June 8, 1989-
A letter from seven-year-old Florante, found by his elementary English teacher in a composition assignment entitled: What is your family good at?
"Dying was a family thing and we're good at it."
Nana said it's a curse. My tios had been dying ever since I learned how to walk. Tio Ben died when I was two years old. He was thirty-three. When I turned three, Tio Eddie, nana's eldest died at the age of thirty-five. I was four when Tio Dionicio died. When I turned five, my father wondered why he was still alive, everyone was expecting him to be dead. Good for him, but not for my Mom. They always quarreled because my Dad was a drunkard, and she thought he loved the booze more than her. The quarrels became more frequent because Dad couldn't convince Mom he loved her more than the booze. And when they quarreled, Dad would start drinking the booze again and beat the hell out of the people in town. He couldn't lay a finger on Mom though. He must've really loved her that much. He had an undefeated record of beating the shit out of everyone who dared to challenge him for a fist-fight. He was feared. When the townspeople ran out of challengers, they prayed for God to take him down. That was cheating. There's no way Dad could beat the shit out of God because He's God.
My Mom was disappointed that dad did not die on schedule so she left us for another family. When Mom left, Dad decided to just kill himself, partly because he couldn't die and partly because he missed Mom so much. He slashed his throat and vomited blood. Like, loads of it. The night before, he closed his eyes and prayed to God to just kill him to make the pain go away. When he opened his eyes, he was still alive. He mocked God and threatened to beat the shit out of Him too. I told him God won't kill him because He's God, not a murderer. He shot me a bewildered look like he did not know I existed. That night he hugged me so tight. It felt good and warm.
He died the following morning. I touched his hands. They were cold as ice so I gave him the same warm hug he gave me the other night. Too bad he could no longer feel it.
When nana came, she screamed my Dad's name like how she screamed the names of my tios who had died before him. Her voice sent chills down my spine but Dad could no longer hear her. She should know better.
Nana's chilling voice.
Dad's cold hands.
The world was filled with coldness not even the sun could hope to warm.
The night after we buried Dad on a deep-deep hole on the hills beside my tios, I dreamed that Mom and Dad were fighting again. Blood came out of their mouths instead of words. I ran up to them and tried to stop them from fighting. Blood splurged on my hands, on my face, on my shirt.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
Everywhere I looked there's blood.
I cried for help but Mom hit me with a hanger. Moms loved to hit their kids with things. Some preferred broom, belt or flip-flop. Nana said it's called Mother's Love but it was another lie, if she really loved me, she wouldn't have left and Dad never would've slashed his throat to take the pain away.
I asked nana if being an orphan was part of the curse package. She did not answer. She just stared at me as tears dropped from her tired gray eyes. 'Is it my turn to die?' I asked her. She laughed and cried at the same time. 'No, hijo...you're not dying,' another lie. Dad told me once that we start dying the moment we were born, that's why we're so good at it.
To laugh and cry like nana, to live and die like Dad, to love and leave like Mom was tad confusing, and tiring so I fell asleep and dreamt of Mom and Dad and my tios. We were eating dinner together like the one Jesus had with his family on a painting at the altar before they started dying-off one after another. Bet Jesus' family was just as good at dying."