd, who are in a dire entail of sin and greed, tainted. The tainted needed cleansing—a proper shield and stone of guidance and affection of truth against societal expectations.

The priest didn’t say a word; his narrowed eyes turned at my direction, waiting for me, something I’m unable to refuse. I pushed myself onward, gathering the bowl and tray and descended onto the last step of the staircase, pulling my thoughts together.

The line poured in. Some of the elderly cut themselves in line, impatient for the children but wore a masked dedication on their way.

Teens and children shoved their way in through the crowd, but only then the loving mothers told them to behave, plucked their ears and dragged them, their candies and toys are confiscated.

And just like that, children had their tails tucked in, pouting, yielding, like poor pups getting beaten to the streets.

As the choir sang the hymn for bread and wine, crowd came closer, anticipating for their compensation, eager to rush back to their seats.

I watched people who knelt, somber head dropped and eyelids shut, hands enclosed together, whispers came out of their despairing mouth, wondering if their devotions are true, wondering if their prayers are confirmed by the Lord.

Usually I said the words to them before they were heading back in their seats, but this time, I can’t bring myself to mark my statement and to grant them a blessing for this stupendous holiday. Or perhaps I forgot what the words are.

One more, Eva.

My hand nearly slipped from holding the golden bowl stacked in bread and tray to another, but kept it stagnant with all my might—the last strength I had. The metal stung against the velvet glove. If I bow my head, I would fall sooner than keeping myself motionless.

My hand clutched harder, tired.

One more, Eva.

The pressing pain in my stomach clutched further, and my head span, like the room was spinning, and the people’s faces blurred, a long monotonous hymn distorted, and it grew hotter, and hotter as my throat dried, wanting to consume every bread and wine in this scared ground.

Unable to hear the footsteps pounded on a carpet, a hand appeared with several of large rings on each finger.

One is a golden round ring with a head of a lion on top, the two on a silver ring were plain and shiny, and on his index finger was the red ring with black stone and thin silver carvings on the side.

I darted my focus up to him.

Him.

My body stood there frozen, unsure how to handle or assess.

I didn’t expect him to come up and obtain the possessions that belonged to the blood and soul of the Lord.

It didn’t occur a thought in my lifetime it was him.

I stumbled upon a young couple touching each other as they shared a passionate kiss in a holy church of all places not so long ago.

I envisioned a thickly of mist and passionate flames spreading around as the angels weeping, the murals echoed in cry.

Diverting my attention from the Sunday bells, gawking at the passionate man slipped his hand under a girl’s mini skirt as the watch glinted under a blazed sun.

To think that the young couple—mainly him—would be in full participation in a mundane ceremony.

Holy Communion is exceptional to individuals who confessed their sins and immoral deeds, to earn forgiveness and cleanse redemption, seeing the same individuals who confessed their sins in everyday basis, and kept on cleansing their souls to reach high into the heavens.

I never had a communion because they told me I was a bad girl.

I’ve never seen him nor never interacted with him. Maybe there were others who are identical as him—from afar, at least. But no men in the church all dressed in red.

He was the only one who stood out from the rest—a thorny red rose among the white flowers.

The outsider among the locals, I pondered .

A pair of pitch-black hues darted back, brightened with amusement, which it’s nowhere near to a funny contentment in scared grounds of the church.

The late afternoon glow lingered on a long, palest of blond locks rested on his collarbone, his hair almost became paler, not a single piece of hair out of place, only held by a red ribbon tied to his silky locks and his widow’s peak is neatly tucked.

His stance and his poise, a subtleness of lively mischief, arrogance, perhaps unbearable to anyone who dared to cross in his way, depending on who and how they interact or so much avoided him at all cost.

He was wearing dark red suit with his sleeves tucked up on his muscled arms, his white shirt underneath untucked, rather unbuttoned.

The sun accentuated his hues it was close to being in a shade of pale, his immaculate pale skin outlined his sharp cheekbones brought a softened glow at a natural light, as the other side of his beardless, chiseled yet pointed face carved to a sharper outline, his dimple impeded when he approached, towering over my short stature.

Breathing lightly, took my breathing to steadfast, as if I’m seeing the God’s creation itself—a living statue.

A creation wasn’t meant to born in this world, but to be born in the next.

In a way, he’s graced with refined, or an everlasting impression where I mistook him as a lonesome and lofty nightly creature, forever bloomed under a pearly moonlight, awaiting for a long lost lover or hunt for another prey to sedate in pleasure.

Poetic as it may be, it’s a fig of an untamed and random dreamlike state.

I shouldn’t be having these thoughts, these unholy, unwanted thoughts.

But no thoughts came to arise whenever I met and be struck by a man’s undivided beholding until him.

On the other hand, I didn’t like the way he stared at me. For one who’s born with an unearthly appearance struck an unsettled irritation within me.

Vile and volatile.

Impure and soiled.

My conscious filled and combined all four descriptions to a particular man.

Stomach churned and bubbled at the considered, evidently believable notion, and not be driven by famine.

What a sinful way of displaying love and affection. I wondered if their parents are aware of their secret love at a secret garden they decided to impede on a late Sunday afternoon.