Page 37 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)
Eva
Weeks within December, the temperature depleted in the attic at a darkened dawn, and I awoke from the cold. Groggy from my sleep on a quilted bed, I checked the time on an antique grandfather clock. Silver pendulum swinging, arms of the clock ticked, pointed at the bolded numbers. It’s already six.
Perfectly well-behaved on the exterior, but on the inside, I was going haywire.
Recollected…purged…seared…reminisced.
Purged and submerged.
Belly ached, and the shivers ran hot, and I wept—kept quiet to myself—in nightly hours of my dubious sin, a harsh stir in my chest plucked and pushed in searing pain.
Tears dried, jolted my aching body upwards, not knowing whether I should stay awake and fall back asleep.
Instead I daydreamed, stomach grumbled on what food I should eat for breakfast. Feeling listless, food was my main priority in essential for survival, to avoid sickness and death.
And like all days, in previous months, in previous years, not a single food absorbed.
Temperature on my forehead ran cold and beaded in sweat, remained in the same outfit.
Another day, another sickly moment arrived.
Sickly as a pale weather, I rose to my feet and inserted my feet in—my worn socks have several holes, but thanks to my own critical strategy, I sewed and repaired the damages each time the socks were washed or worn on a daily basis.
The bedsheets were washed again. Sister Lucia pampered and adjusted the quilted bed with new sheets and soft pillows she brought in.
The floor itself wasn’t as cozy but with a folded quilt she handed over was a nice change.
The floor wasn’t as empty as it was before.
The bed wasn’t as extravagant as Jane’s high quality queen sized bed, but this is more comforting to hold than grasp at nothing.
Or an imaginary blanket and pillow to grasp onto.
Sleeping on the floor is what I had accustomed to in several years, but sleeping on a soft fabric was… new and weird.
Sensing the new materials I laid on was beyond how I could describe, but one thing came to conclusion was my heart gladdened in gratitude at given opportunity when struck. Perhaps someone had given it when I didn’t ask, but needed.
The quilt she brought was in a shade of darkest blue, dark as a shadow, embroidered in gleaming orchid flowers alongside of crimson and yellow butterflies stitched, stretched trails of starlight sparkled and scattered, and along the darkened sky, there’s an delicate detail of an angel flown in the darkened sky, the angel’s hand extended outward to the clouds and bright-twinkling stars, dark manes flowed, imagined a wind caressed through her and mine contrasted on a white-feathered wings with a tinge of gold on the outlines, glittered and traced lines of golden tips on the intricate, ruffled feathers.
Tracing, I found myself in awe.
The embroidery was beautiful as it’s gifted and blessed.
When the material grasped in my scarred hands, softness glided in, prickled my fingertips—delicate in silk and soft as cotton, not too scratchy or heavy, just enough for my body to endure and collect its temperateness, not to be frozen, nor to invite sickness and be ahead to a misfortunate fate.
“Did you have a good sleep?” she asked, light-hearted and jovial.
Her hazel eyes sheened, inviting me in for a light conversation.
Sluggish, I nodded. I hesitated at first because of what reaction I might summon. Clueless, whether she has likeable intentions, I can’t be sure. Emily’s words were stinging, lingering.
“Wonderful, we’re heading out again.” She delivered the washed clothes over—the sole clothes I have—for now.
My brow flicked. “Again?”
Fingertips ran through the fabric, the warmth tingled on my fingertips as I ran it across until the end of the line. I imagined the quilted sheet is supple. With my gloves on, I wouldn’t grasp the theory.
Sister Lucia watching my gloved hands ran through the fabric.
Promptly, my arms folded and pressed against my thumping chest, heart beat racing.
“Why don’t you take your gloves off to feel the blanket? It must’ve feel nice,” Sister Lucia insisted.
Hesitated, I asked, “So what’s our agenda? Do you need something from me?”
“Father Divine has requested us to make an appearance,” she reminded. “He and some man both gathered in counting of two hundred homeless people outside. He already assigned us with specific assignments.”
I stayed still, hushed.
Sister Lucia wistfully sighed. “If you want to know what my assignment is, I’m assigned with helping people with disability—got my first aid kit ready and nurses are coming by soon, but we all know they’re here for the paycheck, it’s so exhausting dealing with those haughty nurses.
Oh, poor them, the patients, I mean. They haven’t given the right treatment from their last doctors, nurses and hospitals always take up so many patients and spaces until the rooms are completely occupied, and healthcare is pretty much messy.
None of them wanted to take the patients in, especially those with Medicaid and Medicare both—and both exceeded the requirements. ”
I shifted in place, lounging with unease as Sister Lucia blabbered.
“Even when some locals bargained—negotiated with the town doctors to do whatever it takes to process a fast recovery, they rejected and told other patients to go elsewhere, but…the thing is, no other hospitals were available. The emergency rooms are packed and fully-booked—first come, first serve. Doesn’t it seem so concerning in our modern society? ”
Unknown what those terms meant, I leaned in and focused on her words, her soft spoken words.
I never knew much of the outside world, besides the life in the attic and how I delivered the Lord’s messages to the townspeople, left and right, no matter what weather, I walked miles and miles to deliver them from evil and save unclean souls from evil and purify, to deliver and carry myself as God’s faithful messenger.
The nuns are the holy messengers, the helpers of the Lord—like angels without wings or halo I saw in the scriptures.
Perhaps my wings and halo were born invisible.
That’s the life I knew, and knew well.
“Are they planning on staying at the shelter?” I voiced out.
Sister Lucia smiled. “Possibly. Who knows, right? This is why Mr. Rivers will be here again! They wanted the procession to go smoothly, making sure his money doesn’t go to waste after the preparations he planned and settled and spoke to the priest and other hospital staff.
He’ll be here, I’m sure. Along with his sons—Bjorn and… .what’s that other guy’s name again?”
The index finger is placed on her chin, tapping each time she mentioned various names she had in mind.
“Was it Aaron? Arthur? Alastair? Angus? Hmm, he doesn’t look like an Angus. I imagine a guy named Angus with a large, snotty nose, greasy hair and a receding grey hairline, ones that resembled like a pig that oinked. But this guy doesn’t look like one.”
Then she hummed, contemplating, her weary eyes wandering the narrowed and melancholy attic.
I, on the other hand, debated whether I should laugh at her commentary, not knowing the references.
“Do you know how long they’re going to stay here at the Divine Miracles Church?” I wondered.
Sister Lucia hummed. “Not too sure about that. I just overheard the procession are going to take forever. I hope God will help us get throughout the day. Regardless, I feel like the God has answered their calling, their…cries. They’ve suffered too much, like a cross to bear they’ve carried for decades, sickness tend to stay and recovery never arrives. That’s how it feels in a way.”
I watched her dusting off the colored-glass windows; on a cloudy day, the gleamed sun basked onto the dulled-shade floor as I watched the thick dust particles danced. In a town of Fort Heaven, nothing’s impossible, not with God in it.
“But we’re not Jesus or a prophet to cure anyone,” Sister Lucia blabbered. “Oh!”
My shoulders flinched at her loudness. Hands covered over my ears for a second at a blatant noise—sensitive in my hearing.
Though Sister Lucia didn’t notice at the effect she caused.
“Bjorn’s the name I know,” she said, random.
“I swear I forgot the other guy’s name. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue.
The two of them will be helping their parents.
And it seems like Mr. and Mrs. Rivers weren’t going alone.
Bjorn is helping, but I’m not so sure about…
” Her chin tucked on her palm, thinking.
“Ah, that’s it! Adrian! Damn, why did I forget his name?
He’s way handsomer than the older dude. Somehow I’m amazed about how younger folks appeared older and the older folks appeared younger—talk about a switcheroo. ”
My shoulders flinched at his name, but maintain composure, pinching the quilted blanket in full fist, eyeing on a flying angel.
Sister Lucia noticed. “Oh? Did the young Mr. Rivers say something to cause you freeze on the spot like a squirrel?”
Initially, I counted the rhythm beat in my chest, no sweat found on my brow.
I shrugged it off, remembering the hollowness in his eyes. “Nothing happened,” I said, my eyes averted from her attentive gaze and her slouched back leaning in.
“Sounds like it’s something going on,” she replied with a sympathetic smile. “What did he say to you?”
I pondered, chin tucked on the knees, arms propped over.
A flashing memory across my field of vision captured a motioned memory of Adrian strode afar inside the party, in result of being ambushed and pushed by Emily has set myself contorted and disturbed, unable to ground myself, a slight faint was nearly at a breaking point.
“Nothing at all,” I answered, getting up, patted and straightened the long skirt. “What time should we be there?”
“In about an hour or so,” she said, searching for a clock. “Why?”