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.
Mar 7, 2003
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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