Not Poor Enough For Pity

CHAPTER 8:THE SHOW OF THE MONTH

The silence was louder than the thundering of Evelyn who slowly turned back , her eyes were blood shot red as if she had drank something. Lazarus could hear the gasps around them. Servants who were cleaning up the aftermath and guests who were still sobering up.

"What did you just say, boy?” her voice still held that eerie calmness but this time, it slowly shifted into something of anger.

“I said what I said. A doll is a reflection of the creator. It may be a contrast or a twin. A doll may want freedom when the creator is chained. A doll may be porcelain whilst their creator is rotting wood.”

“Don’t play poet with me boy—” her voice cracked with unhidden anger.

“A seamstress cannot talk with her creation. Thus, she will do what she sees fit without the dolls consent. Because to the seamstress, the doll is hollow, lifeless as if begging to be broken down and made anew.”

Evelyn marched towards him. Her heels clacking daggers into the tiles as she grabbed his jaw tight to the point he could feel her crushing his jawbone beneath the skin. The puppet was rapidly undoing the stitching and the cotton beneath is on fire.

“peasant! Ensure to place my daughter in senior Escobar’s chambers. Nobody shall bother her because it seems this boy is forgetting his place as only an heir.” Evelyn shouted gesturing wildly to the servant as he bowed and carried my limp body upstairs.

To the people who watched the doll house crumble, Evelyn was protecting her daughter from further chaos. But to the inner circle, she was ensuring the unleashed puppet wouldn’t go awry with her doll.

“Boy, if you don’t back down now and accept your place you will be dragging the Escobar’s name into the mud. It will not benefit you as an heir.”

“So? I never wanted the title, I never wanted the wealth. What I want is freedom.” Lazarus practically spat on her soul. His spittle flew to her face. She turned a bright red from anger, her nerves could practically be seen popping out of her temples.

For a few scenes, the room was filled with the silence that would overshadow an impending doom as the audience held their breath, some were taking photos and some were gossiping. Evelyn’s hand was still gripping his jaw when he moved. It wasn’t the action of a gentleman or an heir. It was the moves of a puppet defending his own soul.

Thud!

The audience could only blink once before the head woman of the Mondragon household. She gasps as if the shove Lazarus made was a personal offense. Lazarus stood over her, his messy, ungelled hair shadowed his cold and angry expression. Evelyn was on the floor, her black silk skirt fanned around her like a dead butterfly, her once perfect bun now cascades down her back and her face was contorted to that of true anger. A dragon had been unleashed, one that burn down naughty puppets.

“Boy, that’s enough. You’re making a scene with your undisciplined antics.” Silas finally spoke up cold and unaffectionate as if he wasn’t before. He stood in front of Evelyn and grabbed Lazarus’ arm tight enough to make him wince. But all Lazarus had to do was shove his melted wax ass father who grunted in response. Silas landed on the desert table, the unfinished cake smothering straight into his bald head. People near him screamed as their expensive outfits were covered in the sticky icing. The people didn’t bother to help. Like cameras who just watch but never intervene. Like vultures who eat and not attack. It was as if they were in a fight or flight situation. Except, they chose neither and chose to turn into antique décor that watches it all burn down.

“See how people like you who seems to be as strong as the gods quickly crumble down by the mere shove? I don’t even work out or do any of the such. It’s just as clear that the only strength you all have are just the chachings in your wallets.”

Evelyn stood up with ragged breaths. She brushed her skirt down shouting loudly as if it were to change the situation they were in into something that would be more manageable for her like all the years. “You little wretch! You ruined everything! The party, the engagement, the arrangement and the reputations that were slowly built all because of a doll that is not even yours to begin with!”

“I never said she was mine. I never said I would take her away…” in contrast to the loud hiss of Evelyn, Lazarus’ voice was calm and collected as if he were stating a mere fact. He walked closer, slowly and composed and stood before Evelyn. “she is not a doll, a tool a product for trading. She is a human that feels trapped in her own humble abode just because her parents are too helicopter.”

“are you trying to say that I’m controlling!? I am her mother! I have the rights to tell her what to do and what not to do! What gives you the right to judge my disciplinary actions? This engagement I have given her is an opportunity of a million.” She poked his chest accusingly as she stepped forward, resulting in him stepping backwards. “Girls would die to have a husband as rich as Silas Escobar and when he finally agrees it would all crumble? I will not let that happen! I worked too hard for this!”

“A seamstress—”

Thwack!

Lazarus' head snapped to the side, his hand quickly touching the stinging sensation on his cheek. He grits his teeth. For once, he would be the one to stand. He lunged at her and pinned her to the floor. It resulted in puppet and puppeteer ending up in a brawl of the bruising.

A contrast to the playful banter with Yuudine, Lazarus gripped her hair tight in a fit of rage as she kicked him over and over again with her heels. There was no warmth, no giggles and no smiles. There was only screaming and grunting as they threw themselves at each other. The phones flashed with a rhythmic yellow white, some were live and some were making calls for an ambulance to at least arrive on time before anyone got hurt.

Lazarus was pulled back by some of the servants as Evelyn stood breathing heavily, face swollen and her figure was unpleasing to look at with her hair messy and wrinkles over her silk dress that was supposed to mirror that of a butterfly. The servants dragged the still yelling boy away as he writhed in their grip. Their hands were like iron bars, clamping him down. He was back again, in the hell he vowed to get out of.