It was no longer an oddity when I dreamed of something really uncanny and vague. Usually, it was nightmarish. Such would typically happen when I'm dog-tired – or when I felt anxious before sleeping. The worst part was these lurid reveries were hellish. Normally, I would find myself caught in the middle of a blistering reign of fire where the tormentors rule. With their mauling mallets, they easily knocked up every forgotten soul.
Waking up from these monstrous musings always made me feel klutzy – just like this morning. It's already the 7th of January – and I stirred as early as three in the morning. Coffee wasn't my cup of tea, but milk or hot chocolate. With only my red boxers on, I went out to feel the artic touch of the cockcrow's zephyr. This is what I never experienced when I was in Manila – early mornings weren't the same in the city. It felt like I could've just ran around the place bare – it was never cold there. Maybe because of the gradual change in the temperature due to pollutants, mostly humans.
All of a sudden, my dad arrived on the scene to get his own feel of the light winds. I wasn't surprised at all. He was always an early bird.
I looked at him emptily. I asked myself, when was the last time that he and I had a pleasant and sincere conversation? Never.
He was never the man I would want to be growing up in such vindictive environment. Surely, he wasn't perfect. But his disciplinary measures, which he acquired from our grandfather, weren't just. It was pure malevolence.
Yes, we grew up to his innumerable beatings. As I took a sip of my heaping milk, I harked back when he walloped me with a thick chunk of wood because of accidentally breaking his radio. I was a small boy back then – and he never hesitated to bring me the excruciation just because of a worthless equipment. Consequently, I was lured to the idea that material things were worth more than his own blood.
He was never the father everyone would imagine. It took years to prove that he was, indeed, cold-hearted. There wasn't really anything positive about him that made me think twice of mentally and emotionally renouncing him as my dad. Amidst all these, I learned to tolerate his wickedness. Nevertheless, it was vile to think that my mom got a taste of his fists too. When I was seven, I woke up to my mom's shriek. Just as I opened my eyes, he unloaded a forceful blow with a metal pipe. My mom's left cheek absorbed the wallop.
I promised myself that I will never be him: careless and fiendish.
He was taken aback upon seeing me at the terrace. With a nosy face, "Why are you up already?" he asked.
"Nothing," I answered.
"You're still adjusting, I suppose."
"Probably."
"You know, son, I'm happy you decided to stay here for good."
I wasn't trying to be mean, but even if he said sanguine things, it will never change how I feel towards him.
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With a piece of cloth, I wiped the dust from my new, green bicycle. It was almost six, and I thought about coming over to Angel's before I head to school. I packed apples, oranges and grapes for her – she'd love them for sure. They lived probably half a mile away from our compound.
Soaked with my own sweat, I arrived at their residence. Her grandma approached me immediately, took the fruits and welcomed me inside.
"She's still asleep. Do you want me to wake her up?
"It's alright, grandma. I'll do it. Thank you."
A therapeutic aroma immediately penetrated my snout as I slowly walked in her room. It was messy – which I already expected because she was ill. I took the few towels which were lying on the floor and put them on the table beside her bed. With a commiserating look, I gently caressed her hair, set them aside. She softly opened her eyes as I kissed her forehead. As soon as she saw me, her angelic face turned irate.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" she roughly whispered.
Lividly, I replied, "Aren't you glad I'm here? I wanted to see you before I drop by the school. You already know I'm part of the publication, right?"
"Drop that publication shit! Instead of you coming over here all the time to watch over me, you're hopeless desire to finish your studies overtakes yet again!"
I looked away inanely, "hopeless desire."
"YES," she furiously emphasized.
"I already told you why I'm doing this, right?" I explained. "This is for our –"
"Enough of your bullshit!"
How many times did she curse me that morning? Six, seven, eight times? Was I worth her execration? I sacrificed to spend the holidays on the sideline watching you over, then this? It has been, what, five days after the New Year's Eve?
Indifference overtook my senses. For the first time, my sympathetic sentiment was supplanted with trifle. Emotionlessly, I stared at her. She was stunned – she may have felt the plodding rage building up inside of me.
Unhurriedly, she held my hand. "I-I'm sorry," she squeaked.
I gawped at her hand, took mine out of it. "This bullshit is going now." Without any disinclination, I fled.
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As the water gushed on my nakedness, random thoughts began testing my indulgence. My entire life, all I wanted was somberness in this bellicose world. When she got sick, I stood by her side and never left her. What I never understood was why would she turn away from me? Why would she make me feel unwanted? Why would she break my peace?
Out of the blue, I heard my mom's voice – "Maybe it's just self-pity."
I never imagined myself in this quagmire. Was it supposed to be my predestination? Boundless questions again – I was a disturbed sprite once again. It was a difficult consequence, for sure. But, what can I do? It was as if I could surrender everything.
Although, it was said that sometimes the best thing to do is to let go of the rope especially if it already seared your hands.
As soon as I finished bathing, I went straight to my room to change. While doing so, I heard my phone rang.
"You're fucking home and we didn't know?"
Marian was fuming.