SHORT STORY
“Away from me!”
she cried.
“Away from me!”
she cried again.
Bad dream. Bad memory. She was crying wearing mom’s necklace, her shirt was torn and there were some hints of blood on her clothes. She was 12 and she was young. She ran out of our small creaky shanty house, with feet and soul bare. She was scared, she was shivering, she was crying and she never looked back. That was the last time I saw her.
Bad dream. Bad memory. He was drunk. Again. Since mom died, since Kuya left there was not a day that he did not let the spirit of alcohol manipulated his mind. If only Kuya did not leave, he might have done something, but what can Kuya do he was also young.
The drunk was big, the drunk was strong, the drunk used to be our father but now he was just a drunk. Ate really did not have any chance. Innocence was lost from us very early. Innocence was gone, and on that night so was she. When she left, it rained shards of glass. There goes the bottle of gin, there goes the bottle of rhum, a cut in my cheek that caused a trickle of blood which is caused by a bottle of beer.
Amidst the mayhem a small hope was left, 4 years old with an inch long pencil with a used down eraser held in a tiny right hand. His head did not veer away from what he was drawing. Chaos surrounded him, but in his little sphere there was tranquility. But the serenity he had was about to be challenged. When all the bottles of liquor were gone, the drunk had nothing else to throw, so he set his eyes on the hope which his foul hands had not yet touched. Inch by inch the drunk moved closer, his eyes were focused on a little hope; my eyes were focused on bad memory.
Dream. Memory. A wooden baton collided with thick skull. Down came the man with his spirits. Handcuffs. Siren. Silence. Hope remained.
“Worship the Lord your God…”
Bad dream. Bad memory. A bottle of beer crashes on a young man’s head. The smell of a 14 year’s old blood mixed with a 40 year’s old booze - is never good.
“Worship this!” he said, as the drunk pointed to another bottle of beer. Kuya, with half of his face covered with his own blood, did not answer back; he just continued talking to mom as her strength slowly faded away.
“Mom, God is with you. You’ll be…”
Kuya never finished what he was saying when mom gave off her final breath. Me, my younger brother and Ate were crying. Kuya did not, the husband did not, but their reasons for not crying differ from each other. Then the shade that was our father stood up, went through his pockets, got some money, and handed it to Kuya.
“Buy me another bottle of beer.”
Kuya stood up. Walked out the door and never looked back.
Dream. Memory. Alone. Orphanage. Kuya was not around, Ate was nowhere and Hope is gone.
“… serve him only”
Present. Thought is of now. I was on my way to work, on a Sunday. I had the morning paper in my right hand, headline said “RIOT ON CITY JAIL, 1 DEAD”. I paused a while, when something caught my attention. On the sidewalk in front of an old church, big t-shirts with funny cartoons drawn on them: A camel entering an eye of a needle, a fisherman fishing for men and a waiter serving God. Somebody then approached me.
“I drew all of them” he said “Printed it on the t-shirt as well.”
I eyed one of the promo t-shirt which had the drawing of the waiter.
“I didn’t know they made it that big.”
“4X” he said “Wanna try?”
“Not my size…” I answered
“Those are just for promotions” he said “we do have some regular size”
He then went through their stocks, when somebody called him. A woman on her thirty’s with her daughter beside her, which I thought was her sister if I had not heard her call her mom. So he excused himself, saying he needs to bring something for the pastor, but encourage me to stay and look some more because I might find something.
I looked inside the church, the pastor’s clothes were wet they just had a baptism. The woman handed her a towel, and the person I was talking to awhile ago handed him a fresh pair of clothes. They were talking and they were laughing and they were happy. It’s great to see a family happy, I envied them. Looking at their faces, you’ll get a feeling that they haven’t gone into any hardships in their lives.
I looked at my watch. I was late. I need to hurry. In my rush I bumped the table and the guy’s sketchpad fell down. I picked it up and picked up a pencil, inch long. It triggered a memory. I then looked back in the church, I examined their faces. The pastor had a scar on the right part of his forehead. I looked at the woman, looked at her neck expecting a necklace. It was bare. I guess wishful thinking is just wishful thinking.
I turned my back and was ready to go, when I felt someone tap on my shoulder.
“Have you seen my uncle’s pencil?” she asked.
I faced her and handed her the pencil, and at that moment where I let go of the pencil - I saw mom’s necklace.
Tomorrow. Good dreams. Good memories.
No comments:
Post a Comment