Page 39 of Eyes Like Angel (Eyes Like Angel #1)

A man who befriends to all women is the enemy to another, and a man who befriends all men is a curse for another man and formed suffer—the gift, the cycle of beauty and curse, beauty and ugly aspect in privileges, and worked wonders who are blessed and fortunate in good aspects and best prospects to secure financial stability and lineage.

Scriptures in the bible mentioned of how a man’s heart easily persuaded if they a see a woman who’s far enchanted than their lifelong partner and a faithful man’s rage is stronger than a storm.

One word roamed across my muddled consciousness.

Lust.

Lust was the first sin for most people—tricked and beguiled—sold their virtue for a short pleasure or distraction to escape.

The priest preached it once, all because there’s a man who had an affair with a woman born and blessed with youthful and ethereal features—from bosom to belly to flesh.

A story to share is to send a message, like children’s fairy tales that are meant for adults while children admire the cartoonish illustrations and the appeal of bedtime story—for one I never grew up with.

Men are to be feared, never worshipped. Men are sent as warnings, never as saviors—Lucifer supplanted the seed.

But with him, with the son of a rich man, I was unsure. Of all people, why him?

Adrian’s no man—I underestimated him. I underestimated him wholly.

His name pounded at the back of my skull, boiling.

Adrian this, Adrian that—I have grown to hate hearing his name! Cursed that blasted devil!

I washed the devil off of him—asinine, unlucky and repulsive—impulsive, no doubt.

“Sister Eva,” a light-hearted voice called behind me.

Micah loomed over me, shooting his endearing expression at my way. He soon sank his smile as he realized what was amiss.

“Sister Eva, your fingers,” he stated, eyeing my gloved hands.

Nevertheless, I marched on and recollected items, only to be stopped by Mrs. Rivers.

“Ah, nice to see you, Sister Eva,” her voiced laced in pitched over-friendly tone. “I see that you’re keeping yourself busy.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” Sister Joanne interfered, in a chirpy voice, but deep down I detected the fake politeness, a hint of insincerity.

“Sister Eva did a wonderful job on cleaning my manor the other day,” Mrs. Rivers sipped her drink with her eyes crinkled in joyous result.

“Yes, I taught her well,” Sister Joanne said.

But we all know it’s a lie.

A terrible lie.

Sister Joanne doesn’t do all the cleaning. She never knew how.

“I can see that,” Mrs. Rivers said in a forceful merriment. “But, Sister Eva needs to speak up more. She’s not a great communicator.”

“She’s uneducated ,” Sister Joanne insisted on clarifying for my behalf very enthusiastically. “Terribly and severely uneducated, and I’m terribly sorry, we were just making her presentable as possible, and I’ll make sure she cooperates with you well, Mrs. Rivers.”

I perceived Sister Joanne’s words she emphasized on ‘uneducated’ in a condescending tone twice. Bit my tongue, daring myself not to sob, to make a fool of myself in front of everyone as I could hear Emily’s words crashing onto me.

“Good, we all need that lecture sometimes. Being quiet and pretty won’t be long. Even people who are different from us,” Mrs. Rivers concurred.

By then, they’re chatting to themselves again, as Mrs. Rivers spoken up. “I’ve heard about your…daughter’s birthday. What’s her name again? Mary?”

“Jane. Her name is Jane, and she’s such a wonderful daughter that I could never ask for a better daughter,” Sister Joanne chirped as she gathered another slice of food on her bowl.

I could’ve sworn Mrs. Rivers had a deadpan expression, not happy for Sister Joanne. “How old is she now?”

“25, I believe!”

“She’s been spoiled rotten, I assume.”

“Yes, she is! She deserves every bit of last gift she likes!”

I stood over to the sidelines, over by the kitchen counter, unable to eat, I witnessed the family gathering over the fact they celebrated Sister Jane’s birthday. Sister Jane’s birthday was elaborately extravagant.

Elaborate was an understatement.

She seized the opportunity as if her life depends on it. She listed on what she wanted for her birthday. She got her pink outfits and pink Jimmy Choo shoes.

Pink wasn’t her favorite color. It was turquoise.

Mine was pink.

Each year, she gets presents, especially when it’s not her birthday.

The last time she received from her birthday was a Pilate yoga mat and amazing, clean new shoes she had gotten for $200.

Father Divine gave her a large birthday cake, decorated in pink with white pearls atop that turned out to be a candy.

Brother Josh gave her a velvet black box with pink roses in them, the floral aroma scented in the air.

I received nothing.

She got all of those presents during and after my birthday.

They’ve forgotten about mine.

For my birthday, I was stuck in a dark attic, and played with little white moths and got myself a silver hairbrush I’ve found inside the brown box, along with a one pair jewel of silver bracelet with green gemstone, at the back it engraved with a cursive letter ‘E’.

Since then I placed it on my left wrist, hiding underneath my velvet gloves.

During my birthday, I had no cake or colorful confetti to shower on me, chanted me ‘Happy Birthday’, not remembering how the tune goes.

Instead I got myself a leftover of waxed candlelight and a last match stick, and blew myself a wish, but don’t know what I’m wishing for.

The Divine family told me that it’s selfish to think of what I want in my birthday, and warned me to behave properly and going to Hell very soon if I don’t keep my mouth shut, no room to object—the day of all days.

All that’s left for my birthday gathering was the other half portions of my birthday cake being thrown into the trash, since Jane hated pink and pearly, and all things flavor which were coated in pink and white.

Without them looking, I picked the cake up inside the clean trash bag and ate the whole of it before returning back to my dark attic and slept well on a wooden floor with a full stomach, best feeling I had in a while.

Then they beaten Jane’s dog up for chewing something is made for humans to eat on the next day, and set a shock collar on a family canine.

Sister Joanne’s shrilled voice snapped my thoughts. “I heard one of the neighbors had a daughter who is, what, depressed? Good Lord, is the word ‘depression’ really exists?”

“It does, yes,” Mrs. Rivers answered, disinterest at the newfound subject from Sister Joanne from alternating. “Catherine had a severe depression lately, I heard. She went to the doctor not too long ago.”

Her baby-blue eyes darted at the younger men in suits, assuming it’s Mr. Rivers’ co-workers.

“So, what is this ‘depression’? Is this a trend? Like, a Gen-Z thing? I swear, kids don’t know how to properly behave nowadays!

Every young people I know were either rude or nasty—no respect for the elders and so lazy they had to talk back.

Back in my day, I can’t answer my mom like that or let alone telling her that I’m ‘ depressed ’—whatever that word means.

I swear young people like Catherine is such a disgrace to us normal society—cutting their parents off because they don’t ‘want to die’ are so overly and profoundly dramatic, it’s hilarious to watch.

At least we function normally. If Catherine wants her parents to be proud of, she should’ve just shut the hell up and followed she’s been told.

This depression of hers is just nothing but a stupid teenage phase when they listen to rock music along.

If my daughter or niece acts like that or brings a taboo up, I would kick her out without hesitation and tell her to ‘fix’ her brain if she wants to get back to my graces—or even send her to the hospital.

Thank God my daughter isn’t weird like Catherine. ”

Then at the end, I overheard Sister Joanne hissed under her breath in a quick additional words which I didn’t expect to come up.

“Or like that wretched witch Eva ,” Sister Joanne hissed, her long fingernails clenched the foam cup and dented her marks.

She had never calling me by my first name.

Never in her lifetime.

The first time she has whispered aloud in public, calling me a witch.

Witch.

The golden "W" embroidered on my chest, seared into my memory, reminded me of shame and marked me as an outcast for as long as I live.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” Mrs. Rivers spun around, meeting Sister Joanne, who had her eyes widened in terror.

“Ah,” Sister Joanne giggled, recovering with another statement that is identically sounded with a tone of forced laughter, tucking a red strand behind her ear. “I was saying that kids shouldn’t be as wretched or as blasphemous as Catherine. Let’s hope she…recovers well. Don’t you agree?”

Mrs. Rivers bopped her shoulder blades, not paying attention Sister Joanne’s words, but she nodded along, as if she’s actually hearing Sister Joanne’s words.

Not long after a shared opinion, Sister Joanne rotated her focus on me with calculating eyes and a sinister smile, letting me know that she meant each of her uttered words fallen in her lip-stained mouth, still wearing her subtle grin.

I didn’t want to hear anyone more veiled slanders, and absconded back to where I came from.

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