This is the self-reflective essay that accompanied my two story-portfolio in Creative Writing 111. Thanks to Doc and my classmates and fellow "writing persons" for the evolution of "When Angels Spoke to Margaret (final)" and "The Strange Yet Not So Fictional Adventures of El Diablo" and for a really neat final grade *winks* It's just a shame that I can't do as well in my majors *tears up* Oh well, this doesn't really have to be about me, so fuck it.
“Igiit man ng ilang manunulat na hiwalay ang sining sa politika, ang hindi paglalatag ng politika sa mga akda’y poltika ring maituturing.”
(“Even if some writers insist that art is a separate entity from politics, the mere act of not putting in politics in their pieces is still a political act in itself.”)
- Louise Amante, Philippine Collegian, Sept. 11 2009 issue
Not Me
Creative Writing, for me, has been a welcome break from my being a Speech Major and technically, “Theatre Minor,” as we are required to take some units in performance arts as well. Along with courses on Fiction—I have taken only two, Fiction 1 and Fiction 2, so far—I have also invested on non-Speech and non-Theatre electives that I feel will give me more breathing space in terms of my personal artistic pursuits. Courses like Panitikang Pilipino and other Filipino subjects, have also brought me closer to my native tongue and the body of literature in which it is written that never fails to amaze me.
Speech Communication is a discipline that imposes strict—to me, I guess—rules on the ethics of communication, the importance of “how” one says it, and not exactly “what” one says, the many financial opportunities that would be available if one were to be an expert of communication, etc. As Speech Majors, we are trained to be call center agents, human resource personnel, salespersons, marketing and events leaders, TV and radio personalities, and many more eclectic choices that all involve communication in one way or another. I guess this is the reason we have been touted in the College of Arts and Letters as the “Jacks of all trades, masters of none.” Except for a few who opt to stay in the academe to further the discipline through teaching, most of us graduate and hold jobs that are defined by the material conditions of a capitalist society and a “globalizing” world. If it were not for my electives and other non-Speech courses such as CW 111: Fiction 2, I would not have realized how much I personally abhor my degree program. It is now too late, however, for me to decide to shift to a much more fulfilling academic program. And I am currently starting/finishing (for the process is indeed very erratic) my thesis just so I can finally graduate and hopefully deviate from the usual paths that Speech Majors take. Well, there is no telling whether I will decide to write, speak for a living, or even work for a human rights group, really. Just the same, I know that whatever it is that I will end up doing, I am certain that courses like CW 111 will always arm me with the alternative knowledge that I will need in my endeavors as an individual and as member of the larger society as a whole.
As a “writing person” (I do believe that I cannot call myself a writer yet, unless I get published someday, just like the narrator in one of my stories in this portfolio), I believe that I have somehow progressed from the shy, “I haven’t written any piece of fiction in my entire life, so please pardon my writing inexperience” kind of junior that I was last year when I first took up CW 110: Fiction 1. I remember one classmate then—a CW postgraduate student—telling me, “Well, welcome to the dark side.” He was referring to fiction, itself. Based on my limited experience in doing fiction, I cannot help but agree with that classmate of mine. It is the dark side of literature, but then there remains the other, even darker side of it: life. Life in its most accurate realities, life without art mirroring what is seen and unseen. Being a student of the University of the Philippines for four years now (and I hope it will stop at only that) has since taught me that charity is trivial, that merely having knowledge is futile, that writing for one’s own sake is masturbatory and does not contribute any good whatsoever to the society—not even aesthetics or beauty is useful in times like these and in a society such as ours. If there was any development in the practice of this craft—this blessed craft that is writing—that I have accomplished, it is this, and only this: practice.
I have not exactly reached the level that Philippine National Artists such as Virgilio Almario (Rio Alma) and Bienvenido Lumbera (Ka Bien) have, but I am satisfied with my current disposition as a struggling writing person with regard to my fictional themes and proposed ideologies. If I were to examine my “skills,” though, I know very well that mine are still raw and are of an amateur, for I believe that one never really stops growing in literature even if one were to achieve Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s status. What I am happy with is my awareness of my own preference of readership. Although I intend to write for the general masses, I still want to write for those who think, for those who believe that literature is not absolute and that it is not defined by guide questions or pointing out of morals. The reader is a very intelligent reader. One makes his/her own perceptions and interpretations on the piece that he/she reads. In this way, the reader not only “reads” literature but “rewrites” stories, poems, and what have you. This much I have come to learn from Creative Writing, not only from writing my own pieces but more importantly, from reading exceptional pieces from writers—both classic and contemporary, both familiar and unknown. Aside from knowing the people for whom I want to be a genuine writer, I am also glad that I finally know what “art for art’s sake” means and how to break the walls of this particular box. An artist may not exactly know one’s purpose in his/her piece before the work even begins, but prominent Filipino writer, Ricky Lee, could not have said it better: “You should at least know where you stand, whether you are meant to follow the status quo, or whether you are meant to disturb.” I personally want to do the latter, although I know that I still have much to learn from mainstream art/literature before I even go far from this part of the spectrum. Again, I quote Lee when I say that “in order for you to break the rules, you must first know the rules by heart.” At present, I do not aim to stray right away. I am a Speech Major who will graduate with little experience on writing and with no books yet to my name. I am one of those nameless, faceless struggling writing persons who will want to either make a change or stay in the box.
It is my hope that I will transcend this current disposition of mine. With the two stories attached herein with this essay, I aim to ask my readers what exactly are the things that matter—aside from giving characters their full shape, their desires that are either satiated or thwarted, enough motives to justify their actions, and the changes that they have to go through in order to tell a “complete” story. Although these stories—“When Angels Spoke to Margaret” and “The Strange Yet Not So Fictional Adventures of El Diablo”—were both written from a tradionalist point of view (or so I assume), I want readers to question the status quo. “When Angels” is not just a story about a U. P. dormitory urban legend. As much as it is about a story on friendship, it is also a story about the crippling effects of patriarchy and religion as parts of the general ideological construct that has been built and tolerated in Philippine society in particular (and perhaps these themes can also be related to other societies as well). Meanwhile “The Strange Yet” is a story inspired by real-life events concerning Nicole, the Filipino victim who has been brought to international spotlight—although her identity was kept in privacy up to the time that the controversy just “died down”—by pressing rape charges against a certain Daniel Smith and company, who happened to be American soldiers assigned in the Philippines under the Visiting Forces Agreement. The issue regarding the country’s imperialist ties with the U. S. still remains fresh, especially recently that Filipinos have been reported to be shot dead by these soldiers even if the VFA clearly prohibits them from partaking in any combat while stationed in the country. I have nothing against Americans, with all due respect. I have something against the overall system, though—the overly dependent developing country that my nation has been reduced to. And I wish to make this manifest in my writings as a young artist.
In the future, I can only hope that a certain question will always guide me in my growth as an artist and in my journey towards becoming a writer. This question will remind me of who I am, who I will be, and what my particular “desires” are —say as a “character” of this bigger “story” that is the society—which primarily concern genuine social change: Para Kanino? For whom? And clearly, ideally, I will know that the answer is not me.
This is a revision of a previous story that I wrote, "Meet. April." Alright, I didn't know this was "metafiction" until I wrote it for a workshop. I hate genres--because they usually keep us in boxes--but I really like this one. ^^
The Strange Yet Not So Fictional Adventures of El Diablo
Introductions. All things begin with introductions. Usually. And because I, a struggling “writing person”—for I cannot find the guts to call myself a “writer” unless I am published at the very least, and even published writers still do struggle in a world that starves them unless they please the mainstream crowd: those witchcraft-loving muggles who buy dubious books that only have “The Secret” printed on the cover and are content with meeting only five people in heaven—do not feel extra-deviant today, I am starting with one.
My subject will now walk into the room and stand in front of you, dear readers. Picture yourselves sitting in the same room, clad in your best outfits, or even nothing at all, whichever you prefer. Her name is April, and she is clueless about this whole piece of fiction which we will base on her present so-so life. Clueless about writing, in fact. She thinks writing is for the indolent (some of you who write squint) and prefers running around kicking balls (the men automatically motion to hold onto their gonads). She is a soccer varsity player—“Soccer” as the Americans call it, “Football” for the Limeys, and “Kickball” as I call it.
She trains every day and runs the length of the football field before six and after five, every drop of her sweat being a taste of her own life. Yes, she tastes her own sweat, and to give you a piece of trivia: for athletes, believe it or not, their sweat becomes a little sweet because of all their training. Yum, April thinks, for she can hear what I am saying, but is not aware that we can actually hear her own thoughts. Don’t ask me why, though. We just can. And no matter how much April will want to react verbally to our discussion, she cannot, unless I let her. Again, don’t ask me why.
During matches, April makes Beckham look even more gay than he is whenever he goes out in skirts (look it up, he really does) as opposed to his deceivingly hawt Calvin Klein underwear ads with his baggage deliberately teasing the consumerist world and his washboard abs wanting to be touched, grabbed onto, and whichever you prefer doing with it, really. At this point, some gay men—both “out” and “still in the closet”—subconsciously bite their lips and some women feel their clits contract, making them blush secretly. And instead of yelling, “Goal!” (this is April, by the way, so do forget about Beckham now) she grins, baring her teeth, and screams at the top of her lungs, “That’s soccer for you, suckers!” before spitting something on the ground: the spearmint gum that she never spits out until game’s over and that has already been chewed mercilessly, now tasteless and grimy after an entire two hours—or even more—of kicking, bruising, falling facedown on the mud, standing and kicking again, taking advantage of the legality of causing injuries in the game, spilling out the nastiest profanities, rejoicing in the moniker that the football folks have baptized her with: El Diablo. Rough and hard. That’s how she plays her game.
At present, however, there seems to be not a trace of that El Diablo anywhere. Her hair, cropped like a little boy’s, is neatly combed in place, her plain white tee under her orange polo shirt is immaculate, her khaki shorts look ironed—oh, but then again, her Nike Total Shift 90s are as filthy as hell. When asked about her name, she speaks in her deep voice—an affected habitual pitch that she has struggled to master all these years, an achievement that echoes far from her real optimum pitch—
“It’s April. Er, full name?” she says before clearing her throat and coughing out a hasty “April Rose Marie Mauricio.” Of course, a name that long can’t be too hasty for anyone to miss without trying hard not to snigger. It’s really not such a bad name. It is a common girl’s name and apparently, that is the problem.
“Uh-huh, it’s a girl’s name,” April mutters inside her head after the dreaded full-name introduction. Why can’t she be like Madonna? Nah, fuck Madonna, why not Seal? And why the hell not Prince? If some of them can get away with only singular names while giving the concert audience the finger after performing a not-so-wonderful-yet-very-danceable pop song, then why can’t she? She runs her hand through her hair before she takes her seat across from yours, pulling up her shorts so her knees can breathe. You notice that her knees have bruises here and there, and you understand that she got them from kickball matches and you deduce that she doesn’t go to Church because she hates how kneeling hurts. “I should’ve brought some gum,” she wishes silently, thinking that that might make her look cooler, more astig.
Obviously, one’s IQ may be determined by making him/her guess which month April was born in. Her second name, however, does not say anything about her. Her parents, Lyn and Johnny, only thought that a flower would be a cute name for a little girl. The “Marie,” on the other hand, says everything about her nationality. It appears that Filipinos have this undying love affair with naming girls “Maria.” Most Filipinas have it preceding Spanish ancient-sounding names like Rosario and Josefina, or long names after flowers such as Magnolia and Rosalinda. Sometimes it’s spelled out while other times, it’s plainly “Ma” with the dot. Some parents like the English version, “Mary,” while some feel extra-Francaise come Baptism Day and name their daughters “Marie.” In April’s case, Lyn and Johnny seem to have gone through the latter, especially because it is Lyn’s life-long dream to go to Paris but we already know—because we are supposed to be all-knowing readers—that she will die without having gone to see the EiffelTower at all (“Awww,” some of you say). This means that giving April a French name might have not been in vain. At least, she may have the opportunity to continue her mother’s “legacy” and go to Paris on her behalf, whatever kind of reason there might be that may attract a dike to go there (some feminists let out some expletives). Just the same, we still know that April will never really forgive her parents for naming her that way.
“April” is already a bad enough name. If she was named “Georgina,” she could’ve lived with “George,” not “Ape.” If she was “Roseanne Joy”—like her teammate is—she could’ve gotten away with “R. J.,” and not “A. R. M.” But since her three names happen to be her names and hers alone, she has since decided to make do with “April” because she’d rather die than be called “Rose” and she’s always hated how Lyn calls her “Marrrrrrrr-eeeeeeeeeeee!” when her daughter has done something worth reprimanding. Oh, and she doesn’t have a mind capable enough to think of more creative nicknames, like “Ril” for instance, or her last name even, “Mauricio” or “Mau” for short, even “Maurice” (but then again, that still is French). “April” is already a bad enough name, but not too bad, I guess, April thinks.
There are only two things that she cannot seem to live with, though: her breasts and her vagina. She hates wearing the bra (the feminists say, “Hear ye! Hear ye!”) but she needs the support since she’s a 36 (I whisper “C” to keep April from hearing, but the straight men easily catch it and whistle and nod as they narrow their eyes and carefully study April’s chest, making the feminists angry, of course, and the non-feminists squirm, feeling inferior about their A’ and B’s). She couldn’t care less about the right fit of underwear while the other girls go crazy over sizes and external clothing, perhaps willing enough to not wear anything underneath than go to hell because of committing the ultimate fashion sin: showing “panty lines.” She doesn’t like having to sit in order to pee, although she hasn’t got much choice, really. She detests having to wash with icky liquid from pink bottles that say “Your partner’s best friend” instead of merely using soap. And she totally abhors hassling over cramps and changing napkins for that “monthly thing” since she doesn’t like saying “period” or “menstruation,” either.
Ask her if she hates girls and she’ll answer, “Naw, not at all.” Well, at least not all of them. April has fallen in love once. Her name was Emily. I allow April to hear this particular name-dropping and she blushes, her eyebrows meeting, her legs doing a very masculine de kwatro. Emily was her former roommate in Waling waling Women’s Residence Hall. Some mouths in the dorm would even spread rumors about Emily and “April Boy.”
Mouth #1:I once knocked on their door and I thought it was okay so I opened it, and they were sleeping snugly beside each other—and there were three vacant beds ha!
Mouth #2: That’s nothing, I saw them kissing at the lobby once, (whispers) and I swear there was alot of tongue.”
Mouth #3: No kidding, I bet they even take a bath together!”
And the tongues wagged on and on and on, while the two happily breezed through their little affair hidden under the monikers “roommates,” “friends,” and “fellow girls” even. The dorm manager who was a gossip herself—as all dorm managers are, as you might notice—eventually found out about this little secret, and by next semester, took off April Rose Marie off Waling waling, and transferred her to another women’s dormitory with another flower’s name. The distance broke her heart and Emily, last she heard, is now going out with another varsity player from the swimming team. His name is Lee. April realized then that Emily was not exactly a raging homo as herself (again, the feminists react quite negatively) and that perhaps, she only has this thing for varsity athletes, after all. As I drawl on about this, April has that far-off look, her face expressionless, before she fixes her composure and mentally wishes that she was chewing gum instead. What the fuck am I doing here? she asks herself.
Conclusions. Things like this have to have endings. However, as a struggling writing person, I am not exactly in the position to end such a story. Why, the readers have to decide for themselves! After all, for whom do writers write? Perhaps we’ll meet April again in a longer story, something that goes according to your wishes. The following are the options:
A) Should it be a post-Emily love story? Or even better, April experiments with a guy sexually and discovers that orgasm caused by a penis is a much more fulfilling experience. Turn to page five; or
B) About her being queen/king of the football field? This is quite boring, I must say, but sports fans might have a swing at it, so please turn to page six; or
C) Something like a coming-of-age story about being lesbian? Yes, this is too clichéd, but heck, there is a reason clichés are clichés: people just love ‘em too much! Turn to page seven; or
D) How much she hates having a vagina and does everything in her capacity to get rid of the damned pussy?? Now, there’s promise in that! Skip on to page eight.
Meanwhile, I’ll leave this one hanging. “Thank you, April. You may now go ahead to your kickball practice,” I bow to my gracious, intentionally yet strangely passive subject. El Diablo runs her hand through her hair and pulls her shorts up again, stands, and never looks back, muttering under her breath, It’s soccer, suckers.
A) There is no story here. Go watch some porn.
B) Sorry, but as much as I am struggling to be a “genuine writer,” the only sport I know is Quidditch, so I’m afraid I cannot write on this one.
C) I don’t like clichés, personally, so I am not eager to give you this “coming-of-age” story. You may check out some interesting Disney titles, though, as they do this kind of thing quite often. But if you want a more mature, less fluffy sort of theme, then I recommend the endearing yet troubling “Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros,” or you may go for “Y Tu Mama Tambien” for more sexually exciting scenes.
However, I can give you the ending, which is that, April Rose Marie Mauricio a. k. a. El Diablo will never really get a happy ending, because: 1) same-sex marriages are cursed upon in her own country (specifically, by the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines, which is also fighting tooth and nail to debunk the proposed Reproductive Health Bill); and unfortunately, 2) she will never get to Paris, either, or to any other place beyond Philippine shores to at least marry her own kind; because 3) she will get raped in her 20s and in her panty briefs because a group of drunken men—whom she will randomly meet at a bar while drinking, herself, after another woman will break her heart by leaving her and settling for a straight male athlete—will “try to teach her a lesson” as if being a lesbian is a sin that is worth punishing. And since El Diablo is physically strong and will try to fight off the men with all her might, one of them will take it upon himself to hold her down by grabbing her throat, not let her go, until he accidentally kills her. Yes, April dies and all the rapists will get away with it because—surprise, surprise!—they are a bunch of handsome American soldiers who are stationed in the Philippines under the Visiting Forces Agreement. They will even have Filipino fans’ clubs—because Filipinos can’t resist good Caucasian, Brad Pitt-like features—during the court proceedings which will never get anywhere, anyway. April will be considered pariwara and malandi for even going to the bar and drinking by her lonesome that night that she got raped. She will not be the victim. “Nope, she brought her death upon herself,” Raul Gonzalez will confirm this during his fifth stint as “Justice Secretary.”
As a result, Filipinos will always live under the false premise that they are, indeed, free and April, sadly, will never get to Paris.
D) The El Diablo does try everything to get rid of her vagina, but her middle-class socioeconomic status will not allow her to avail the sexual glories of science and technology. Therefore, she just settles for her affected masculinity and “imagines” that she has a dick, instead. Nevertheless, any sexual intercourse sadly reminds her that this is not so, which is why apart from having great leg power because of all that kickball training in the past, she will also develop very masterful hands that will know every dip and stroke of pleasure. Sadly, though, the last thing that those hands will do is to shield the very organ that she has fought and “thought” hard to rid herself, from the blue, green, and brown-eyed blonde soldiers who will pin her hands down and restrain her entire body inside a cramped van. They will violate her and eventually kill her. April will taste her own sweat which will now be a salty concoction of her own and of the drunken men’s fluids. And as if to betray the only nickname that she ever liked, El Diablo's last words will be, “Mga demonyo kayo! Putang ina n’yo!”
The following has to be the very final draft of my first "novelette" (well, almost). I made some changes in the tenses of the plot as well as some more characterization, and I hope these are already enough. Time to move on, y'know, hehe. Here goes:
When Angels Spoke to Margaret
Forgive me, O Lord, for I have sinned.
Lord of Heaven and Earth, I confess to Thee.
I beseech Thee, righteous and compassionate Judge,
grant me forgiveness and grace to sin no more.
Hannah, wake up, a voice says.
It is Margie’s. To this, I bolt and sit on my bed. My head is still swimming as I take control of my thoughts and my senses. The first thing that I notice is a piano playing Fϋr Elise in the background. The room is dark and my eyes are still straining to see where Margie is. She doesn’t seem to be sitting on my bed, although her voice sounded as if she whispered to my ear.
“Hey, I missed you,” she says. And finally, I see her standing by her closet. It’s a little dark but I can see a bit of her through the moonlight that’s streaming into the room. She’s smiling at me, just like how she did when we first talked behind the bushes in fifth grade—a smile that looks like she just spoke to angels. I cannot explain the joy that swells within me when I see that smile.
+++
Margie—only I call her that—is my roommate of two years and bestfriend of ten, and yet, a stranger in more ways than one, particularly these days in college. “St. Margaret,” everybody else has nicknamed her. Maybe except me. I’m not saying that she is a horrible person to me. Margaret is almost perfect—everything I’m not. And I came to love her and I still do. Our friendship has been and always will be one of the most beautiful things that ever happened to me. And I guess—no, I hope—she feels the same way. There’s really no telling how anyone can possibly understand what goes on in Margaret’s mind. But I’d like to believe that I know her. Or I wish I did. I love her. And I’d like to believe that she loves me, too.
I remember the date clearly: August 11th. A Friday. One of the busiest Fridays of that schoolyear, in fact. It’d already been half an hour after my midterms but the exam was still fresh, rattling my brain until I could almost see double. Margie and I share room 302 in St. Rosalia Ladies’ Dormitory. I remember, I was up in that room, going over my baggage for the last time, all the while crossing out the already packed necessities in my head. Papay was coming home after four straight years in the UAE, and I was ecstatic.
The previous night, I made sure that everything had already been taken care of, that the only thing I needed to do after my 2-4:30 pm exam that Friday was to haul my bags and take the double-trip to Turbina and catch the 7 pm-bus to NagaCity. By Saturday, Papay himself would already be home, too. Everything was going really well—except for me and Margie.
I caught glance of our personalized alarm clock on the bedside study table: 5:10. Behind the hands and numbers is a picture of Margie and me during our high school graduation. Both of us are grinning in our immaculate togas. I’m almost unrecognizable with my makeup on, but Margie’s flawless teeth, natural paleness, dark eyes, and dark hair shine with a radiance that she brings wherever she goes. These past few weeks, though, her aura has been anything but radiant.
A baby’s excited laughter resonated in the silent, little room. I almost jumped. It was my phone’s message alert tone. Margie? Where are you? I asked inwardly, gritting my teeth, after realizing how silent the room actually was. Hannah, take care on your way home. Favor, pakilock naman po ng cabinet ko, i think i forgot, the lock’s on my bed. Thanks. I’m sorry, i didn’t mean to hurt you. I’LL MISS YOU. May God look after you. Let His will be done, read the message, followed by a kissing smiley.
It was from Margie. She’d always texted like that, always the complete words, no shortcuts whatsoever. And she never failed to mention God. She could’ve probably been attending the 5pm Mass that very minute. Can’t believe she forgot, I thought, smiling a little. I half-expected that it’d be longer before Margie finally got around. It’d been a week then since she spoke to me that kindly. This would have been her first attempt at a “normal” sort of communication since she knew about what was going on between Andrew and me. Her strange behavior has recently turned for the worse and even I have started to get scared of my oldest friend. After I read her message, though, I felt that I could breathe more easily. Maybe it was just a phase. My eyes searched for the cabinet’s lock, and I found it on her pillow.
I went over to Margie’s bed, hurriedly took the padlock, and pressed on the number combination: 2-5-6-8. It clicked open. I didn’t even have to ask her about it. I simply knew.
Margie and I lived in the same neighborhood since we were little girls in Naga, she in her mary janes and I in my high-cut shoes. We both went to Universidad de Santa Isabelin elementary and high school. It was an all-girls school run by nuns from the order of the Daughters of Charity. And we both passed UPCAT and ended up being college roommates in Los Baños. We’re soulmates! Heck, our menstrual periods are even in synchrony. Or at least they used to be.
I hooked the padlock onto the cabinet door fastening, pushed the lever inside, and raised the pressed numbers. And then I checked its hold by pulling it twice. It held. There, that should secure Margie’s closet properly until she got back. I threw my own closet a glance even if I already knew that mine was also well locked. I took my phone and selected “Reply.” “K, mixon accomplishd.Ü don’t sweat it, i understnd. Wish u kud go hom w/ me. Miss u mor! My sincerest condolences 2 ur family. U rili shud b dr, though—”
—but, thinking that Margie didn’t need the extra nudge, I changed my mind and cleared the unfinished sentence, replacing it with
“—Maybe I’l drop by ur place 2 pay respects 2 tita on ur behalf. God bless. C u pgbalik qng elbi. *hugs*”
I pressed “Send.”
Leaving for the weekend to spend a brief vacation at home while it was Tita Sonia’s wake three houses away felt like cheating. Tita Sonia was Margie’s mother, or what she had closest to a mother. Just the thought of leaving Margie in Elbi almost killed me, but she didn’t want to go home. And perhaps it was better that she didn’t. Her stepdad, Doug, is the only family she has left and this is probably the worst thing about Tita Sonia’s death.
“People die, Hannah. It’s the only way they can actually start living with the Father.” That was what Margie told me before resorting to preaching about death and how chastity could have saved me from burning in hell—or something like that.
I checked the time again: 5:16. A slight drizzle began to pour and in a few moments, it grew into heavy rain.
“Oh, perfect!” I went to the windows beside my bed and hurriedly closed them. Traffic would be heavier with this kind of rain, I thought. But I was good to go. I took each and every one of my bags, determined to brave the rain. The room was still in its quiet reverie except for the rain outside, spattering on the windows, plummeting against the pavement, chanting angrily along with the wind, drowning out every sound in the little dormitory. I closed and locked the door behind me. And I wish I didn’t, even to this day.
+++
Being the only girl among my siblings, I had always been the one pupil in class who chewed gum a lot and pulled at my classmates’ hair. My two brothers always did those things and I thought that all the other kids did them most of the time, too. But I’d always get a scolding from the nuns and at 11, I already sort of earned the reputation of being a bully in the all-girls school. It didn’t help that I was two inches taller than all my other classmates, either. They called me Goliath. I hated those girls. They were always giggling and they’d shriek when they’d see a bee hovering around the room. It was annoying.
Margaret Abadilla, however, was the sister I never had. She was the frail-looking, petite girl who didn’t have any friends, and whose presence could only be felt because she always came first in the class roll call because of her surname. She was a mouse, never talked much. We were neighbors but aside from our classes, I only got to see her when she’d get out of the car and went into their white front gate, orwhen she went out the gate and got into the car.
In school, she always sat in the corner at the back even if she was too small, well, until she was made to leave that sad, little space of hers. We were in fifth grade then. Sister Asuncion, our Mother Superior and Basic Spanish teacher who, at 70 or so, only looked to be about 50, came in for class and pointed her trembling thin, white finger at Margie—the trembling, the bulging green veins, and wrinkles in her pale hands were the only signs that gave away her age. We actually made up stories about her being an aswang that ate little children just to keep her face youthful. “Tu! Ven aqui!” her high-pitched voice resounded in the classroom. “Can you even see from there? Susmaryosep, come and sit in front of me, hija!” All heads turned to the little girl at the back and everyone could see Margie shrink from dread and blush in embarrassment. She hesitantly stood and slowly made her way across the aisle to Sister Asuncion who boomed, “Date prisa!” and this made her walk briskly to the front, her head down, eyes fixed on the floor. The other girls were whispering things like “So weird,” and “Just like her crazy dad,” and “Talks to herself most of the time.”
“And you, Ms. Martinez! Get rid of that gum or I’ll personally take it from your mouth and tie it around your hair just to keep those unkempt strands in place.” Sister Asuncion was already speaking to me.
The girls let out hushed giggles as I walked to the trash bin, rolling my eyes. I guess Margie got so scared at that time that she never returned to sitting at the back anymore. She remained in front through out all our other classes. And I kept my gum when the veiled aswang wasn’t around.
The other girls made fun of Margie a lot. Like I said, she wasn’t much of a talker—well, except when she was all by herself, or when she thought she was all by herself. There were also rumors circulating about her biological father, that he’d gone mad after World War II. He was already 83 when Margie was born and he died of old age. I don’t know what her father was like since she wasn’t able to meet him herself when she was old enough to remember. But if it was true that he really was insane, I still would’ve preferred him to Doug just the same. Even then, Margie was already terrified by her stepfather.
I remember it was a hot afternoon and classes were already over. Most of the girls were picked up by their mommies, or daddies, or nannies, while the rest were left playing all kinds of games on the volleyball court. I was busily winning and hitting at some girls myself. We were playing dodge ball.
“No fair! You’re a lot bigger!” one sore loser quipped. I’d already gotten her off the court four or five times and I could tell she was on the verge of tears.
“Hey, that means you should get to hit me more often!” I laughed and threw the ball at her. I missed. The girl jerkily swayed her hips to the right some milliseconds before the ball reached her.
“Nice going, Goliath!” one of my teammates, a sixth-grader, shouted.
“Oh I’ll get it!” I snapped and ran across the court to fetch the ball. I think I was cursing in between chewing my gum at that time. I never missed. In the midst of my expletives—which I was careful enough not to say out loud, lest one of the nuns were passing by, especially if it was Sister Asuncion—I realized that the ball was already lost. I tried looking for it by the nearby bushes where a bench or two were hidden. That was when I heard that little voice animatedly speaking and I knew I had never heard it from anyone else.
“Look here, we can now play ball! You do know how to play ball, don’t you?” it said cheerfully. I peered through the bushes to see who it was. It was Margie and she was talking to somebody who seemed to be sitting on the stone bench, except that…there was no one there.
“Nah, I don’t think I know basketball. I may be too small, see,” she said. I narrowed my eyes and searched for another person. I was sure I heard no other voice, but she seemed to have answered a question or something. Margie tapped the ball and sent it to the ground. She tried to dribble it, but her hand wasn’t fast enough to even catch the third bounce. I chuckled. She gasped.
“Who’s there?!” she asked, more frightened than questioning.
“It’s me, Hannah!” I said, walking away from the bushes and showing myself to her. She only blinked at me.
“Margie, right?” I invented that nickname for her. I always thought she was such a funny, little thing and she was different from all those obnoxious girls who called me Goliath, and I knew I liked her even then. I beamed, spat the gum out, and walked towards her. I think she even took a step back. She always looked scared whenever people talked to her.
“It’s okay. I just came to get my ball, that’s all,” I tried to sound nice. “And don’t worry, I sometimes have imaginary friends, too—I mean, when I was eight, er, seven—no biggie!”
“They’re not imaginary.”
“Well, if you say so,” I smiled and went to pick up the ball that rolled its way beside the bushes. I glanced at the stone bench. I was certain nobody was sitting there the whole time, but I blurted out, "Hey there, ‘Margie's friend!’" if only to humor her. I turned to her and noticed that her expression was now curious, not as scared as before. And then she smiled, showing perfect set of teeth, her eyes narrowing above high cheekbones. She looked different altogether. It was a lovely kind of smile. Perhaps she was wondering why I was talking to her in the first place. Nobody in school seemed to mind odd, little Margaret.
“Hey, you wanna play?” I said, shifting the ball from one hand to the other.
“No, thanks. Uh…Dd-dada’s…going to be here…soon.” Her face looked scared again by the mention of that word, “Dada.”
“Dada? Oh, I see,” I said. “Dog”—I preferred calling him that—is one of the tallest, most formidable men I’ve ever known. I never looked him in the eye when I was younger. His beard was thick and black, and reminded me of the Bombay who rode his motorcycle around the city, past our house, every day. He owns the local meat shop and I always heard him shouting cuss words at his workers whenever Mamay brought me along to the market. He has a slight limp when he walks but he still has that dreadful aura about him. I’d totally understand if Margie was dead scared of her “Dada.”
“Hmmm…d’you even know that we live in the same subdivision?” I asked her. “Tell you what, it’s only two blocks away from here, and I usually walk home. You can join me—if you want. I’ll drop you off at your place.”
Her eyes widened, and I hurriedly said, “I mean, if your dad’s not gonna be mad or—”
“—Oh, will you?!” she exclaimed. “Please, oh—you really mean that?”
“Er, if you don’t mind, or your dad for that matter.”
That afternoon, I left those annoying girls without a ball to play dodge ball, and Margie and I walked home together—I, carrying my ball and backpack and jug, and she, trying to keep up with my pace, her bag slung over her shoulder and her lunchbox rattling in her hand. We talked about the girls we didn’t like in school. Technically, though, I did much of the talking while she did much of the nodding. Goliath and the mouse. I always thought it funny and strange, but we’ve been inseparable since then.
+++
“It’s huge!” I exclaimed, obviously elated.
“And it’s too much,” added Margie.
We just arrived in St. Rosalia and we were surveying the closet space in our new room up on the third floor. It was the very first time for both of us to have gone any farther than Bicol. Margie was cautious while I was psyched the whole time.
“That’s because you hardly brought any stuff.” I glanced at her things: one travelling bag that wasn’t even fully packed and the long, green umbrella that she always had with her since high school, and which served as her cane as much as it shielded her from the weather’s many idiosyncrasies. “You’re not taking the vow of poverty now, are you?” I teased.
“Oh, but it’s true! Isn’t it too big, Sister Pat? A person can fit in it!” Margie crossed her arms in contemplation and looked at the dorm’s nun and supervisor standing by the bed. I never liked Sister Pat much. She talks about the dorm fees a little too frequently and she always has that odd grin on her face as if she knows everything—and that everything is funny. Plus, she smells strongly of moth balls.
“Ha! That person won’t get to breathe in there. The cabinets may have their locks but they’re already sealed, see? That’s to prevent roaches from getting in. Naphthalene balls can still come in handy, though. Don’t you just love how they smell?” she said, her lips eaten by the baring of all her teeth.
“Uh, no,” I answered.
Margie gave me a quick “Hannah!” kind of stare before saying, “That’s alright, Sister. We’ll take it from here. We’ll just go downstairs and settle our dues shortly.”
“Alright, you girls have fun then. You just give me half of the month as down—or maybe even the full amount, that would be preferable! After that, you’re all set!” The old, plump nun ambled her way out of the room and stopped just outside the doorway. “Welcome home!” she said. I felt my hair stand on end.
“Well, that was rude of you,” Margie chided me after making sure that Sister Pat was already gone.
“Well, that was creepy!” I said, and we laughed.
That was a year ago. We were freshmen. I already got over my gum and she wasn’t the scared, little child that she was anymore. Or so it seemed. We were eager to take on college. Especially Margie. Being far away from Naga seemed to do her a lot of good and she knew it, too. Doug went hysterical when he knew that Margie was going to UP Los Baños but Tita Sonia was keen on sending her away. I assume that she’d always known what that Dog had been doing to her daughter, only that she never said a word. Never mind that Margie always had bruises on her neck and arms when we were in high school. Never mind that there would be whole weeks when Margie buried herself in studies and said nothing. Even I couldn’t get anything out from her. I just guessed—from the bruises and the unexplained fear that came along with Doug’s name—that something was wrong. I spent an afternoon at their place when Dog was there once. Margie was playing the piano and he was standing next to her. I didn’t like the glint in his eyes as he watched Margie play and as his burly hands caressed her neck and shoulders. We lived in a quiet neighborhood where the slightest rumor could ruin a family. And I guess, Tita Sonia—an active member of the local parish’s Christ’s Ladies of Benevolence—cared more about reputation than her daughter’s wellbeing. For her, it might have been Divine Intervention when she could finally send her daughter to UP with only a bottle of antidepressants, a Bible, and all the money she needed to keep her company.
Fortunately, St. Rosalia is everything Margie could have ever wanted. It’s no different from a convent. The Chapel is only about fifty steps away, right outside the dorm. We eat in a “refectory.” We have a prayer room with a fully decked altar and four pews slightly smaller than those found in church. And the whole place is so quiet, you think you can almost hear Sister Pat grin—that little sound of flesh getting sucked behind all those yellow teeth. If only the dorm had been as quiet as usual, then maybe it wouldn’t have happened. If only it didn’t rain so hard that weekend.
“Rosalians are known to be consistent honor students, you know. That’s because of the peace that you find in this dormitory, it makes the place conducive in learning.” I’d often hear Sister Pat throw this “pitch” to the parents who checked the dorm out for their girls.
“Conducive to, Patty, it’s to,” I thought while I gave the parents a warm, “I’ll-be-kind-to-your-daughter” kind of smile. I like everything about being a Rosalian, except for having to deal with Sister who just seems like a hypocrite to me. She looks at us as if we were puking little cash machines. I guess she has some reason to believe that. I mean, Rosalians are usually pampered and well-off. My family’s only able to afford it because Papay works abroad.
But I do like the girls in St. Rosalia. They’re different from the obnoxious, shrieking classmates Margie and I had in the Universidad. With the Rosalians, it’s like a nightly sorority slumber party, and because the dorm’s little enough, we get to bond intimately with one another. I’m tight with most of the girls, we know one another’s secrets: crushes, boyfriends, the few bratty dormmates we don’t like but pretend to like, tips on shaving our legs and whatever else there is to shave, and what have you. Margie is adored by many, but they feel like she’s out of reach, like she were on a pedestal or something. Meg—that’s what they call her—never gets angry, largely because she vents everything out on me, which I don’t mind, because that means that she trusts me more than anyone else. God is my only rival when it comes to her confidence.
Don’t get me wrong, though. I know how to pray, I was sent to nun’s places all my life and so was Margie. But Margie’s faith is like no other. She can stay in the prayer room for hours on end, she attends Mass every day at 5pm, she says the Rosary before she goes to bed. It wasn’t long before everyone called her “St. Margaret.”
“And I’m like one of your followers,” I jokingly said, to which she smiled humbly.
Margie is mostly admired because of her skills on the piano. Next to the prayer room and her study table, the seat by the baby piano in the receiving area is her favorite place. The girls’ visitors listen to her play. The inquiring parents get especially captivated, probably wondering if their daughters could ever be taught to play like that. I am a fan myself. Ever since we were kids, I’ve known that music is Margie’s natural gift. I never could play an instrument to save my soul. But Margie—she changes every time she closes her eyes while her fingers dance on the black, the white, the ivory. It’s like she’s in a trance or something. She has mastered Fϋr Elise and it’s the arrangement that I like to hear her play the most, perhaps because it’s the most familiar piece to me. I even recorded it once so she could make it her phone’s alarm tone since she always wakes up at 5 am, right before sunrise.
Apparently, Margie also got herself another fan: Fr. Kevin. He regularly visited the dorm when she played or when he just felt like talking to her. I didn’t like how he’d stand by the piano while Margie played, his hands stroking her hair. He reminded me of Dog.
Margie told me that Fr. Kevin is only 30, but that even at such a young age, he already made it to becoming the Chapel’s parish priest. She’s always been uneasy with the opposite sex, but Fr. Kevin seemed to scare her less. Perhaps it was the robe. Margie was never really attracted to him the way that he was to her. Once, he even sent her a bouquet with a card that said “My dear Margaret, These pale in comparison to you. Signed, K.” Despite that, she still thought it was a pure kind of friendship and she chose to believe that the bouquet wasn’t from him, either.
“There are lots of K’s as there are lots of Margaret’s,” she claimed.
“And you’re the only Margaret here who hangs out with a Kevin,” I pointed out.
He was cute, in fact. Some Rosalians attended Sunday Mass just to see him preside over it. They sighed and giggled to his jokes when he delivered his sermons. They even said they envied St. Margaret, that it was “a match made in heaven.” Margie frowned upon this and by this time, she was already trying to avoid him, even to the point of not playing the piano.
One evening, I just got back from school and I found Margie in one of the bathroom cubicles, furiously scrubbing herself. She was crying quietly but her skin was red and almost bruised.
“Margie!” I shouted, running towards her.
“Don’t touch me! I’m filthy,” she sobbed. “I’ve to clean myself, Hannah.”
I then found out that that afternoon, Fr. Kevin insisted on seeing her. Margie plucked up the courage to tell him that their closeness already had people talking and that she wasn’t okay with it anymore. This was when he confessed to her that he was, in fact, in love with her. Margie would not hear any of this, so she told him that it was best if they didn’t see each other again. Margie told me how Fr. Kevin begged her to stay and when she declined his request, he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her.
“Doug was all that I saw, Hannah. It all came back to me. I…can’t forgive myself now,” she whispered.
I tried to hug her, but even my touch frightened her.
“I am filthy, I must do penance,” she said.
I felt sorry for Margie. I hated Fr. Kevin. I hated Dog. I hated Tita Sonia for being a mute witness to it all. And I hated myself, because I didn’t do anything to protect her, either.
The following months were the saddest, most disturbing time between Margie and me. She started spending an hour and a half when she took a bath. The other girls complained about this because they had to wait for their turn. She didn’t talk to me much except when I tried to start a conversation but she only ended up reassuring herself that she’d be “as immaculate as before” in no time. And I told her, “It doesn’t matter. You’re still the Margie I know. I’m right here, everything will be alright.” And I wish that I really was there for her and that everything would’ve been fine.
Around this time, I met a guy named Andrew. He was a classmate and I fell for him—his little quirks, the dimples on both cheeks, his good memory of names and quotes, the conversations that we’d have when we walked after our English 2 until we parted at the waiting shed as we made our respective ways to our next classes. Before I knew it, he’d already wait at the dorm’s gate before English 2 and he’d drop me off at the same place in the evening, giving me my first goodnight kisses. Things went smoothly, albeit fast, and we were already making love in such a way that was made even more special by the secrecy of the deed, the kind of secrecy that the young and restless kept until they weren’t so restless anymore. He was my first boyfriend and I guess, after having been from an all-girls school and a ladies’ dorm all my life, I was excited by the prospect of finally falling, being in, making love.
I admit, I sort of busied my life around Andrew. Somehow, I forgot about Margie and the things that she was going through. There were times when I slept over at Andrew’s place instead of the dorm. It was pretty easy. You only had to ask for overnight permits from Sister Pat and you were good to go. The nun didn’t care much about your safety outside St. Rosalia, as long as you paid on time, that was it.
Margie confronted me about this, and I told her that I knew what I was doing, that I was already an adult and could take care of myself.
“We used to have our periods together,” she said, her stare resting on my calendar pinned on the wall.
“You’ve been checking on my schedule?” I asked, taken aback. Margie made me nervous. Since Andrew and I began sleeping together, I’ve developed the habit of monitoring my period by crossing out series of days with a red marker. I became irregular and whenever a month has passed without any sign of a period, I panicked.
“You don’t even have it now.” She took out a small piece of crumpled paper out of her pocket and showed it to me. It was the instruction sheet of the pregnancy test that I took when I panicked two days before.
“Wha—how could you go over my garbage, Margie?!” I hastily took the paper from her hand. “It’s negative, just so you know!”
“You weren’t like this before! ‘Food for the stomach and the stomach for food’—but God will destroy them both. The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body. 1 Corinthians Chapter 6, Verse 13, Hannah!” Her eyes widened at me, she was trembling. She was already starting to creep me out. Silence.
“Margie, just because you were raped doesn’t mean that everyone else was, too!” That hit her. Real hard. Tears welled up in her eyes. And then, it occurred to me that despite the fact that we knew all that happened even as young women, we never really said the word. We went to a nuns’ school and we lived in a quiet neighborhood where the slightest rumor could ruin you. We knew what was going on, but we only spoke in a hidden sort of language, something that only Margie and I understood. And the moment I blurted out like that, the moment I refused to use the language that we knew, I realized, that was when I lost my Margie. Completely.
“I never said I was raped,” she replied, showing no emotion this time. I don’t know how she was able to stifle her tears but she looked at me, her face expressionless. “You’re just a whore, that’s what you are.”
+++
Margie’s behavior changed rapidly. At first, it was just strange. It all started when she stopped taking her pills and she’d fall into depression. I caught her putting stones and pebbles inside her shoes in which she walked all day and this badly bruised her feet. And then there were days when I’d find myself stopping at the door of our room because she’d sound like she was talking to someone inside. And when I got in, I found no one else apart from her. I wondered if she was just talking to herself just like when I found her behind the bushes in fifth grade.
“Nathaniel came for a visit, you just missed him.” She was smiling.
“Nathaniel?”
“One of the angels who speak to me.” And she’d go back to her textbooks and read while I stood there in amazement. Where’d my bestfriend go? I thought.
Some of our dormmates were already talking in hushed voices about the “peculiarities of St. Margaret.” One of them told me that they saw her weaving a crown of thorns that she picked from Sister Pat’s rose patch.
“Can you believe it? She wore that thing and she was bleeding the whole time while she played the piano all afternoon!” Aiza recounted as the rest of the girls listened, “and Fr. Kevin was already offering to look over her, do some ritual with her like an exorcism kind of thing, ‘cause he was afraid that she was possessed or something. But Meg just threw him the crown of thorns, screaming out some Bible verses, and ran upstairs! The girl’s clearly gone cuckoo!”
“Oh, shut up,” I said. “You can’t even keep your hands off your roommate’s stuff.”
This made Aiza blush heavily and the girls disperse to their own rooms.
Things became even more distressing when I woke up to Margie’s alarm tone, Fϋr Elise, at 5 am one day, and found that she was already missing from her bed. I felt that something was up so I went to look for her. After searching the bathrooms and the receiving area downstairs, I finally found her kneeling in the prayer room, her right hand holding a fountain pen which she was furiously digging into her left palm. I froze at the sight of the black ink mixing with the blood that was spilling all over her hands. It actually took me a long time before I figured out what was happening.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I rushed and took the pen from her.
“No, Hannah! Stigmata! Haven’t you heard about it?” Her bloodshot eyes bulged at me, a crazed sort of smile spreading across her face. Margie frightened me.
“You’re…out of your mind…Margie, you—” my voice trailed off, and I only picked her up from the pew and led her to the comfort room. I washed her up and I couldn’t stop myself from crying. Later that morning, Margie told me that she received a call that night: Tita Sonia died of a heart attack. And Doug wanted her to go home.
When I asked her if she was alright, she replied, “People die, Hannah. It’s the only way they can actually start living with the Father.”
The crazed smile was still there and it didnot betray her statement.
+++
That weekend in August was probably my way of getting away even for a while. Andrew had noticed that something disturbed me but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about Margie—I don’t want anyone judging her. In the province, everyone was asking me where she was, why she didn’t go home for Tita Sonia’s wake, and I just told them that she was too depressed to meet her mother’s remains. At the wake, I saw Dog sitting in a corner. He still looks frightening even if his black hair and beard are now speckled with white, and I still feel the same hatred for him.
I missed Margie a lot and even if I was able to spend time with Papay and the rest of the family, I still couldn’t wait to go back to Elbi to talk to her. It just wasn’t the same without her. Our friendship had survived through the years, and all those years of bonding and trying to understand each other, and keeping secrets about each other—all these reminded me of just how much we have shared. A part of me said that I didn’t know Margie anymore, but a greater part of me told me that I shouldn’t be scared. I know that leaving her or forgetting all that we’ve gone through will just hurt even more. I just got so used to being with her that I can’t even imagine life without her. No matter what went on in her mind. I love her and I have spent a great half of my life with her, and I will do everything to bring my Margie back. Goliath and the mouse. It’s since been that way. And it is going to be that way until we get old and I’ll listen to her play Fϋr Elise for me.
I took the day trip back to Laguna, looking forward to formally reconciling with my bestfriend. I wanted to try and convince her to seek a counselor or a therapist or something. I want her to be alright. When I arrived in Los Baños, I noticed that much of the place was only recovering from flood.
“It rained the whole weekend,” Sister Pat told me as she handed me my room key. It dangled from a small wooden plate with the digits “302” written on it. “Welcome back,” the nun gave me her usual grin.
“Thanks,” I said half-heartedly as I wrote down the date and time of my arrival on the dorm’s logbook.
“So, when are you—”
“—S’Margie upstairs?” I cut her off. I knew she was about to ask when I was going to give my advanced payment for September.
“Well, now that you mentioned it, I haven’t seen that child around lately. I thought she was with you.”
“Huh? No.”
“Why, aren’t you neighbors? And didn’t her mother just die a week ago? How else is she going to pay? Her father hasn’t been keeping in touch—”
“—Uh, yeah, but…but she wasn’t there at the wake.”
“That’s funny, she wrote in here on the logbook that she went home to Naga last Friday. There, see?” She flipped the book to the August 11 page: Margaret A. and across it, under OUT was 4pm, and under Date and Time Expected was Monday, PM. I was certain that it was her writing—the cursive letters, the soft strokes. Perhaps she lied about going somewhere else so Sister Pat wouldn’t be suspicious, I thought. I mean, I did the same thing so I could sleep at Andrew’s. So I said to the nun, “Alright, maybe I didn’t see her at the wake or something. She’ll be back tonight, anyway. Thanks, Sister.” And I began hauling my baggage up the stairs, wondering where on earth Margie went without even telling me.
I stopped at the door and turned the key clockwise in the key hole. When it clicked, I pushed the door aside with my weight because the baggage had both of my hands occupied. What attacked my senses was telling me that the room was anything but inviting. There was a weird kind of smell that was like something was rotting. The air in the room also felt heavy and damp. Ugh, I shouldn’t have closed the windows! I thought, realizing that the rain the whole weekend caused such humidity, plus, our room is also located beside the dorm’s compost pit. Perhaps the fertilizer was still freshly buried and it stunk even more because of the added moisture.
I placed all my things on the floor. Eight-hour bus rides were always tiring, no matter how much you got used to them, especially day trips. It’s hard to fall asleep when the sun is high. I knelt on my bed to open the windows and let the air in. It was dusk and the last of the day’s sun freely poured into my face. I felt drowsy, all the energy I had left draining away slowly. I wondered where Margie went. I wondered how I could possibly start a conversation with her. I wondered how she was. I lay myself on the bed, took my phone from my pocket, and checked my inbox. I ignored Andrew who was asking me if I’d gotten back safely. I skipped my parents’ messages as well and reviewed the last text that Margie sent me that Friday, instead. “Hannah, take care on your way home. Favor, pakilock naman po ng cabinet ko, i think i forgot, the lock’s on my bed. Thanks. I’m sorry, i didn’t mean to hurt you. I’LL MISS YOU. May God look after you. Let His will be done.” A kissing smiley.
By this time, my eyes were already narrowing. I tried to keep awake until Margie’s return.
I’m sorry, i didn’t mean to hurt you, her voice seemed to resound in my head. Food for the stomach and the stomach for food—but God will destroy them both…1 Corinthians Chapter 6, Verse 13…I’LL MISS YOU. I’m sorry…One of the angels who speak to me…I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll miss you…I am filthy, I must do penance…Hannah, I’m sorry. I’ll miss you. I didn’t mean to hurt….
Before I knew it, I was already asleep.
+++
Hannah, wake up, a voice said. I’m pretty sure it is Margie’s. Fϋr Elise is playing softly in the background. She is standing by the closet, smiling, her teeth showing beautifully, the moonlight reflecting on her milky white complexion and outlining her features, making her high cheekbones even more manifest, her eyes shining with a strange yet peaceful kind of genuine happiness.
“Hey, I missed you,” she says. Amidst the continuous playing of Fϋr Elise, she looks like an angel. As if nothing bad ever happened, as if she was born to be this perfect, this beautiful, this peaceful.
“Margie!” I exclaim, leaping from my bed and running towards her, eager to throw my arms around her.
But something is wrong. I cannot feel a thing except the cold that envelops me the moment I touch her. I try to move nearer—I think I missed—but I still cannot feel her. Margie seems to be…part of the air. Suddenly, I begin to sense the weird stench filling the room again. And the dampness. The air is heavy and seems to be getting heavier by the second. I take a step back and look at Margie, wanting to ask her what is going on.
She is still smiling, but then the crown of rose thorns emerges around her head all of a sudden. The thorns cause blisters as they seem to slash animatedly at her forehead, the blood rapidly flowing from the open wounds.
“Margie, you’re bleeding!”
In a second or two, she begins to bleed everywhere—blood from her wrists, from her arms, from her feet—as I take more steps away from her, not believing what I see, my hands over my mouth, my whole body trembling uncontrollably.
“Hannah,” she says in a monotonous voice. “I bleed for the Lord. You should’ve believed in the angels. They spoke to me. They told me to get in there and welcome Heaven.” She motions her right hand towards the cabinet door and she raises her left palm to reveal even more blood streaming from its middle. She blinks at me and blood also flows down from her eyes across her cheeks, across her milky white face that’s still smiling—even her teeth seem to be stained by blood. But the smile is still there, as if she is feeling no pain at all. And then she comes nearer to me, although she doesn’t seem to be walking, but gliding, towards me, smiling. “They spoke to me, Hannah.”
I’m screaming. Or at least I think I am. The Fϋr Elise is playing louder and louder, fighting off my screams. I notice that I cannot move anymore no matter how hard I try flinging all my limbs. Margie is coming closer, still smiling, bleeding. In a few seconds, I feel the bed beneath me. I am sweating profusely and my entire body is writhing wildly. I open my eyes which I didn’t even notice were shut tightly. I try to catch my breath as I look for any trace of Margie but she’s not in the room. Fϋr Elise is still playing and is as loud as it was in my dream. The stench is still present and it hangs harshly in the damp air in the quiet, little room that Margie and I share. But I am all alone now and I realize that I’m already crying. Tears keep streaming down my face as I look at Margie’s closet and become quite certain that the sound of Fϋr Elise is coming from in there.
Our personalized clock with our graduation photo glows in the dark: 5:05.
I slept until morning. And I suddenly wish I never woke up. I wish I never left for the weekend without having convinced her to come with me to Tita Sonia’s funeral. I wish I never locked her closet when I read her text message asking me to do so. I wish I never tolerated her silence and her insistence on talking to entities that were not there. I wish I did something about that dirty old Dog and kept him away from Margie. And I feel that it is too late to wish for all those things.
I slowly stand from my bed and walk towards the cabinet. The stench is getting harsher and harsher, and the music is getting louder and louder. I notice that the closet door is a bit disfigured, it looks like someone was trying to push it open—from inside. I flinch, and my head is throbbing like hell as I approach what Margie said was the way into heaven.
I touch the padlock. The steel’s coldness almost sting my fingers. I press onto Margie’s number combination: 2-5-6-8. I needn’t ask her, I needn’t even try to remember. My fingers seem to know it so well. Amidst the Fϋr Elise, the lock clicks open and even reverberates against the cramped walls of room 302.
