I had to leave them both in a place where death and life could never be closer.
Two friends stuck in a hospital room, and I'm sorry I could not help both. And be one journalist, long I stood, I helped out one as far as I could for it cared she sought. The other is alive and just as fair but is misguided and needs true help. Oh, I do not know if I could give all my heart to help them stand and care. Alas, I am now too weak to help both and grant my time.
I am no poet, but that is how I truly feel as of the moment. Never have I felt more alone. I walk through the halls of the office with little joy. Mateo is not around to argue with. My two friends are somehow stuck at fighting death. My parents are far away from me. Alas, could I handle it all?
I look into Mateo's cubicle and I saw that his stuff is no longer there. What had happened? Truly, I do not understand. Boss, who was just passing by, came across me looking at Mateo's empty cubicle. From my distraught face, he could already tell what saddens me.
"He resigned," he says simply.
Still, I don't understand. Why all of a sudden? I expect him to be quite determined when he wakes up from his coma. "Why?"
"Nobody knows. His resignation came through fax. Then, the following day, someone, claiming to be his secretary, claimed all of his belongings."
I look once more at his empty desk. This cubicle used to be filled with walls of sticky notes for new stories that he will write. This cubicle housed the stories that I threw out of fear of reprimand from the elite. This cubicle bore all the stories that made everyone go after us. And now, it is empty. No more sticky notes on the wall. No more dirty computer screen and half-alive keyboards. No more dried up coffee stains on the table. I could almost fall on my knees as I remember all these memories.
"Rosanna, something has happened," the boss says as he sees my face. "I do not know what had happened over the past several days as you gather notes for your stories. I only know this. Whatever you were doing is a truth worth fighting for. They tried bribing me to make you silent, but I refuse. Lucia City Times will always live with the truth."
His words just go over my head as he speaks. I hardly even listen to his words. All I could do is go over his desk and look for anything he might have left inside his drawers. Nothing. This cubicle is open for another employee to occupy. With this, all I could do is just sit at the rotating office chair and elegize about my loss.
The boss, who tries to be good to me, just taps me on the shoulder. "You should continue your investigation. Do not let his disappearance stop you from finding the truth. I, too, had my share of struggles as I fight for the truth. The dictatorship caused me to lose a majority of what Lucia City Times had been. After it was over, we rose again. Trust me. It will all be worth it in the end."
With that, he leaves me to think things through. He is right. I am a journalist. I should not let this get to me. Still, I cannot help but remember his snarky remarks, flamboyant acts, and cautious, but intelligent, ways. I miss him. Once more, I tried opening his drawers in hopes of finding something, anything, that he might have left. On one of the drawers, a scrolled-up piece of paper sits at the end. I pull it up and there are the notes I had. Those are the notes I wrote and then threw at the waste bin. And then, I remember, this is the reason why we are here. We are looking for the truth. We are informing the public of how the elite works. We are looking for the answer to the riddle. We are solving Rex de la Rama's death.
This is the truths we are fighting for. I stand my ground and remember all of it. I will be a journalist. All of a sudden, as I look deeply into Mateo's desk, a vision flashes in my mind.
*
Lucia City Times is crumbling down. The blank papers used to print the today's news is running out. The printing machines are breaking down. Reporters are running here and there as they gather things that they need to type their story. Some share typewriters as their very own have broken down. Others just handwrite the notes, regardless of how it is to be. Phones are ringing everywhere, alerting the office for missing reporters.
Amidst this chaos, a man continues to type in his typewriter. He keeps his head even though things are falling apart.
"Sir, reporter Selena Lopez has gone missing. Some say she was taken away by the cops."
"Sir, we are out of paper. We might not be able to print tomorrow's news."
"Sir, the printing machine needs to be checked by a mechanic."
These are the things the man hears. Despite the raised concerns by his staff, he continues to type in his typewriter.
"Lionel, Lucia City Times is falling apart!" a woman warns him. She is a pretty woman. With her fair skin and shining eyes, the light shines on her as if she is a goddess from above. Her beauty, however, is overruled by the wrinkles of worries on her face. Her eyes that shone are filled with fear and darkness. In her arms, she holds a sleeping babe being rocked by her very arms – her source of joy in this time of fear. "You can't let the paper go on like this. You'll have stop the operations. Please, it's not like we are going to sell any paper with the sanctions by the government."
The man is adamant in his beliefs. He takes the fully typewritten document from the typewriter and hands it to one of his staff. This document is to be added for tomorrow's news. "We have to continue publishing, Cynthia. The heroes did not give up their propaganda for the truth during our time of colonization."
"This happened a hundred years ago. Make sense with yourself, Lionel. Threats are upon you. The president might take you away and have you killed. You are the only newspaper who has the guts to continue publishing despite the sanctions."
Despite the warning he hears, Lionel remains still. He goes back to his seat and organizes more papers all around him. He even checks his safe for any remaining emergency cash that might save Lucia City Times. In his graying hair and baggy eyes, tiredness is painted all over his face. The contents of the safe is no help for it is all but empty. As he looks to find nothing, he only lets out a sigh and thinks of what to do.
"We are not profiting, Lionel," Cynthia presses on. "We have to stop operations. We can wait another day and let the dictatorship fall. If we continue, Lucia City Times will never rise again."
"We don't need to profit, Cynthia," Lionel replies calmly. "As long as people are buying the papers, we should have enough to buy paper for another day and repair the machines."
"But the reporters will not stay at this condition! If we go on – "
Lionel sees the anxiety in this lady's face. He takes her into his arms to calm her down. Cynthia, who holds a babe in her arms, cradles the child as if to calm the child too. "Hush now, my love," Lionel says gently. "Reporters are staying because they want to spread the truth. We will overthrow this government. Be still."
In her sadness, Cynthia holds on to this young man tightly as if she would never let go. "I just don't want to lose you. I can't bear to lose you. Cecily and I need you. You will have to protect yourself for me."
Suddenly, the babe in Cynthia's arms bursts into tears. Lionel takes the child away from Cynthia's arms and cradles her softly. "Even Cecily thinks this is dangerous," Cynthia continues.
Lionel appears to be deaf to this. He simply cradles the child and calms her down. As he sings her a lullaby, the child woos into his keeping and takes a brief nap again. "Cecily believes in this too," Lionel remarks while looking into the wooing smile of Cecily. "Whatever happens, she will always be my girl."
As he holds little Cecily in his arms, he takes out a pendant tucked beneath her clothes. It is a pendant of silver engraved and cut in the style of a quill – the symbol of writers. Lionel cannot help but smile as he sees the pendant. This is the seal of the Chuas, the quill, for they have come from a long line of writers. He tucks the pendant once more beneath Cecily's shirt and continues to cradle her on.
*
Woah! What is that vision? I don't… I don't remember it ever happening in my life. As I try to shake off that vision, I could feel myself stumbling as I walk for my cubicle. As far as I know, Lucia City Times has been booming for much of my stay here. It never once experienced a collapse like that. We never ran out of papers. The machines are at the top of the game. And, we don't even use typewriter. We have computers for that.
Unless... It was a distant past – the time of the dictatorship in which Lucia City Times faced sanctions. I don't understand. Why on earth would I remember a vision that I am barely alive to even remember? Who are the people I saw back in my memory? I cannot help but worry for my sense of reality. I even had to double check my desk in case it had been a typewriter all along.
What is going on? Why do I remember a memory in which the boss, Mr. Lionel Chua, the only one who should remember? Ugh! I'm so confused. I cannot help but simply give myself a slight slap on the face as I drink water to clear my head. My colleagues are already looking at me to check whether I am alright. They must think I have gone nuts. I think I may have. Maybe it's just a hallucination. I have been tired recently. Maybe, the boss's stories of his struggles to keep Lucia City Times afloat is getting to my head.
I need to focus. I need to find Mateo. I take the landline phone at my side and dial-up Mateo's phone. It takes a while to get a connection. Suddenly, without even hearing that it rang, that automated voice comes up.
"Sorry, this number is currently unavailable."
What the hell? This can't be right. His phone is always available. In my phone, I have three different phone numbers of his saved. I tried dialing each one of them. None of them even made it past the first ring. It was always the same automated voice answering me.
"Sorry, this number is currently unavailable."
Mateo, where are you? What have they done to you?