Author’s Note: This piece of creative nonfiction was written five years ago, a time when my thoughts, emotions, and creative processes were in a different place. Looking back at it now, I find it fascinating to witness the thoughts and ideas my mind was formulating during that period. While I no longer recall the exact inspiration behind the work, I am struck by how it reflects the evolution of my own journey toward self-discovery, personal growth, and creative exploration. It serves as a reminder of how far we can come when we embrace the flow of inspiration and allow ourselves to be guided by the ever-changing currents of life. This work represents not only a snapshot of my past but also the timeless power of creativity to transcend time, offering both reflection and inspiration for anyone on their own path of transformation.
The day of reckoning for my life started when I was inside my mother’s womb, probably. I wonder what would have happened if that monster took me and made me as its food, instead of my brother.
I.
Before my ancestral house got burned because of faulty wirings, and the ghosts of those who died during World War II became free to roam the premises, my mother was residing on the second floor, and my brother was being a pain in the ass.
“One night, when she had trouble sleeping, she heard the wind blowing hard. Nobody else was there inside the house besides her. She could not comprehend if a storm was coming but, it came clear to her that she heard wings flapping. From the sound and the intensity, she knew it was not from an ordinary bird, and it was not sent from the heavens as she sensed the diabolical nature of the creature. Tiktik. The jalousies, and the roof barely held their places as the hurricane-like disturbance tried to shake my mother’s courage. Bitch, she thought. However, she doubted if it would be successful because the house was made of wood, then infested with termites and rats. She was pumped up with adrenaline and immediately took necklaces made of garlic and the jar full of sea salt from the kitchen. She went inside and poured the salt on every possible entrance – doors and windows, and around the bed. When she placed the garlic on the top of her stomach, she already heard the creature landing on the roof, hissing, directly above her room. One hand held the rosary while the other was placed near me. She began to contact all godly beings, in a pattern.”
For emergency purposes, here’s the direction: Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be to the Father, and a personal prayer.
The moment arrived when the elemental realized that it was a lost cause. It stomped. It cried. It flapped its wings and flew away – like a spoiled child, not allowed by his parents to play with his friends and have candy afterwards. She thought that we were lucky. In my opinion, there is a difference between luck and the privilege of being safe in a home with the items that you need in order to keep you safe. To be fair, the world forced me to think that I do not deserve privilege and it does not welcome me, even today.
The hills in San Pablo. I see rice fields. A kilometer away, I see a community whose infrastructure is made of bamboo.
Water broke. I should not have survived such event. Inside the operating room, my mom barely breathed. The doctors told my relatives that they needed to pull me out of the uterus or else, both of us would have died if they waited a little bit more. There was a contradiction to the effort as my head could have been cut off if they did the deed, reaching the same end. When I finally got out of the cave, they found out that the umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck; and, my head was nearing blackish-blue. It was not meant for me to survive but, unfortunately, I did. Was this the work of a cosmic being? I have no idea if it was because of luck or I was just saved at the last moment of survival. My Catholic relatives would say that we are imperfect; our souls do not have the capacity of foresight; and, if we are living in this world, we are lucky to be given life by one benevolent God. We are blessed. However, if it is indeed true, then, what demonic forces work for me to feel that homelessness; the lack of sense of belongingness to an imperfect society, living in an imperfect world?
Even my mother does not have the answer that I seek. She always tells me how hard it was to fight for my destiny – if it only means having the ability to suffer in this cruel world, to live in uncertainty, not only brought by the absence of privilege, but by my hard-headedness that will had developed in what was considered future. Nine months of struggle with no money to provide for the proper nutrition of this mess. As I had tickled my mother’s uterus – quick teases to induce her morning sickness, she still had to take care of my brother who suffered the curse of experiencing the result of the transition of the world’s state – from the tight grip of the Boomer ideology and capitalism, to the individualism and exploration of the millennial generation. My father worked in a factory in Korea, with no gloves and hard hats, to fund my brother’s education and my own survival. When he returned home, all he had was tuberculosis, a rotting leg, and packs of ramyeon he bought on the way home. Still, he had the audacity to welcome me in open arms, carry me up to his chest, and ask me if I wanted rice or pandesal as a partner to the delicacy.
I cannot gauge if there was any success for my mother, for he, along with the others of the same age, still fight for what they think they truly deserve and yet, has the audacity to emit the words, “Mag-aral ka muna. Marami ka pang dapat matutunan. Hindi niyo pa nararanasan kung paano mabuhay sa totoong mundo dahil hindi pa kayo naghahanap ng pang-kain ninyo sa araw-araw”. From the moment that I heard such things, I started to question what is considered real and what is not. I cannot truly see the borderline, nor the silver linings to what I currently do with my life. I can just simply be.
II.
Coffee?
III.
I miss the innocence – specially, in those moments when you did not have to listen to the beats of the dying world because you were young. Remember when your parents shrugged off every inquiry you made and stated that you do not have to worry. It is our responsibility. We should be the ones taking care of you. Nurturing, but it led me to a point where I did not dare to care for myself. Simply being present, I was not even troubled by the fact that when I was young, I saw a demon – me.
The University of the Philippines’ in ruins. Raymundo’s burning. People are screaming. I killed somebody.
I was alone inside my house. My mom went to the market after she was able to find money from the handbags that were only used once. I had nothing else to do except for drinking coffee. For no reason whatsoever, I crawled around the sofa. I had noticed something that was following me; I thought it was my shadow, but it was something that acted like one. I chased the dark figure and looked back, and there I saw it staring back at me. Even with the dim lighting of the room, I could still see that it was as black as you can imagine. It lacked eyes, and I could only see sharp, white teeth; but, nevertheless, it was complete. There came a courage that was never there in the first place. It led me to chase the demon, but it was too fast. It disappeared before my eyes. Fear festered and I did not have the strength to tell it to my mother, who I believe has the gift of foresight for she could sense if my father will come home drunk and embarrassed. I will have to wait for someone who has already seen their diabolical counterpart.
There are times that we try to make sense of the things that are happening to us. In this situation, I blame it to the coffee. It was at a young age when I started this vice. It was the bitterness, not sex or violence, that bombarded me with truths – no preparations and warnings. The sugar made me believe that everything is okay, and we should just see the happiness in the most serious cases. The hazel nut-flavored creamer, as it was my favorite, allowed me to pretend that I can be someone I was not – a classy, dapper, kid with all the toys that he likes to play with; not the one who plays in the streets even if nobody does it with him.
In consolation, it was my drink during the fondest memory I could think of: waking up to the sound of your mother nagging at nine ‘o clock on a Sunday morning; she plays the nineties as they call us to eat breakfast together. Each one of us would then go to our respective stations and start cleaning – mine was the floor and the television. As my parents would team up cooking for lunch, I pick the movie selection for the day, preferably, the cheesy Filipino rom-coms starring Sarah Geronimo. There the memory fades. Nothing could ever match such togetherness, and nothing ever will.
IV.
Focus.
V.
It was seven ‘o clock when The Woman first appeared in my dreams. It was always at that time. One instance, another figure said to me that I will discover something… every year.
Drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, and adrenaline never did the trick that Tuesday morning. I just came back to my apartment from accompanying a friend for approximately eight hours – no sleep or food to give me a little push. Blame it on the paperwork that I had to write and inch-thick readings that I had to study for the day. The road seemed so long in my groggy state. What was once travelled in less than five minutes demanded twice. My eyes kept on closing and my breathing became heavier with every step that I made. I almost forgot every theory that I tried to study and scrutinize, but I kept my composure – even though we know that once we fully shut down our consciousness and drift to the wonders and cosmos inside our funny, little head, we will know nothing. The bag that I had with me were almost torn due to the heaviness of its contents, but I did not care anymore. All I wanted was to drop everything; march upstairs to my old, dingy room; strip off my clothes; and, stretch my extremities to the comfort of my bed that I brought on my first day here in this strange land – barely reminding me of what it was like to sleep in my
ancestral house. These are the times that you question whether what you have been doing has a purpose or you are just playing a dirty game that was made by the universe to play you.
All I needed was thirty minutes of dwelling on my romantic, and sexual fantasies, but my mind played a horror film instead.
There was nothing but darkness. No matter how hard I tried, I could not open my eyes. Pray thanks to the things that became my demons. I heard snores from my roommates and their ticking alarm clocks, but everything else seem quiet. Too quiet. I would not dare to breathe deeply because I was afraid that dirt and ticks might clog my nostrils, and that every effort that I made be wasted because of allergies. A tingling sensation travelled from the soles of my feet, caused by the relief experienced after walking such distance, to my nape, this time, not caused by anything perceptible in the shared reality that I have with my environment. The mind became separated to the body as the latter became cold as ice and hard as the personalities that we have in this political climate. Marcos or Aquino? You choose.
My vision was bothered by the mixture of fiery lights, and shadows that moved too quickly that I had not seen their owners. Fade out. In the new frame, I could see my body from a distance.
There were no one around except me and The Woman lingering near at my feet. I could not feel her. I heard no sound at all. It was as if as I was in an alternate dimension where the only dead skin available was mine. If only there was a way for me to grasp the totality of the monster… but my senses told me not to dare. I could only see the rotting face, smothered in blood that has settled for too long. She was smiling. Dangerous. It was not caused by something hilarious like the parodies of the old man’s Christmas song. She was not seeing dogs running or children playing,
but rather the weakness of the new adult. Funny. I must thank the Higher Being for I could not see much of her physical elements because of the lack of oxygen in her skin. Although, I should had asked the intersectional God to extract me from the Pandora’s Box and send me to what we conceive as heaven. It was too late. She, then, took out a dirty, old, brown, sack – much like those being used by the bakeries in my hometown, and used it to cover my face. As part of the demonic scheme, I, the body, was dragged to the shadows. No reasons as to why and how but I was gone. It was my moment to be erased from existence but, unfortunately, my soul prevailed.
I am being pushed by someone. I see my friend walking past me with her hands on her mouth. From afar, I see people clamoring over a dead body.
The energy that I needed for the day was depleted. I opened my eyes. Lost. Afraid. Scanning the room was enough for me to understand that I was back in the reality. Indeed. I was dragged too hard. The light was finally allowed by Makiling to enter the room, but it was not enough. The room was still old and dingy. Onto my morning routine: check the to-do list for the day, turn on the stove to heat the water for coffee, listen to the queen that is Beyonce to have at least a smidge of hope, pour the water and the mix in the mug and stir, stress about the readings just in case the world suddenly falls and the lion cannot impart the wisdom of slaying, and drink coffee. However, no amount of preparations can provide the hormones supposedly giving you the “happy time”, though, the coffee makes you open your eyes too much.
The stairs reminded me of my grandfather’s sister that lives a floor up – the “thrifty” Catholic who likes to give Christmas presents from the balikbayan boxes sent by our OFW relatives in California, the cook during fiestas who uses expired products to make the menu a bit interesting, and has a discreet favoritism for the one who studies in the premier university. I still cringe to the state of the kitchen; dishes from yesterday were still there and ants have just decided to feast and prepare for any possible storm. Fingers crossed for the tiktik to come. Me and my brother would fight as to who would do the dishes. As a master of manipulation, I would be the one to sweep the dirt off the floors and cook lunch; he would be mad at me, and still, he is the one who gives me extra money just in case I needed it. My treatment towards the stash of supplies in our apartment was never different to ours in our house – still ask if the bread could be eaten. My mother would then scold me, “Para sa lahat naman ‘yan eh. Ano ka ba? Bakit ka pa nagpapaalam?”. To a surface level, it is for courtesy. Of course, that what a nomad would say. No one could say that my shyness was justified; and perhaps, that is because no one really understood what it is like to be what I am.
VI.
Me and my mother inside a police car. All hands are cuffed. The vehicle stopped in the middle of a concrete road. Tall grasses are its walls. She opened the door and decided to run. The officer immediately takes his gun and pulls the trigger.
VII.
Wings flapping. The sound of tiktik. Back to the seventh hour.
