Page 33 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

My eyes cued at the smiling crowd, only to find my family was absent, due to their unspoken rule of predetermined disinterest at a breakfast table.

Disinterested, it’s an obvious sign.

The only thing I couldn’t defeat on, or caught an expected outcome, is when the school principal notified my parents regarding to my winning at the tennis match.

So does their friends in a knit-tight social circle, yapping about how I’ve passing the ball and strike, two in three strikes in a match. Possibly more.

None of them which knew a certain aspect on me winning the rounds transpire to be as a new champion in the school.

Onlookers, old and new faces, participated in the tennis match, and the girls—classmates, peers and admirers alike were cheering on for me, overshadowing and rewriting the history marked on miseries I’ve gone past through.

Girls lauded me, all over, and all which asked for my number, asked for my social media account, and sent an invitation for an upcoming party, though I didn’t give in, much a certain extent on being born in high-achieving goals and nonstop money machines, a myriad method where I’m supposed to looking below with arrogant disdain.

But seeing the crowd may unlock doors and gained access to a newer possibility for my upcoming future. Spreading a word was a good start.

The principal called me into his office and offered a grand reward; it meant this will be a gold ticket out.

Tennis meant getting a scholarship, too, a huge deal on my part, as a gifted reward, like I was a new God reborn.

I heard I could get into a prestigious college in certain countries.

I’ve overheard my classmates that the scholarship would cover up from $10,000 to $30,000 in total.

Meaning, living securely in a high-end dorm, eating food at a college cafeteria without paying, not being overly concerned over the debt piled through and through in the aftermath like how regular folks had to struggle on.

I couldn’t picture what my parents’ reactions were, since it’s easy for them be displeased and dismissive, considered how they addressed to me the last time we ‘expressed’.

But when I got home, in a late afternoon before sundown, the party poppers flew off, confetti splashing over my exudate scalp, my mom popped another party popper and my dad gave a huge and rough scruff over my head, patted me on the back, saying, “That’s my boy!

I’m so proud of you! I knew I had it in you! ”

And he pinched my cheeks, shaking my head within his pinch, side-to-side.

Meanwhile Bjorn was futile; masking his placid face with a glare brightened behind his square-framed reading glasses, and gave a cold shoulder on congratulating me in order; rather he strode far and pounced back at the sofa with a silent huff, turning the page over a newspaper.

“I’m so proud of you, Michael,” my mom squealed loudly, pinching my other cheek, rocking my head.

For one moment, I couldn’t care less on correcting my mom’s choice on how she prefers to call me as.

But a light strings tugged into my heart, like, I’ve done a better job. A better chance to overwrite the wrongs and their past attempts—their words might not mean anything hurtful; it meant they cared about me and still is. Maybe they’re apprehensive in a harsher way to snap by somber antics.

Their smiles and laughter, it uncoiled the infliction and agony that was once placed on me, to carry as a burden.

To my disbelief, Mom and Dad prepared a banquet for me—fried chicken, roasted goose with heirloom tomatoes, Maryland blue crabs with cranberries, and a tiered red velvet cake, coated in white glaze and banana split.

I tasted the glazed-fried chicken in one tiny bite, and the taste buds mangled with saliva, happily munching in numerous bites the next.

The fried chicken was spicy. Anything spicy was a dream to my senses.

Mom giggled as my dad snapped a photo of me on his newest iPhone, clicking with a bright flash.

I was loved and worshipped, something that I should have long ago. But all the tribulations I earned in the past years are finally here.

“Congratulations, my baby,” Mom cooed again eerily shouting, jumping over joy. “I’m proud to call you as my son. You deserve this, Michael.”

I didn’t care when she referred to me as ‘Michael’, happily digging into my favorite cuisine, not minding Bjorn when he exited and caved back into his room, slamming his bedroom door.

I was happy, extremely happy.

Everything has fallen into place.

And I’ve returned home once more.

Mom and Dad spoke to me, as if nothing unstable that transpired and divided between us.

“So, what are you planning to do next? Are you planning to do more tennis matches this year?” Mom intervened excitedly, proud with honor as I went to savor my dinner meal like a barbarian.

“I’m doing that soon,” I answered genuinely, hope glimmered in my eyes as she patted me on the head. “I’ve been taught by my coach. He’s an amazing.”

Then Dad’s eyes were flashing, as if he’s…offended at my casual statement.

“Well, I think its swell you did your part, for the Rivers family,” Mom uttered.

“Your grandfather would be so proud of you. As did your…grandmother,” her teeth gritted, cringed at a mention of my grandmother.

“Your father called her right after the principal gave us the biggest news. A fine job, wouldn’t you agree? ” she asked Dad.

Poking the spicy crab meat with his fork, Dad said, “A fine job.”

“Keep up the good work, Michael,” she finally said and gave a peck on the cheek, sparking my motivation to gobble up the fantastic feast held just for me.

I felt special and up on a high pedestal.

Like my ideal of home had come at last.

My stomach hasn’t felt good since the day I went to Disneyland.

Perhaps showering with grand compliments and favorite food was the next best thing.

Maybe it could be taken first place and Disneyland as second.

After showering from an intense death-long match at the tennis court in a heated summer, I laid down on the bedside on my newly-washed bedsheets.

Blue was my favorite color. To be victorious, it didn’t occur to me that I seized the day—‘carpe diem’, knowing what those words meant and translated.

Snuggling up, my dreams and wishes had come to fruition.

And my life is the greatest I could be thankful for.

All my sacrifices and tears have been paid off.

At my door, the door knob twisted, and pushed outwards, revealing my dad at the doorway; the hall behind him wasn’t switch on.

Delightfully intrigued, I sat up and watched my dad entered, expecting my dad to give me a goodnight hug or asking me how I’ve been now that I became a star champion in the Rivers family.

He slipped his left palm and tucked it under my chin, directly angling it at his face; his closed lips formed a wide smile.

“You look so winsome, just like your dearest mother,” he said lovingly, eyeing on me, up and down.

Dad unbuckled his belt, and loosened his black trousers and white boxers, slipped down onto the bedroom floor—

***

My breath labored as I awake, stirring with a heavy confusion in my heart, my hands clenched in between my blue blanket, ruffling in my wake, the air conditioner turned off, assuming the electricity was high, an electric fan thrummed, and a darkened room searing my desperate attention leading to her.

To Eva—a ghostly image of her veiled appearance and her pale emerald eyes came to visit me.

My palms soothed me, pretending as if it was Eva’s hands roamed over my prickly goosebumps, thinking about how I needed Eva’s ghostly presence to fill me in from a recent memory visited in my occurring dreams.

And up until now, I didn’t know her last name. Eva is a shroud of mystery.

I counted my heartbeat, and it gradually escalated, thumping.

Lips parted, and choked a cold air to seize this adrenaline rushing in every fiber of me, trickling and dropped.

I counted again in repetition, like the heart machine.

Sweat on my back dribbled. I peered over at my bedroom door.

A petrifying vibration rests on me, I let out a miserable groan at a strange vision peaked inside a dreamland, hearing voices I never thought I’d reunite, and the unsettled misery, the pain on my physique trembled as if the frosty air blasted mercilessly to my vulnerable position.

Hands trembled, as I picked on my cuticles, and I picked them much it caused a spare amount of bleeding to stain my white shirts and blue shorts.

My lengthy hair prickled in heated temperature, my habitable instincts couldn’t halt myself into a terrible habit.

Rivers family has perfect skin, perfect hair, and perfect face and nails and wardrobe to maintain, like my physicality in exercise and exercise control.

Tattoos on my hands and arms prickled, and it’s not from the cold sweat tickling and fizzling.

But this control is untamed. My wrists heated in pain from keeping still, altering my brain chemistry to go mad.

But I shouldn’t be vulnerable or miserable.

Those things are vile and stained to the family name, in the name of Rivers family.

Rivers family is meant to achieve perfection.

Someone has to be the bread winner.

The yellow sunrise entered my scattered room, automatically getting up and rinsed my sweaty face with chilled water, erasing the night’s dream alongside, water dribbled and slid over my arms as I cleansed with foam liquid, flushing its natural oils and unnecessary residue laying my complexion.

After rinsing for one minute, I headed for the shower, to rub the nightmares from a humid steam and waterfall.

After that, I left with my black tank top and black denim with chunky combat boots and a baggy biker jacket I purchased online, heading downstairs in quiet tremor, silver chains swung on my neck.

Mom observed me intently as I descended. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“My outfit,” I said dryly, eyes lulling.