QUESTION NO. 13
My first name is VINCENT that's why i use BEANSENT on my URL. How about you guys, why do you use whatever it is you are using on your respective URLs?
Mar 29, 2003
Mar 21, 2003
Mar 19, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Last Entry
XII
I got inside our house using the window of my room. Pretending that nothing happened, I stayed in bed waiting for the morning. I went down when breakfast was being served. I saw my mom and my sister sitting at the breakfast table. My mother looked at me both happy and angry. She did not say a word though. My sister welcomed me with her smile.
I heard my father complaining about something while preparing for work. He got out of their room and saw me. He just nodded, signifying he’ll talk to me later. Just as he was about to sit down, I don’t know who started it but my parents started to argue about something.
Instinctively, I got my diary from my lap and set it on the table for them to see. My sister did the same. We were both looking at them. I could see tears lining up on my sister’s face. I tried not to cry and gave my parents an intent look.
My dad got silent. My mom looked at us and nodded that they understood.
They both stood up. They went to the veranda. There, they talked. Pretending to eat, I saw both of them explain things to one another. My mother cried. It was when I saw my father held her hand that I stood up and went to my room.
XIII
On my bed, I got a ballpen and opened my diary. I just have to talk with someone. I thought about the days that transpired. I saw the faces of my sister, my mom, and my dad flash before my eyes. I knew that everything’s gonna be fine. Hell, maybe this is part of being a family.
Among the thoughts that were my flashbacks on that instant, it was the fresh memory of Mina and how we met that was so clear. No song could be heard on a radio that’s turned off but I felt songs singing inside of me. Like a love song that you sincerely hear but has no tune, it swayed me to music I never knew existed. It was the simple details on how we became friends, and on how she touched my life in a way I may never forget.
I wrote a single word on my diary that day – Mina. Never mind that she was twenty-three and I was barely thirteen years old. That word contained the truth of my coming to adolescence. It welcomed me to a world where some things could be a lie, yet everything could have a purpose. If what I felt wasn’t love, then I don’t know what I’d call it. You just never forget your first
Last Entry
XII
I got inside our house using the window of my room. Pretending that nothing happened, I stayed in bed waiting for the morning. I went down when breakfast was being served. I saw my mom and my sister sitting at the breakfast table. My mother looked at me both happy and angry. She did not say a word though. My sister welcomed me with her smile.
I heard my father complaining about something while preparing for work. He got out of their room and saw me. He just nodded, signifying he’ll talk to me later. Just as he was about to sit down, I don’t know who started it but my parents started to argue about something.
Instinctively, I got my diary from my lap and set it on the table for them to see. My sister did the same. We were both looking at them. I could see tears lining up on my sister’s face. I tried not to cry and gave my parents an intent look.
My dad got silent. My mom looked at us and nodded that they understood.
They both stood up. They went to the veranda. There, they talked. Pretending to eat, I saw both of them explain things to one another. My mother cried. It was when I saw my father held her hand that I stood up and went to my room.
XIII
On my bed, I got a ballpen and opened my diary. I just have to talk with someone. I thought about the days that transpired. I saw the faces of my sister, my mom, and my dad flash before my eyes. I knew that everything’s gonna be fine. Hell, maybe this is part of being a family.
Among the thoughts that were my flashbacks on that instant, it was the fresh memory of Mina and how we met that was so clear. No song could be heard on a radio that’s turned off but I felt songs singing inside of me. Like a love song that you sincerely hear but has no tune, it swayed me to music I never knew existed. It was the simple details on how we became friends, and on how she touched my life in a way I may never forget.
I wrote a single word on my diary that day – Mina. Never mind that she was twenty-three and I was barely thirteen years old. That word contained the truth of my coming to adolescence. It welcomed me to a world where some things could be a lie, yet everything could have a purpose. If what I felt wasn’t love, then I don’t know what I’d call it. You just never forget your first
Mar 18, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 6
X
I would never forget that afternoon. We had the grandest time. We went to every store that perked our curiosity. Acting as if genuinely interested, we’d ask the salesclerk a litany of questions then get out with brochures at hand. We ate ice cream, read a few good comic books at the bookstore, and had a long walk.
We also went to the same park we were before. We held hands like it was the natural thing to do. We talked, we played, and we watched couples become extra sweet, much to our amusement.
After eating a quick dinner, we knew we were both exhausted. Coming back late at the boarding house, she excused herself and said she was ready to sleep.
I knew it was a crazy idea but that was the time when I woke up in the middle of the night. I went to her room and found her sleeping like a child. I silently approached her. I sate beside her bed, looking straight at her pretty face. I didn’t care whether she’d go angry or not. What I knew was that I had to let this feeling out.
I thanked her for the kindness she had shown me. In audible whispers, I told her that I wish I were born on a different circumstance so she’d find in her heart to more than just like me. I was so sorry. Damn sorry for not being able to help her.
But what pained me more was the idea that I must let her go. Like a child letting go of his first blanket, I was afraid. Why does love have to come in painful packages? I knew she’d never be mine. With school finally over, I may never see her again. With that thought, tears welled up on my eyes. Before she could hear me sob, I ran back to my room.
XI
Before the sun had risen, I already had my things packed. As I was about to leave the apartment, I could hear Mina crying inside her room. I decided to see what’s going on.
“Mina, I thought about what you said about my family and stuff. I’ve decided to go home.”
She tried to wipe the tears away from her face. I came near her and we embraced like old friends do.
“Hey, everything’s gonna be alright,” I said.
She was sobbing so hard that my shoulder felt wet. After a few minutes, she managed to smile.
“So, you’re leaving. That’s good. Your parents may already be worried sick.”
“Are you sure you can manage?”
“Of course I can, kid,” she was trying to laugh.
“Well, thanks for everything.”
As I stood up, she dried her tears away and led me to the door. She gave me one last hug and kissed my forehead.
“Be good kid. I’ll miss you.”
With that, I turned to leave.
Entry No. 6
X
I would never forget that afternoon. We had the grandest time. We went to every store that perked our curiosity. Acting as if genuinely interested, we’d ask the salesclerk a litany of questions then get out with brochures at hand. We ate ice cream, read a few good comic books at the bookstore, and had a long walk.
We also went to the same park we were before. We held hands like it was the natural thing to do. We talked, we played, and we watched couples become extra sweet, much to our amusement.
After eating a quick dinner, we knew we were both exhausted. Coming back late at the boarding house, she excused herself and said she was ready to sleep.
I knew it was a crazy idea but that was the time when I woke up in the middle of the night. I went to her room and found her sleeping like a child. I silently approached her. I sate beside her bed, looking straight at her pretty face. I didn’t care whether she’d go angry or not. What I knew was that I had to let this feeling out.
I thanked her for the kindness she had shown me. In audible whispers, I told her that I wish I were born on a different circumstance so she’d find in her heart to more than just like me. I was so sorry. Damn sorry for not being able to help her.
But what pained me more was the idea that I must let her go. Like a child letting go of his first blanket, I was afraid. Why does love have to come in painful packages? I knew she’d never be mine. With school finally over, I may never see her again. With that thought, tears welled up on my eyes. Before she could hear me sob, I ran back to my room.
XI
Before the sun had risen, I already had my things packed. As I was about to leave the apartment, I could hear Mina crying inside her room. I decided to see what’s going on.
“Mina, I thought about what you said about my family and stuff. I’ve decided to go home.”
She tried to wipe the tears away from her face. I came near her and we embraced like old friends do.
“Hey, everything’s gonna be alright,” I said.
She was sobbing so hard that my shoulder felt wet. After a few minutes, she managed to smile.
“So, you’re leaving. That’s good. Your parents may already be worried sick.”
“Are you sure you can manage?”
“Of course I can, kid,” she was trying to laugh.
“Well, thanks for everything.”
As I stood up, she dried her tears away and led me to the door. She gave me one last hug and kissed my forehead.
“Be good kid. I’ll miss you.”
With that, I turned to leave.
Mar 17, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 5
IX
On the second morning I was staying with Mina, I saw her walk out of the room with only a loose T-shirt and panties on. But that’s beside the point.
We had a breakfast of instant noodles and settled down at the couch on the sala to watch a movie.
The day before, she was so busy with some papers so I stayed at my room trying to keep myself busy by reading. Her studies would be complete after she passed her term paper. The only time we were together was when we had to go out for dinner, which was actually our lunch.
After putting on the betamax, she placed herself beside me. After a few minutes, she settled down on my lap as if it was a pillow. I sorely wished she wouldn’t hear my heartbeat. I felt it was going to explode. It was only in the middle of the film that we started talking.
“Have you decided yet?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Don’t you want to call your parents? They might be worried sick.”
“I’ll do that, tomorrow.”
“Believe me, you don’t really hate them. It’s just the things they do.”
It made me silent. I agree with her. It’s just that I don’t want to show it.
A few minutes later, she then said, “I also ran away from home. But that was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I thought I had enough,” she cut her sentence. “Have you ever wondered what would happen if we could come back in time to correct all the mistakes we made?”
“No, I haven’t thought of that.”
“Tell me what you think.”
I pondered on the question then finally answered, “I don’t think we’d be happier then as we are now.”
“How come?”
“Because,” I was at loss for words. “Because that’s not the way things are.”
She was not looking at me nor at the television. “Maybe mistakes has a purpose. Not just to learn from them, but maybe to make us complete.”
“Have you ever wanted to go back in time to correct your mistakes?” I said.
“More than a thousand times.”
An awkward pause. She continued with another question.
“Have you ever thought that there’s always a purpose in life? That maybe the stars are really people confused with their own existence?”
What was I to say? Instead, I said, “Is there something you want to tell me? A story perhaps.”
She then stood up and took a cigarette from the table. She straightened herself from the couch and took deep puffs. Looking at the ashtray, she poured her heart out.
“I once fell in love with a man older than I am. I was seventeen and he was forty-one. Well, at least I thought it was love. Maybe it was my youth. It was more than the physical attraction that bowled me over. I guess it was the thought of actually being special.”
I could tell that she was trying to act with composure. That everything was fine. She continued.
“Well, he has a family of his own. For a while, I believed things would work out but it never did. I ran away from home. He works abroad and has tons of money. Maybe out of pity, he sheltered me on this prison cell. That’s why I study hard. I need to graduate so I could start all over.”
“Why don’t you come back home?”
“My parents won’t accept me. We are poor. Poverty is our way of life. And, you know how traditions are when it comes to having sired a child unwed.”
I did not know what to say.
“I also have a child. They don’t have a kid so my daughter’s with them. I could not possibly support her so I agreed with the arrangement.”
She then lighted another cigarette and brushed my hair with her hands.
“Hey, don’t fret. I have things under control and I do have a plan,” she was half-smiling. She then wrapped her arms around me.
“My tears ran dry a long time ago,” she said.
It was around noon. Though she was shaking, she managed to invite me out.
Entry No. 5
IX
On the second morning I was staying with Mina, I saw her walk out of the room with only a loose T-shirt and panties on. But that’s beside the point.
We had a breakfast of instant noodles and settled down at the couch on the sala to watch a movie.
The day before, she was so busy with some papers so I stayed at my room trying to keep myself busy by reading. Her studies would be complete after she passed her term paper. The only time we were together was when we had to go out for dinner, which was actually our lunch.
After putting on the betamax, she placed herself beside me. After a few minutes, she settled down on my lap as if it was a pillow. I sorely wished she wouldn’t hear my heartbeat. I felt it was going to explode. It was only in the middle of the film that we started talking.
“Have you decided yet?” she asked.
“Oh, I’ve been thinking.”
“Don’t you want to call your parents? They might be worried sick.”
“I’ll do that, tomorrow.”
“Believe me, you don’t really hate them. It’s just the things they do.”
It made me silent. I agree with her. It’s just that I don’t want to show it.
A few minutes later, she then said, “I also ran away from home. But that was a long time ago.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story. I thought I had enough,” she cut her sentence. “Have you ever wondered what would happen if we could come back in time to correct all the mistakes we made?”
“No, I haven’t thought of that.”
“Tell me what you think.”
I pondered on the question then finally answered, “I don’t think we’d be happier then as we are now.”
“How come?”
“Because,” I was at loss for words. “Because that’s not the way things are.”
She was not looking at me nor at the television. “Maybe mistakes has a purpose. Not just to learn from them, but maybe to make us complete.”
“Have you ever wanted to go back in time to correct your mistakes?” I said.
“More than a thousand times.”
An awkward pause. She continued with another question.
“Have you ever thought that there’s always a purpose in life? That maybe the stars are really people confused with their own existence?”
What was I to say? Instead, I said, “Is there something you want to tell me? A story perhaps.”
She then stood up and took a cigarette from the table. She straightened herself from the couch and took deep puffs. Looking at the ashtray, she poured her heart out.
“I once fell in love with a man older than I am. I was seventeen and he was forty-one. Well, at least I thought it was love. Maybe it was my youth. It was more than the physical attraction that bowled me over. I guess it was the thought of actually being special.”
I could tell that she was trying to act with composure. That everything was fine. She continued.
“Well, he has a family of his own. For a while, I believed things would work out but it never did. I ran away from home. He works abroad and has tons of money. Maybe out of pity, he sheltered me on this prison cell. That’s why I study hard. I need to graduate so I could start all over.”
“Why don’t you come back home?”
“My parents won’t accept me. We are poor. Poverty is our way of life. And, you know how traditions are when it comes to having sired a child unwed.”
I did not know what to say.
“I also have a child. They don’t have a kid so my daughter’s with them. I could not possibly support her so I agreed with the arrangement.”
She then lighted another cigarette and brushed my hair with her hands.
“Hey, don’t fret. I have things under control and I do have a plan,” she was half-smiling. She then wrapped her arms around me.
“My tears ran dry a long time ago,” she said.
It was around noon. Though she was shaking, she managed to invite me out.
Mar 16, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 4
VIII
Things were not looking up at home when school was over. Mom and dad started to have fights for reasons they won’t tell. As much as possible, they don’t want us to see them quarreling but my sister and I could hear the entire racket from our rooms. In the middle of the night, I could hear glasses and plates being thrown and all.
That was the time I decided to run away. I never pondered on where I should go. Hastily packing-up some clothes on my bag, I stealthily walked out of the house while my mom and dad were fighting.
I walked for about a mile not really knowing where to go. My entire savings amounted to only two weeks of allowance and I was getting tired and hungry. Reaching the road that leads to my school, I saw Mina buying softdrink at a store. I told her that I ran away from home. She offered her place. She said her boardmates were all home and she has the whole place for herself for a week.
Thought it was about midnight. After putting my things on her apartment, we went to the park to talk. Somehow, I felt relieved by just being close to her. I forgot for a moment the problems I was having at home.
We talked about my family. She gave me advises and agreed that maybe it’s only right for me to run-away to let my parents know how I feel about the whole thing. I simply adore her. After all the things I did, she’s still the same person I knew.
“Louie,” she said while looking at the stars. “Tell me your thoughts about the countless stars staring at us right now.”
“Stars don’t have eyes,” I laughed.
Not being a wisecrack she normally was, she only smiled. “Someday, you’ll find a star you could call your own. And all the other stars won’t matter.”
“What if I tell you I may already have found it.”
I was nervous. I felt my pulse rising. She opened her mouth and I held my breath.
“Come one, let’s buy some snacks and some cigarettes on the way home.”
She never mentioned anything about what I said. After eating the snacks we bought, she led me to a vacant room and kissed my cheek to say goodnight. I lay in bed thinking about my family, about Mina, about myself, my diary, and about the stars and what she said about it.
Entry No. 4
VIII
Things were not looking up at home when school was over. Mom and dad started to have fights for reasons they won’t tell. As much as possible, they don’t want us to see them quarreling but my sister and I could hear the entire racket from our rooms. In the middle of the night, I could hear glasses and plates being thrown and all.
That was the time I decided to run away. I never pondered on where I should go. Hastily packing-up some clothes on my bag, I stealthily walked out of the house while my mom and dad were fighting.
I walked for about a mile not really knowing where to go. My entire savings amounted to only two weeks of allowance and I was getting tired and hungry. Reaching the road that leads to my school, I saw Mina buying softdrink at a store. I told her that I ran away from home. She offered her place. She said her boardmates were all home and she has the whole place for herself for a week.
Thought it was about midnight. After putting my things on her apartment, we went to the park to talk. Somehow, I felt relieved by just being close to her. I forgot for a moment the problems I was having at home.
We talked about my family. She gave me advises and agreed that maybe it’s only right for me to run-away to let my parents know how I feel about the whole thing. I simply adore her. After all the things I did, she’s still the same person I knew.
“Louie,” she said while looking at the stars. “Tell me your thoughts about the countless stars staring at us right now.”
“Stars don’t have eyes,” I laughed.
Not being a wisecrack she normally was, she only smiled. “Someday, you’ll find a star you could call your own. And all the other stars won’t matter.”
“What if I tell you I may already have found it.”
I was nervous. I felt my pulse rising. She opened her mouth and I held my breath.
“Come one, let’s buy some snacks and some cigarettes on the way home.”
She never mentioned anything about what I said. After eating the snacks we bought, she led me to a vacant room and kissed my cheek to say goodnight. I lay in bed thinking about my family, about Mina, about myself, my diary, and about the stars and what she said about it.
Mar 15, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 3
VI
I asked my mother if she ever read what was inside my great grandfather’s diary. Tucked inside an antique cabinet, it is not that hard to take away the bundles of rope that served as the journal’s lock. She said no and reasoned that that was the specific instruction of her mother. She then went on lecturing about the virtues of keeping a promise. She implied that she was given trust to take care of these family treasures and she does not intend to break the tradition. Indeed, volumes of diaries were safely gathered at our cabinet. The oldest of which was the diary of my mother’s great grandfather.
What I thought was an easy task turned out to be a grueling labor. After exhausting my thoughts on the lists that I could write, I started to scribble whatever it is I felt at that moment. From the entries one would see curses, and mostly the word ‘boring’ repeated more than a hundred times. There were even entries of incomprehensible words done by mixing up the letters of the alphabet.
I listed down the alphabet from A to Z, then Z to A. I had about five entries of that. I would often tell myself how I hated that task. I felt trapped by a tradition whose real value I don’t understand.
VII
Mina was not that pretty but she’s not that ugly either. I really don’t know what transformation came over me but it prompted something inside urging me to imply what I feel. I never listened to love songs, but suddenly, Barry Manilow started to sound cool. As ever man is supposed to act everytime they felt what I felt, I did all that. I gave her flowers. I tried as much as possible to see her everyday.
“Hey,” she said one day. “What’s that behind your back?”
“Oh, this,” and I laid out a book. “My mother reads this kind of stuff. Thought you might like it.”
It was a Mills and Boone pocketbook I bought at a discounted bookstore. I gave it to her.
“That’s sweet,” she said as she received it. “I’ll try to read it.”
“Mina,” I paused. “There’s a note inside you might want to read.”
“Oh,” she leafed through the pages and found my note written on a stationary I took from my sister’s collection. She browsed through the letter and smiled.
“Know what,” she winked. “With more practice, I bet you can become a great letter writer.”
With that, she took off by saying she has some catching up to do.
That incident gave me the courage to give her the ring wrapped around the petals of a rose, the very first poem I made for a girl, and those little things I never knew I could do. I told her it’s all about the friendship she gave me. Setting aside courage, I needed bravery to tell her my true feelings.
All in all, her reactions were all the same. She just said thank you. I didn’t mind. I was happy with that. I knew she liked me. It’s just that something, just something deep inside, is also telling me I wanted her to more than just like me.
Entry No. 3
VI
I asked my mother if she ever read what was inside my great grandfather’s diary. Tucked inside an antique cabinet, it is not that hard to take away the bundles of rope that served as the journal’s lock. She said no and reasoned that that was the specific instruction of her mother. She then went on lecturing about the virtues of keeping a promise. She implied that she was given trust to take care of these family treasures and she does not intend to break the tradition. Indeed, volumes of diaries were safely gathered at our cabinet. The oldest of which was the diary of my mother’s great grandfather.
What I thought was an easy task turned out to be a grueling labor. After exhausting my thoughts on the lists that I could write, I started to scribble whatever it is I felt at that moment. From the entries one would see curses, and mostly the word ‘boring’ repeated more than a hundred times. There were even entries of incomprehensible words done by mixing up the letters of the alphabet.
I listed down the alphabet from A to Z, then Z to A. I had about five entries of that. I would often tell myself how I hated that task. I felt trapped by a tradition whose real value I don’t understand.
VII
Mina was not that pretty but she’s not that ugly either. I really don’t know what transformation came over me but it prompted something inside urging me to imply what I feel. I never listened to love songs, but suddenly, Barry Manilow started to sound cool. As ever man is supposed to act everytime they felt what I felt, I did all that. I gave her flowers. I tried as much as possible to see her everyday.
“Hey,” she said one day. “What’s that behind your back?”
“Oh, this,” and I laid out a book. “My mother reads this kind of stuff. Thought you might like it.”
It was a Mills and Boone pocketbook I bought at a discounted bookstore. I gave it to her.
“That’s sweet,” she said as she received it. “I’ll try to read it.”
“Mina,” I paused. “There’s a note inside you might want to read.”
“Oh,” she leafed through the pages and found my note written on a stationary I took from my sister’s collection. She browsed through the letter and smiled.
“Know what,” she winked. “With more practice, I bet you can become a great letter writer.”
With that, she took off by saying she has some catching up to do.
That incident gave me the courage to give her the ring wrapped around the petals of a rose, the very first poem I made for a girl, and those little things I never knew I could do. I told her it’s all about the friendship she gave me. Setting aside courage, I needed bravery to tell her my true feelings.
All in all, her reactions were all the same. She just said thank you. I didn’t mind. I was happy with that. I knew she liked me. It’s just that something, just something deep inside, is also telling me I wanted her to more than just like me.
Mar 14, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 2
IV
My sister started writing on her diary when she was just ten years old. We never talk much, her being older than I am by three years. By the time I was old enough to be influenced by computer games and video arcades, my mother saw it as an opportunity for her to finally persuade me to start a journal of my own. I complied, thinking I could outsmart her by scribbling nonsense on every page of my little notebook.
After she bought me my PC, I would proudly wave at her the page where I scribbled nonsense on my diary. Sort of telling her that I’m doing my part of the bargain. As I’ve said earlier, no one among us reads another family member’s journal. That was a golden rule. My mom would smile. I would laugh hysterically at the back of my mind thinking that I outsmarted her.
At first, it seemed like an easy task. I started writing down all the animals I could think of. That was entry number one to entry number five. Then, I listed down in a letter-like fashion all the elements in the periodic table until I fill up a page. That was entry number six to entry number eleven. There were times when I would just sing a song and write the lyrics down. I figured that after two years, my mom would no longer need to be assured that I write on my diary.
Sample: August 24, 1989 (Entry No. 1)
Dear Diary,
Ants antelope armadillo anteater bear butterfly bat bird bobcat cat camel caterpillar catfish carrion candor dog duck deer dragonfly dogfish eagle elephant eel earthworm falcon fish flying fish fox, etc., etc., etc., . . and so on, and so on. . . .
V
“Hey lighter guy,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you here. What’s up?”
I flashed a smile.
“Aren’t you gonna speak up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered.
“Want a smoke?” she was teasing.
“Sure. But not here. The guards might see us.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll treat you to a sundae, ok.”
“Alright.”
We went outside the campus and went straight to where the college guys hangout. I was waiting for her to buy me a cigarette but she did not. Not knowing how to start a conversation, I just sat there, mixing all the stuff on my sundae. She stared at me for awhile as I was about to say something. I just closed my mouth.
“Aren’t you going to say something? I mean, hello! Do I have bad breath or something?” her eyes were wide open and I managed to smile.
“What do you want me to ask you?”
“Well, anything. Normal people are supposed to get acquainted, aren’t they?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “What is it again that you want me to ask you?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief.
“You are weird, aren’t you?”
Even before she was able to finish that sentence, I murmured.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What?” she shot back. “Okay, okay. Let’s just eat.”
She concentrated on finishing her sundae.
“You really love ice cream, don’t you?” I asked.
“You really are weird, aren’t you?”
One could tell that we were having a good time.
“Well, weirdness is - ” but before I could finish my sentence, she continued.
“Well, I like weird guys. The last time I met someone like that was. . . .” she did not finish her sentence. There was an awkward pause.
“I have a question. Why do you want to hang-out with me?”
She looked at me, as if trying to answer my question in silence. “Well. . . . you look nice and. . .”
“And?”
“And. . . you look like my brother.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll race you towards school.” With that, she sprung from her feet and ran towards the gate. I followed her though my bag was being a nuisance. I almost fell.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five.
“Bye,” she said. Then she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She then ran away.
“Hey,” I yelled.
But she was gone. I brushed my hand on the side of the cheek where she kissed it. I bought my first cigarette that day.
Entry No. 2
IV
My sister started writing on her diary when she was just ten years old. We never talk much, her being older than I am by three years. By the time I was old enough to be influenced by computer games and video arcades, my mother saw it as an opportunity for her to finally persuade me to start a journal of my own. I complied, thinking I could outsmart her by scribbling nonsense on every page of my little notebook.
After she bought me my PC, I would proudly wave at her the page where I scribbled nonsense on my diary. Sort of telling her that I’m doing my part of the bargain. As I’ve said earlier, no one among us reads another family member’s journal. That was a golden rule. My mom would smile. I would laugh hysterically at the back of my mind thinking that I outsmarted her.
At first, it seemed like an easy task. I started writing down all the animals I could think of. That was entry number one to entry number five. Then, I listed down in a letter-like fashion all the elements in the periodic table until I fill up a page. That was entry number six to entry number eleven. There were times when I would just sing a song and write the lyrics down. I figured that after two years, my mom would no longer need to be assured that I write on my diary.
Sample: August 24, 1989 (Entry No. 1)
Dear Diary,
Ants antelope armadillo anteater bear butterfly bat bird bobcat cat camel caterpillar catfish carrion candor dog duck deer dragonfly dogfish eagle elephant eel earthworm falcon fish flying fish fox, etc., etc., etc., . . and so on, and so on. . . .
V
“Hey lighter guy,” she said. “I never thought I’d see you here. What’s up?”
I flashed a smile.
“Aren’t you gonna speak up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I answered.
“Want a smoke?” she was teasing.
“Sure. But not here. The guards might see us.”
“Okay,” she replied. “I’ll treat you to a sundae, ok.”
“Alright.”
We went outside the campus and went straight to where the college guys hangout. I was waiting for her to buy me a cigarette but she did not. Not knowing how to start a conversation, I just sat there, mixing all the stuff on my sundae. She stared at me for awhile as I was about to say something. I just closed my mouth.
“Aren’t you going to say something? I mean, hello! Do I have bad breath or something?” her eyes were wide open and I managed to smile.
“What do you want me to ask you?”
“Well, anything. Normal people are supposed to get acquainted, aren’t they?”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “What is it again that you want me to ask you?”
She opened her mouth in disbelief.
“You are weird, aren’t you?”
Even before she was able to finish that sentence, I murmured.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“What?” she shot back. “Okay, okay. Let’s just eat.”
She concentrated on finishing her sundae.
“You really love ice cream, don’t you?” I asked.
“You really are weird, aren’t you?”
One could tell that we were having a good time.
“Well, weirdness is - ” but before I could finish my sentence, she continued.
“Well, I like weird guys. The last time I met someone like that was. . . .” she did not finish her sentence. There was an awkward pause.
“I have a question. Why do you want to hang-out with me?”
She looked at me, as if trying to answer my question in silence. “Well. . . . you look nice and. . .”
“And?”
“And. . . you look like my brother.”
“Oh.”
“I’ll race you towards school.” With that, she sprung from her feet and ran towards the gate. I followed her though my bag was being a nuisance. I almost fell.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five.
“Bye,” she said. Then she gave me a light kiss on the cheek. She then ran away.
“Hey,” I yelled.
But she was gone. I brushed my hand on the side of the cheek where she kissed it. I bought my first cigarette that day.
Mar 13, 2003
(UNTITLED)
Entry No. 1
I
No, it was not the time I gave her a ring wrapped around the petals of a rose. Neither was it the time I made her a poem; words picked up from an old dictionary, like broken pieces of glass. The sweetest thing I ever did for Mina was when I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and whispered apologies for failing to give her more.
I may never find out whether she heard my plea or not. If she did, she did not show it. I felt free that day, like looking at myself from the outside. For the very first time in my life I knew I was real. And whatever I felt that moment was something I could hardly describe. I cried. I shamelessly cried that night and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
II
I keep a journal because my mother won’t possibly buy me a personal computer unless I have a diary of my own. I come from a long line of diary writers. The memoirs of my great grandfather are displayed along with the family antiques. We’re supposed to be proud of our heritage, having been brought up from a lineage of academicians and all those intellectual eggheads.
I mean, I don’t blame my ancestors for starting this endeavor. It’s more of blaming myself for not meeting their expectations. Come to think of it, it took a lousy PC for me to start writing down the chapters of my life.
I know it sounds weird but my family never reads another member’s diary. The journals of the dead are just kept as reminders on how voluminous their struggle has been to put us where we are today. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that writing a diary serves as a reflection and a continuos meditation on the mortality we have. For all I know, half of what is written on my journal is nothing but lies. I lie to tell the truth, that truth that I keep to myself, the same way I utter the softest whisper to make myself heard.
III
“Can I have a light?” she said, looking at the lighter on my hand.
“A what?” I replied.
“A lighter. You know, the one you use to light a cigarette.”
“Oh,” I managed to say. “Here.”
She lighted her cigarette. She took two deep puffs before returning it to me.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
No. I just keep one. For emergency and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?”
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“Are you new here?” she inquired, not looking directly at me and acting as if bored.
“No. I was born on this town.”
“Not much of a place, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen better.”
Frankly, I didn’t know how to react. She was right though. I grew up on a place where one would rather sleep than spend the night out.
“I’m from the south,” I can tell that from her accent. “Ever been to the south?”
“I don’t travel much,” I replied.
“Well, there really isn’t much to talk about my place. I come from a countryside where ricefields are everywhere and it is quite green all over.”
I just let her talk. High-school students were now flooding the gate where we stood.
“Know what I sorely miss about home?” she finally looked straight at me, cigarette at hand.
“Your family?”
“No, dumb ass,” she smiled. “I miss the little hill I call my own. There, I could spend countless hours looking at the stars.
There was silence. Weird. After three hasty puffs from her smoke, she brushed me goodbye.
“Well, got to go,” she said.
She walked swiftly away from where I am. I stood frozen, able to follow her only with my stare.
Entry No. 1
I
No, it was not the time I gave her a ring wrapped around the petals of a rose. Neither was it the time I made her a poem; words picked up from an old dictionary, like broken pieces of glass. The sweetest thing I ever did for Mina was when I woke up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. I kissed her lightly on the cheek, and whispered apologies for failing to give her more.
I may never find out whether she heard my plea or not. If she did, she did not show it. I felt free that day, like looking at myself from the outside. For the very first time in my life I knew I was real. And whatever I felt that moment was something I could hardly describe. I cried. I shamelessly cried that night and I’m not embarrassed to admit it.
II
I keep a journal because my mother won’t possibly buy me a personal computer unless I have a diary of my own. I come from a long line of diary writers. The memoirs of my great grandfather are displayed along with the family antiques. We’re supposed to be proud of our heritage, having been brought up from a lineage of academicians and all those intellectual eggheads.
I mean, I don’t blame my ancestors for starting this endeavor. It’s more of blaming myself for not meeting their expectations. Come to think of it, it took a lousy PC for me to start writing down the chapters of my life.
I know it sounds weird but my family never reads another member’s diary. The journals of the dead are just kept as reminders on how voluminous their struggle has been to put us where we are today. Maybe my mother has a point in saying that writing a diary serves as a reflection and a continuos meditation on the mortality we have. For all I know, half of what is written on my journal is nothing but lies. I lie to tell the truth, that truth that I keep to myself, the same way I utter the softest whisper to make myself heard.
III
“Can I have a light?” she said, looking at the lighter on my hand.
“A what?” I replied.
“A lighter. You know, the one you use to light a cigarette.”
“Oh,” I managed to say. “Here.”
She lighted her cigarette. She took two deep puffs before returning it to me.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
No. I just keep one. For emergency and stuff.”
“And stuff, huh?”
“Yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“Are you new here?” she inquired, not looking directly at me and acting as if bored.
“No. I was born on this town.”
“Not much of a place, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve seen better.”
Frankly, I didn’t know how to react. She was right though. I grew up on a place where one would rather sleep than spend the night out.
“I’m from the south,” I can tell that from her accent. “Ever been to the south?”
“I don’t travel much,” I replied.
“Well, there really isn’t much to talk about my place. I come from a countryside where ricefields are everywhere and it is quite green all over.”
I just let her talk. High-school students were now flooding the gate where we stood.
“Know what I sorely miss about home?” she finally looked straight at me, cigarette at hand.
“Your family?”
“No, dumb ass,” she smiled. “I miss the little hill I call my own. There, I could spend countless hours looking at the stars.
There was silence. Weird. After three hasty puffs from her smoke, she brushed me goodbye.
“Well, got to go,” she said.
She walked swiftly away from where I am. I stood frozen, able to follow her only with my stare.
Mar 9, 2003
Mar 7, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Last Entry
All in all, I’ve killed seven people. No sense in telling you the gory details on how it transpired. Be content on the fact that I did not kill them without a purpose. They were not senseless. They provided me the revenge I needed on the men who murdered my family. Dog eats dog, they say. For one thing, I also got the money I later stole from them. It made my miserable life somehow bearable.
But no more talk about that. I’m afraid I might bore you. Instead, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. It’s kind of weird when you think about it. I remember the details vividly and I think it’s really out of this world. Anyway, I just need to tell you the story.
This dream I had is about a creature so cumbersome in nature yet so fiery in its eyes. I have seen the eyes of someone who has the same effect on other people. I take it that head of mobs don’t often have to be big in stature but their eyes must have the ferocity of a lion.
As I was saying, this creature is like a rodent though it looks more like a raccoon. It only lives on a particular island that I really don’t know where. The creature would climb down trees only at night and when the sun is up, it would climb back up and sleep for hours.
According to my dream, scientists have found a very disturbing behavior of this animal. They know that it feeds on little insects but they also found out that these creatures often visit houses. It would creep stealthily into the windows of the islanders’ homes and stay there. It is as if it’s guarding them from something evil from the outside. It would perch itself by the window and feast on mosquitoes and other household insects.
Still, according to my dream, people on this island have accepted this as a fact of life. Locals have called this creature “sleepwatchers,” mainly because of what it does. However, during one experiment regarding sleep patterns on that particular island, there was a sudden rapid eye movement on the person they were observing. This happened at exactly the same time a sleepwatcher was coming over. They shooed the creature away. On that instant, brain impulses from the sleeping person also started to wane. He began producing soft moans. The researchers tried to wake him up but they couldn’t. Fearing he might be suffering from a stroke, they tried to resuscitate him from deep slumber.
Suddenly, there were loud moans outside the house. More than a dozen sleepwatchers suddenly lined up from nowhere as if chanting a song. The sound was like that of a person dreaming. The scientists were in shock. They have heard of sleepwatchers doing that but they took it as sort of a mating dance.
The person suddenly stood up, opened his eyes, looked around him, and then went back to sleep as if nothing happened. The sleepwatchers also disappeared.
“Maybe it’s the chemicals spewed from it’s behind that transpired what happened,” said one researcher.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” cried another.
“Maybe still,” said one, “there are things that we really don’t know. For all it’s worth, maybe there are creatures whose brains are more sensitive than ours that it sees through our dreams.”
In my dream, a sort of documentary don’t you think, the locals not knowing what the sleepwatchers are really capable of doing, slaughtered these gentle creatures in great numbers.
----------------
Now I’m here at my cell. I committed myself here. The cops are good enough not to abuse me. They said I needed help. With the help of my grandmother who came with me, I told the investigator of the dreary things I did.
The fact that I confessed is because I don’t want them to get ahead of me. Before they can put me in, I’ve decided to surrender. Conscience? No. It’s more of quitting while I’m still ahead. A few minutes from now, I’m sure the investigators would visit me in this cell. They would ask the same questions. I already told them twice the things that I did. No sense in telling them over and over again.
Fact is, I think the investigators here got things all mixed up. They would come in pairs with no guns while wearing white robes.
“I pity her,” said one who came to see her.
“I could imagine the trauma she went through,” said the other.
“How about her mother?”
“She died while she was still young,” said the bearded guy.
“Is it okay if she hears the things we are talking about?” cried the other.
“She’s into a state of shock. Alternate reality.”
“Incest. How many cases do we have here?”
“She’s the only one who killed her father.”
With that, I could not help but laugh. What the hell are they talking about? The whole thing about incest is the funniest thing I could imagine. It’s so funny I can’t help but laugh. It makes stomach ache I want to cry.
Last Entry
All in all, I’ve killed seven people. No sense in telling you the gory details on how it transpired. Be content on the fact that I did not kill them without a purpose. They were not senseless. They provided me the revenge I needed on the men who murdered my family. Dog eats dog, they say. For one thing, I also got the money I later stole from them. It made my miserable life somehow bearable.
But no more talk about that. I’m afraid I might bore you. Instead, let me tell you about a dream I had last night. It’s kind of weird when you think about it. I remember the details vividly and I think it’s really out of this world. Anyway, I just need to tell you the story.
This dream I had is about a creature so cumbersome in nature yet so fiery in its eyes. I have seen the eyes of someone who has the same effect on other people. I take it that head of mobs don’t often have to be big in stature but their eyes must have the ferocity of a lion.
As I was saying, this creature is like a rodent though it looks more like a raccoon. It only lives on a particular island that I really don’t know where. The creature would climb down trees only at night and when the sun is up, it would climb back up and sleep for hours.
According to my dream, scientists have found a very disturbing behavior of this animal. They know that it feeds on little insects but they also found out that these creatures often visit houses. It would creep stealthily into the windows of the islanders’ homes and stay there. It is as if it’s guarding them from something evil from the outside. It would perch itself by the window and feast on mosquitoes and other household insects.
Still, according to my dream, people on this island have accepted this as a fact of life. Locals have called this creature “sleepwatchers,” mainly because of what it does. However, during one experiment regarding sleep patterns on that particular island, there was a sudden rapid eye movement on the person they were observing. This happened at exactly the same time a sleepwatcher was coming over. They shooed the creature away. On that instant, brain impulses from the sleeping person also started to wane. He began producing soft moans. The researchers tried to wake him up but they couldn’t. Fearing he might be suffering from a stroke, they tried to resuscitate him from deep slumber.
Suddenly, there were loud moans outside the house. More than a dozen sleepwatchers suddenly lined up from nowhere as if chanting a song. The sound was like that of a person dreaming. The scientists were in shock. They have heard of sleepwatchers doing that but they took it as sort of a mating dance.
The person suddenly stood up, opened his eyes, looked around him, and then went back to sleep as if nothing happened. The sleepwatchers also disappeared.
“Maybe it’s the chemicals spewed from it’s behind that transpired what happened,” said one researcher.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence,” cried another.
“Maybe still,” said one, “there are things that we really don’t know. For all it’s worth, maybe there are creatures whose brains are more sensitive than ours that it sees through our dreams.”
In my dream, a sort of documentary don’t you think, the locals not knowing what the sleepwatchers are really capable of doing, slaughtered these gentle creatures in great numbers.
----------------
Now I’m here at my cell. I committed myself here. The cops are good enough not to abuse me. They said I needed help. With the help of my grandmother who came with me, I told the investigator of the dreary things I did.
The fact that I confessed is because I don’t want them to get ahead of me. Before they can put me in, I’ve decided to surrender. Conscience? No. It’s more of quitting while I’m still ahead. A few minutes from now, I’m sure the investigators would visit me in this cell. They would ask the same questions. I already told them twice the things that I did. No sense in telling them over and over again.
Fact is, I think the investigators here got things all mixed up. They would come in pairs with no guns while wearing white robes.
“I pity her,” said one who came to see her.
“I could imagine the trauma she went through,” said the other.
“How about her mother?”
“She died while she was still young,” said the bearded guy.
“Is it okay if she hears the things we are talking about?” cried the other.
“She’s into a state of shock. Alternate reality.”
“Incest. How many cases do we have here?”
“She’s the only one who killed her father.”
With that, I could not help but laugh. What the hell are they talking about? The whole thing about incest is the funniest thing I could imagine. It’s so funny I can’t help but laugh. It makes stomach ache I want to cry.
Mar 5, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 4
The first kill I made was the time I was eighteen years old. I sell cigarettes and stuff at night to augment our income. My friends would stay with me until the late hours of the morning. Mostly, those who buy from our makeshift store are drunkards or men who simply couldn’t find sleep at the comfort of their homes.
I admit that some of my friends do engage in prostitution. It’s good for business. Their customers would buy from me packs of cigarettes and candies. Sort of a way to impress my friends. It’s a simple operation. A car would slow down in front of us. The driver would open the windows of his car then first ask for a cigarette. Then he’d ask us if there’s someone he could spend the night with. The price is then negotiated.
Both heterosexual and gay customers would visit our place. I would also get some sort of bonus from them. My friends said that it’s for permitting them to use my place as a negotiating area of some sort. They wouldn’t tell me straight in the face but I was becoming more like a pimp. They never urged me to try it mainly because I don’t want to.
Then one night, about two in the morning, when their patrons have picked up all my friends, I was left alone waiting for them to come back. A red car slowed down in front of our stall. He did the same routine. The man is not that old, most probably in his late thirties. You could tell that he’s a closet gay. He slid down the window and asked for a menthol cigarette. I gave it to him. He asked if he could have some candies. I gave him some. But when I asked for the payment, he replied curtly that he has no small bills. He then showed me the rolls of bills in his pocket. Frankly, it was the biggest amount of money I have seen in my whole life.
He said that he could give me some of the thousand bills in his possession if I would go with him. At first, I said no. But when he pulled a gun out of the drawer in his car, fear and rage inside me flickered.
“Either come with me or I’ll have to force you into something we both don’t want,” the man said.
“The store, “ I replied.
“Leave it,” he was grinning, “You’re store is not as much as what I would pay you later.”
Mainly out of fear, I stepped inside his car.
“We’ll go somewhere private,” he said.
I was silent. Things were happening so fast that it begun to make my head spin.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said. “I want you to put your mouth on my stick.”
I managed to say that I don’t know how.
“You’ll learn,” was his reply.
I asked him that shouldn’t it be the one giving oral sex.
He answered back, “The customer is always right, baby.”
We drove for about twenty minutes before we stopped inside a subdivision on the outskirts of the city. He opened his zipper.
“Come on, I want to enjoy this,” he said. He then pulled my hair and shoved my mouth to his thing. It was disgusting.
“Wait,” I said, “I want a downpayment.”
“What? Okay, wait,” the man said.
I caught him off guard. I ran out of the car. There were empty lots around where grasses as tall as I am abound. I felt the blades of the grass hitting me on the arms and the legs but it did not matter. I heard the man following me. It was obvious that he’s drunk with illegal drugs.
My legs were failing me so I sat down and waited.
It was then that I prayed, incoherent words that all meant, “Please, God. If you truly exist, then stop this man. Show me a sign.”
But even before I could finish with my prayer, the man was right behind me pointing his gun at the back of my head. I turned and saw the menacing smile on his face. Up to now, I could not erase that picture of his face from my mind. He then slammed the butt of the gun on my face. I was half-conscious.
He then pulled down my shorts and inserted his penis into my anus. The pain was more than I could imagine. It’s not the physical pain that almost made me crazy but the humiliation and utter disgust for the whole thing. I then realized my utmost hate for life and my existence. As he was thrusting in a maniac way you can imagine, he was laughing at the same time. He was moaning and grunting at the same time.
“Animal! You don’t not deserve to live,” I cried.
This seemed to please him more, painfully thrusting on what seemed like an eternity.
I wanted to live. Regaining my strength, I forced my hands to form a fist. Still shaking and still on that awkward position, I threw sand on his face. It caught his eyes. In an instant, he was off me.
He swung his gun from side to side shouting curses. With his pants down, I struggled to get mine up. I then kicked his legs. He groaned in pain. He was off balance. He dropped the gun. Struggling to get it, he caught one of my arms. With that, I pointed his .45 caliber at his forehead. I pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the grass around us.
“It’s over,” I told myself. He lay sprawling on the ground.
What made me unlike the others who kill is the fact that I clean my act after I made my revenge. I wiped my fingerprints off the gun and saw some drug paraphernalia he at his car. I wiped the seat of the car where I sat. I scattered the drug paraphernalia around him then made my escape. I also took his money. Thinking the about the hot meal I had the day after, I told myself that everything was worth the thrill of the kill. Plus all his money became mine.
I don’t know whatever happened to the investigation but owing to the fact that local police are incompetent enough not to check out details, I was never convicted, not even accused. The investigation ended as an abuse of illegal drugs which led to suicide.
I never told my friends what really happened. I just told them that I had to rush home because I need to go to the comfort room. The truth is, I burned all my clothes then came back to gather the things at the makeshift store. I acted normal enough. I still sold cigarettes at the place until I’ve decided that I could earn more by killing.
Entry No. 4
The first kill I made was the time I was eighteen years old. I sell cigarettes and stuff at night to augment our income. My friends would stay with me until the late hours of the morning. Mostly, those who buy from our makeshift store are drunkards or men who simply couldn’t find sleep at the comfort of their homes.
I admit that some of my friends do engage in prostitution. It’s good for business. Their customers would buy from me packs of cigarettes and candies. Sort of a way to impress my friends. It’s a simple operation. A car would slow down in front of us. The driver would open the windows of his car then first ask for a cigarette. Then he’d ask us if there’s someone he could spend the night with. The price is then negotiated.
Both heterosexual and gay customers would visit our place. I would also get some sort of bonus from them. My friends said that it’s for permitting them to use my place as a negotiating area of some sort. They wouldn’t tell me straight in the face but I was becoming more like a pimp. They never urged me to try it mainly because I don’t want to.
Then one night, about two in the morning, when their patrons have picked up all my friends, I was left alone waiting for them to come back. A red car slowed down in front of our stall. He did the same routine. The man is not that old, most probably in his late thirties. You could tell that he’s a closet gay. He slid down the window and asked for a menthol cigarette. I gave it to him. He asked if he could have some candies. I gave him some. But when I asked for the payment, he replied curtly that he has no small bills. He then showed me the rolls of bills in his pocket. Frankly, it was the biggest amount of money I have seen in my whole life.
He said that he could give me some of the thousand bills in his possession if I would go with him. At first, I said no. But when he pulled a gun out of the drawer in his car, fear and rage inside me flickered.
“Either come with me or I’ll have to force you into something we both don’t want,” the man said.
“The store, “ I replied.
“Leave it,” he was grinning, “You’re store is not as much as what I would pay you later.”
Mainly out of fear, I stepped inside his car.
“We’ll go somewhere private,” he said.
I was silent. Things were happening so fast that it begun to make my head spin.
“I want you to do something for me,” he said. “I want you to put your mouth on my stick.”
I managed to say that I don’t know how.
“You’ll learn,” was his reply.
I asked him that shouldn’t it be the one giving oral sex.
He answered back, “The customer is always right, baby.”
We drove for about twenty minutes before we stopped inside a subdivision on the outskirts of the city. He opened his zipper.
“Come on, I want to enjoy this,” he said. He then pulled my hair and shoved my mouth to his thing. It was disgusting.
“Wait,” I said, “I want a downpayment.”
“What? Okay, wait,” the man said.
I caught him off guard. I ran out of the car. There were empty lots around where grasses as tall as I am abound. I felt the blades of the grass hitting me on the arms and the legs but it did not matter. I heard the man following me. It was obvious that he’s drunk with illegal drugs.
My legs were failing me so I sat down and waited.
It was then that I prayed, incoherent words that all meant, “Please, God. If you truly exist, then stop this man. Show me a sign.”
But even before I could finish with my prayer, the man was right behind me pointing his gun at the back of my head. I turned and saw the menacing smile on his face. Up to now, I could not erase that picture of his face from my mind. He then slammed the butt of the gun on my face. I was half-conscious.
He then pulled down my shorts and inserted his penis into my anus. The pain was more than I could imagine. It’s not the physical pain that almost made me crazy but the humiliation and utter disgust for the whole thing. I then realized my utmost hate for life and my existence. As he was thrusting in a maniac way you can imagine, he was laughing at the same time. He was moaning and grunting at the same time.
“Animal! You don’t not deserve to live,” I cried.
This seemed to please him more, painfully thrusting on what seemed like an eternity.
I wanted to live. Regaining my strength, I forced my hands to form a fist. Still shaking and still on that awkward position, I threw sand on his face. It caught his eyes. In an instant, he was off me.
He swung his gun from side to side shouting curses. With his pants down, I struggled to get mine up. I then kicked his legs. He groaned in pain. He was off balance. He dropped the gun. Struggling to get it, he caught one of my arms. With that, I pointed his .45 caliber at his forehead. I pulled the trigger. Blood splattered on the grass around us.
“It’s over,” I told myself. He lay sprawling on the ground.
What made me unlike the others who kill is the fact that I clean my act after I made my revenge. I wiped my fingerprints off the gun and saw some drug paraphernalia he at his car. I wiped the seat of the car where I sat. I scattered the drug paraphernalia around him then made my escape. I also took his money. Thinking the about the hot meal I had the day after, I told myself that everything was worth the thrill of the kill. Plus all his money became mine.
I don’t know whatever happened to the investigation but owing to the fact that local police are incompetent enough not to check out details, I was never convicted, not even accused. The investigation ended as an abuse of illegal drugs which led to suicide.
I never told my friends what really happened. I just told them that I had to rush home because I need to go to the comfort room. The truth is, I burned all my clothes then came back to gather the things at the makeshift store. I acted normal enough. I still sold cigarettes at the place until I’ve decided that I could earn more by killing.
Mar 4, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 3
It could rightfully be called that those I killed were victims. They were victims of circumstances. It’s not cold-blooded murder. It’s merely what the situation called for. Emperors and kings massacred hundreds of thousands yet history perceives them as men of great honor. Generals plan their tactics on the comfort of their headquarters while ordinary soldiers die on the battlefield. No, what I’m saying is not entirely new. But looking at these things on a perspective of someone who actually killed someone, it justifies the action committed. It also strengthens the fact that there are more who are worse than me. I have killed because I have to let all the pain within me out. Without the thought of taking my vengeance, my life would have been over by now.
My last victim was a Japanese tourist. You can meet their kind on the lonely yet busy streets of the tourist belt. It’s very simple. You could approach them to ask for the time and they’d get the hint. After offering you to eat or drink at the sleazy bars lining up along with hotels and motels, they’d invite you up to their room for another drink or two.
Smoking a cigarette, I waited at his apartment while he took a shower. Inspecting his belongings and pocketing some of the money he had, I decided to make a run. But the Japanese came out naked. He was a pervert. He pulled down my pants with haste and started murmuring words I did not understand. He gave me a blowjob while I was lying down.
After a few minutes, I told him I needed to drink. Teasing him, I tied him in bed. Libido has no conscience they say, much more, libido has no brains. It’s the mother of all stupidity. I even turned the stereo at high volume.
Convinced that he can’t let go without extra-effort, I went to the kitchen. Instead of opening the fridge for water, I turned the gas out of the stove. After smelling the gas, the Japanese shouted what sounded like curses. I lit a lighter, and then threw it at the screaming tourist. I then proceeded to call the only guard on duty. I knew the buildings in that area and checked the security set-up they have for occasions like this. Then there was a loud bang. The stove exploded sending flames into the air.
With the heat throbbing on my whole body, I managed to hide behind the entrance door. After the guard came in, I jumped for his revolver. He is the only witness I knew who saw me coming in with the Japanese. He must also be eliminated.
Using his service revolver, I shot him at the back of his head. I buried three bullets in his body before killing the tourist with the other three bullets. The fire was raging around me. Before stepping out of the fire exit, I threw the gun inside the fire.
“Neither fingerprints nor any evidence would be found after they subdued the flame of this room,” I told myself.
On the dark alleyway below, I made my escape.
Entry No. 3
It could rightfully be called that those I killed were victims. They were victims of circumstances. It’s not cold-blooded murder. It’s merely what the situation called for. Emperors and kings massacred hundreds of thousands yet history perceives them as men of great honor. Generals plan their tactics on the comfort of their headquarters while ordinary soldiers die on the battlefield. No, what I’m saying is not entirely new. But looking at these things on a perspective of someone who actually killed someone, it justifies the action committed. It also strengthens the fact that there are more who are worse than me. I have killed because I have to let all the pain within me out. Without the thought of taking my vengeance, my life would have been over by now.
My last victim was a Japanese tourist. You can meet their kind on the lonely yet busy streets of the tourist belt. It’s very simple. You could approach them to ask for the time and they’d get the hint. After offering you to eat or drink at the sleazy bars lining up along with hotels and motels, they’d invite you up to their room for another drink or two.
Smoking a cigarette, I waited at his apartment while he took a shower. Inspecting his belongings and pocketing some of the money he had, I decided to make a run. But the Japanese came out naked. He was a pervert. He pulled down my pants with haste and started murmuring words I did not understand. He gave me a blowjob while I was lying down.
After a few minutes, I told him I needed to drink. Teasing him, I tied him in bed. Libido has no conscience they say, much more, libido has no brains. It’s the mother of all stupidity. I even turned the stereo at high volume.
Convinced that he can’t let go without extra-effort, I went to the kitchen. Instead of opening the fridge for water, I turned the gas out of the stove. After smelling the gas, the Japanese shouted what sounded like curses. I lit a lighter, and then threw it at the screaming tourist. I then proceeded to call the only guard on duty. I knew the buildings in that area and checked the security set-up they have for occasions like this. Then there was a loud bang. The stove exploded sending flames into the air.
With the heat throbbing on my whole body, I managed to hide behind the entrance door. After the guard came in, I jumped for his revolver. He is the only witness I knew who saw me coming in with the Japanese. He must also be eliminated.
Using his service revolver, I shot him at the back of his head. I buried three bullets in his body before killing the tourist with the other three bullets. The fire was raging around me. Before stepping out of the fire exit, I threw the gun inside the fire.
“Neither fingerprints nor any evidence would be found after they subdued the flame of this room,” I told myself.
On the dark alleyway below, I made my escape.
Mar 3, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 2
I was thirteen when I first had a fight. Lining up for clean water, the bully of the neighborhood would insist that others give him way. I, as well as other kids my age, have tolerated his behavior for much too long. He wasn’t big, he was just vicious. Sporting a tattoo on both sides of his arms and chest, it was an open secret that he picked pockets to live. Kicking buckets aside to clear his way, I would step aside and let him through. What I could not forgive was when he pinched my butt instead of the spanking that he gave the others.
“Peklat (Scar),” he said. “Move aside or I’ll whip your ass.”
Having seen what my grandma did to a neighbor a few days ago, I pulled his hair. This irked him a lot. He slapped me on the face then went on to punching me on the nose, the chest – then he started kicking me while I was down.
“That should serve as an example,” he shouted.
I cried.
“Ohh, a cry baby,” he teased.
If menace and mockery could be done so skillfully, this was one. The others laughed with him. Inspired by the attention he got, he went on this time cursing my parents.
“Lousy child,” he said. “You want more!”
He sounded serious.
With whatever strength I could not imagine, I kicked him but to no positive result. The next thing I knew, I was again down at the pavement. My face now bloodied, flashbacks of my family came pouring in on my head. Reaching to what turned out to be a strip of metal, I plunged the rusty object at him. It him on the right leg. Blood came spurting out. He wailed in pain. I scratched him on the face then proceeded with several punches. Tears were trickling down my face.
Seeing him down, I felt pity. I was almost even compelled to offer him a hand. Conscience – it was a fatal mistake. He threw his body at me and we came scrambling on the sidewalk. By this time, people were around us. No one even stopped us. The noises around came spinning on my head. I was so sure that I would die that day. With the bully on top of me, I felt my strength slowly fading.
It was here that I managed to feel a stone right above my head. I reached for it. With a sudden swoop, it hit him on the head. I saw him roll on one side. I then blanked out.
Entry No. 2
I was thirteen when I first had a fight. Lining up for clean water, the bully of the neighborhood would insist that others give him way. I, as well as other kids my age, have tolerated his behavior for much too long. He wasn’t big, he was just vicious. Sporting a tattoo on both sides of his arms and chest, it was an open secret that he picked pockets to live. Kicking buckets aside to clear his way, I would step aside and let him through. What I could not forgive was when he pinched my butt instead of the spanking that he gave the others.
“Peklat (Scar),” he said. “Move aside or I’ll whip your ass.”
Having seen what my grandma did to a neighbor a few days ago, I pulled his hair. This irked him a lot. He slapped me on the face then went on to punching me on the nose, the chest – then he started kicking me while I was down.
“That should serve as an example,” he shouted.
I cried.
“Ohh, a cry baby,” he teased.
If menace and mockery could be done so skillfully, this was one. The others laughed with him. Inspired by the attention he got, he went on this time cursing my parents.
“Lousy child,” he said. “You want more!”
He sounded serious.
With whatever strength I could not imagine, I kicked him but to no positive result. The next thing I knew, I was again down at the pavement. My face now bloodied, flashbacks of my family came pouring in on my head. Reaching to what turned out to be a strip of metal, I plunged the rusty object at him. It him on the right leg. Blood came spurting out. He wailed in pain. I scratched him on the face then proceeded with several punches. Tears were trickling down my face.
Seeing him down, I felt pity. I was almost even compelled to offer him a hand. Conscience – it was a fatal mistake. He threw his body at me and we came scrambling on the sidewalk. By this time, people were around us. No one even stopped us. The noises around came spinning on my head. I was so sure that I would die that day. With the bully on top of me, I felt my strength slowly fading.
It was here that I managed to feel a stone right above my head. I reached for it. With a sudden swoop, it hit him on the head. I saw him roll on one side. I then blanked out.
Mar 2, 2003
ALTERNATE REALITY
Entry No. 1
As far as I was able to remember anything, my mind and body had already been wrought to endure a lifetime of pain. Only those who were treated unfairly could understand justice in the form I have fashioned. I take other people’s lives and hold them in my hands. In a strict sense it’s just a profession, something to help me survive in a world where dog-eats-dog. Bite my bullet! In the face of death, I could just as well grin. I laugh at the situation I’m in then stare at my past. This is sweeter than being on the other side of the circumstances.
My father worked as a farmer for a rich landlord back in the province. I was nine, young enough not to do anything on that fateful day, yet old enough to remember the faces that did us harm.
Not being able to meet the quota of crops set by the haciendero, the harvest of my family was burned. They later came to our house and brutally raped my mother. Screams begging for mercy and pity came from my father, both like a curse and a hopeless plea. He was a coward – an image of fear secured on my mind. I knew he could have done something – anything – but he did not. After an hour that seemed like an eternity, both of them were dead. Seven gunshot wounds were found on my mother’s body. My father only had one. The shameless cry for mercy from the head of my family is something I would never forget. From that time onward, I have decided never to suffer the same fate they had. My father is the biggest coward I know!
I lived with my grandmother who decided to take me far away from the place I was born. We left the jungle of the provinces and settled on the concrete swamps of the city. Not much difference. We still live on a land not ours waiting to be evicted by the police or some goon hired by the landlord. In fact, we moved from squatter to squatter more than the number of times I had my haircut. At every place we had to move to, security could not be found.
I remember things quite clearly. My grandma had a fistfight with a neighbor over a measly five-peso. I could have told her five pesos is just a drop of blood from my earnings right now. Once, she suffered a broken nose for allegedly selling cigarettes on someone else’s territory. I admired her. She has the bravery of ten men and the courage to assert herself. Later, as she would tell me, everyone needs to be brave in order to survive.
The pain of my childhood was never buried on the nightmares I had. In fact, it became a daily routine. The scream of my father echoing on my head – and the sight of my mother being painfully raped. I never told anyone about the constant dream I had. I made a promise that I would be strong. If I think about the past that I had, the only cowardly act I knew I have done was not having the courage to kill myself. I’m coming to terms with that thought. The agony of defeat is something that never crossed my mind. I was too strong for all of them. Suicide was never an escape. It was an alternative.
I have a scar on my head, on my shoulders, and on my neck. It’s an eyesore to an otherwise pretty face as grandma used to say. But I take the ugliness of my scars not as a blemish but a ceaseless reminder of things that needed to be done. The scar I would create for my revenge would thrust deep into their souls. The bastard I blamed would pay dearly. And he did. Every pain, every anguish are embedded on this marking. Everytime I look at the mirror, it strengthens my resolve to continue with my revenge.
Entry No. 1
As far as I was able to remember anything, my mind and body had already been wrought to endure a lifetime of pain. Only those who were treated unfairly could understand justice in the form I have fashioned. I take other people’s lives and hold them in my hands. In a strict sense it’s just a profession, something to help me survive in a world where dog-eats-dog. Bite my bullet! In the face of death, I could just as well grin. I laugh at the situation I’m in then stare at my past. This is sweeter than being on the other side of the circumstances.
My father worked as a farmer for a rich landlord back in the province. I was nine, young enough not to do anything on that fateful day, yet old enough to remember the faces that did us harm.
Not being able to meet the quota of crops set by the haciendero, the harvest of my family was burned. They later came to our house and brutally raped my mother. Screams begging for mercy and pity came from my father, both like a curse and a hopeless plea. He was a coward – an image of fear secured on my mind. I knew he could have done something – anything – but he did not. After an hour that seemed like an eternity, both of them were dead. Seven gunshot wounds were found on my mother’s body. My father only had one. The shameless cry for mercy from the head of my family is something I would never forget. From that time onward, I have decided never to suffer the same fate they had. My father is the biggest coward I know!
I lived with my grandmother who decided to take me far away from the place I was born. We left the jungle of the provinces and settled on the concrete swamps of the city. Not much difference. We still live on a land not ours waiting to be evicted by the police or some goon hired by the landlord. In fact, we moved from squatter to squatter more than the number of times I had my haircut. At every place we had to move to, security could not be found.
I remember things quite clearly. My grandma had a fistfight with a neighbor over a measly five-peso. I could have told her five pesos is just a drop of blood from my earnings right now. Once, she suffered a broken nose for allegedly selling cigarettes on someone else’s territory. I admired her. She has the bravery of ten men and the courage to assert herself. Later, as she would tell me, everyone needs to be brave in order to survive.
The pain of my childhood was never buried on the nightmares I had. In fact, it became a daily routine. The scream of my father echoing on my head – and the sight of my mother being painfully raped. I never told anyone about the constant dream I had. I made a promise that I would be strong. If I think about the past that I had, the only cowardly act I knew I have done was not having the courage to kill myself. I’m coming to terms with that thought. The agony of defeat is something that never crossed my mind. I was too strong for all of them. Suicide was never an escape. It was an alternative.
I have a scar on my head, on my shoulders, and on my neck. It’s an eyesore to an otherwise pretty face as grandma used to say. But I take the ugliness of my scars not as a blemish but a ceaseless reminder of things that needed to be done. The scar I would create for my revenge would thrust deep into their souls. The bastard I blamed would pay dearly. And he did. Every pain, every anguish are embedded on this marking. Everytime I look at the mirror, it strengthens my resolve to continue with my revenge.
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