- Hi! my name is Aiko. In this blog are poetry, and pastel, and pink cute things.
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Friday, January 10, 2020 | January 10, 2020 |
Saleem's Lot
Simone wanted the cojones of that bull because it reminded her of hard-boiled eggs. Soft, white eggs that unwittingly have the power to exude eroticism given the right amount of perversity possessed by the subject in question. When she sat on it the metaphor was not lost on us— however inappropriate the act may be. But what of the matador whose eye was pierced by the bull? Does he not play a singular part in the same metaphor? When executed by a graceful matador, bull-fighting becomes a fluid show of an intricate dance between the teaser and the teased, which culminates in the final movement of stabbing the by now spent bull— the triumph of man over beast.
In the case of this particular story, it was an eye for an eye with the matador at the mercy of the angry brute; all metaphors aside, I find myself in the shoes of that same matador as the bull was fast approaching, its horn inches away from my eyes. Would I have the presence of mind to close my eyes? Or would I stare back head on, resigned to my fate? The art of bullfighting is never in need of cowards so the option of running with my tail between my legs is out of the question.
Where the sun shines high up in the heavens and giving out its rays like trinkets to mollify its children after a period of absence, somewhere in Madrid, the matador, me, by the name of Saleem, prepares for battle. My cape swooshes with every move, slicing into the humid air like shards of glass. The bull is still raging in spite of the daggers already stabbed on its back. I am confident of victory. A few more movements and the final blow will be dealt. But in an unforeseen misfortune, the bull seems to have gathered all its rage to channel it upon me. With renewed strength, the beast surged forward with the tip of its horns jutted out, aiming for what I imagine is my eye.
Time stopped. The sweat trickling down my forehead stalled, mid-roll and I could feel its beads hovering on my burning flesh. The sun seemed to have stopped shining as well, with a glaze of ugly bright yellow covering the skies like a filter. It is at this point that I closed my eyes. My brain curled up and took a nap but not without commanding the nerves to go on autopilot. What was left in me was the sensation of a breeze and a quiet lullaby playing on loop in my ears and creeping in on my flesh.
That was when I decided that if I want to stall the bull’s horn from piercing my eye, along with the lullaby in my ears, I had to make the decision to never again open my eyes.
Chronos is a despot lashing away at the horses on his chariot. I am as with the bull, at his mercy. My prayers, like a sieve, filters only the most crucial, and that is, so long as the bull is ready to pierce my eye, let my eyes be as closed for how many aeons it may take.
My vision has always been 20/20 on the things it wanted to see, and blurry on the things it refuses to. I traverse through life with no difficulty as long as my goal is in sight. The bigger the goal, the clearer my vision gets. But when it comes to anything I’d like to escape from, darkness becomes a respite from all of my troubles. The latest of which, is the bull’s horn ready to pierce my eye.
From the murmurings around me, I could tell that I was at school. It’s been only about last night since I decided to fully close my eyes, and have instinct guide my way. I could hear their whispers wondering about me, but I don’t mind, my purpose far outweighs any prattle.
I half-heartedly listened to the teacher drone on about stories from the Bible until one detail caught my ear. It was the story of Lot who disobeyed God’s order to not look behind her, and subsequently became a boulder of salt. Once again, the eye as a metaphor. Lot dared to look and was punished. The same thing, I conclude, is happening to me.
“Saleem, why are your eyes closed?” -they ask.
“Saleem, is there anything wrong with your eyes?” -they ask.
“Saleem, is this a prank?” -they ask.
I silently let these comments roll off my back, vindicated in the thought that as long as my eyes are closed, I won’t suffer the same fate as Lot, and especially, I’ll be able to avoid the sharp point of the bull’s horn.
For days I lost glimpse of the moon, the moon that I romanticize as the abode of the gods and goddesses, and which shines every night for me and for me alone. The paeans I dedicated to this silver enchantress lie at the bottom of my drawer, with me being afraid that I might open my eyes in the process of trying to write about the moon again.
The eye is an egg, and the egg is an eye. This unfaithful quotation from Simone brings out the poet in me for I could enumerate lots of white, orb-shaped objects that could be compared to an eye. Although the question that needs to be answered is what is so erotic with an eye? Great thinkers have tried to answer this riddle only to submerge it back into the bottom of murky waters.
What is an eye? In layman's definition, it is the organ used by the human body to be able to see. Physically, it is located below our forehead and is made up of many parts that I won’t waste time enumerating here. The eyes (and eggs) which Simone was hopelessly fascinated with were metaphors for the all-seeing eye of God. Sex is an intimate act which is supposed to be between two consenting adults and should be done behind locked doors. By making use of the “eye” in their escapades, they are welcoming the presence of God in their otherwise bleak world. Their intimacy is grounded upon violence, perversity, and death, and I suppose these “eyes” are a desperate plea to God almighty to intervene; to show Him the filth they both had come down to and their subconscious hope for a savior.
The God possessing omnipotence and an all-seeing capability, is the very same God who told Lot never to look behind her lest she be turned to a pillar of salt. This God, and this God alone shall be the only one able to re-open my eyes.
When Simone killed the priest in the denouement to a bizarre adventure of lust, she made sure that no god could ever save her soul. The priest, as God’s representative of his dominion here on earth, was violated and brutally murdered. The eye ceased to be a metaphor, it has now become a tired symbol of the intrusive nature of that all-seeing eye. Simone, an independent woman, sealed her own conviction of it. By letting the egg enter the most sensitive parts of her body, she declared war against everything holy. The egg as an eye is the all-seeing eye of God. If God refuses to get down from his pedestal, I shall introduce him to my filth. This, at least, is my interpretation of the whole thing.
The weeks have passed since I last opened my eyes. Immobile in bed, I resort to counting the hours by the seconds, regretting nothing, and with joy in my heart, I dedicate this sacrifice to God. The matador in me wanted to open my eyes and face the bull’s horn without fear. To be an example of bravery in a world of cowardice. However this too, is not a good enough incentive to disobey God.
When a new day came, they helped me wash and dress up with I believe to be trepidation present in their voices. I wondered what could be wrong but dared not speak aloud. My mother told me, sobbing, that there’s something wrong with my head. She sobbed as she told me to remove my boxer shorts and let it all hang out.
It was here that I remember going for a visit at the psychiatrist’s a few days ago— I remember the sound of paper on pen as she wrote down what years of experience taught her to be as that which is wrong with me. Poor creature! I may respect science and medicine a lot, but it doesn’t mean I’ll mindlessly absorb their drivel hook, line, and sinker.
I could feel my mother guiding me to the living room, and from the sound of heavy breathing, I knew that my father was awaiting me. My father is a stout, beefy man, with a strong built, at least that’s what he was from the last time I saw him before I closed my eyes. Every second is an eternity, it is said, and who knows if my father hadn’t shrunk down since then? After a few more minutes of silence, my father cleared his throat and began to speak. The timbre of his voice could have been heard on that bull about to pierce me. It shook heavily with pent up anger and a hint of sadness. From where I was located, I could hear my father sobbing in quick little snorts, like a defeated man pleading his case.
“Why won’t you open your eyes, Saleem?” He asked.
I gave him my explanation as succinctly as possible. “Only God’s divine command can make me open up my eyes again.” I declared.
My father, despite his tough constitution, has always been a man given to persuasion. I know in my heart that he will be able to understand me, and even support me on my cause.
Unfortunately, the subsequent strings of events would prove that theory wrong.
I wasn’t able to see it, but I felt it reverberating to the depths of my core. I fell back on the carpet nursing my crotch. My father, with the conspiracy of my mother who told me not to were boxer briefs under my night shirt, has kicked me in the testicles.
“See, now your eyes are open!”
I failed. That raging bull has pierced my eye, and as Lot, I’ve turned into a pillar of salt. That’s what’s supposed to happen, at least.
I looked around my surroundings. Like a new born babe, everything became fairly new after weeks of self-imposed darkness: The books neatly stacked on the shelves, the curtains swaying softly in the wind, up to my parents— all was fresh again in my sight.
The terrible thoughts of turning into salt, or being pierced in the eye by a bull’s horn, all of these faded away with the light of the moon. I became a free man the moment my father performed his heroic deed.
The moon, I must insist, is also an eye. It watches over us at night, and is able to see all our dark secrets from a distance. I welcome the moon in my being through my eyes: which could now see clearly the things that matter most. The bull’s horn and Lot’s fate are distractions, eclipsing the bigger picture of the moon illuminating an otherwise bleak life.
Labels: 2020, aiko lactaotao, asian writers, filipino women writers, filipino writers, flash fiction, georges bataille, short story, south east asian writers, story of the eye
Monday, September 9, 2019 | September 09, 2019 |
Point Blank
Her greatest fear is to get shot in the face. It is a fear born out of a nightmare where a gun was pointed at her point blank, at the tip of her nose. Upon waking up she said her orisons, imploring that this may not happen in real life and went about the day with the nagging fear that whichever way she turns her face lurks the dreadful possibility that something, not even limited to a gun anymore, might blast on her face.
She wasn’t what one might call pulchritudinous, in fact her rotund cheeks and prominent chin unfortunately give her the puffy look of one afflicted with a kidney ailment, although her nose and eyes, charmingly retrousse and feline, respectively, more than make up for her liabilities. Her upper lip juts a little further than her lower lip which she counts as an asset, citing the same quality present in actresses who are described as “baby-faced”; her lips, when taken in consideration along with her propensity to whine over trifles, certainly is becoming of a baby. It is by all means a decent face, neither repulsive nor plain, a face one’s eyes would certainly linger at for a second or two in a crowded train, maybe not because of its beauty, but due to a passing regret that had it not been for her fleshy cheeks and chin, she would be pretty.
Almost pretty. She languishes at the foot of beauty’s throne where beauty in turn throws her down crumbs which are not enough to satisfy her. Nor is it enough to satisfy all her past lovers who by some form or another (she decided inwardly), spurned her because she wasn’t beautiful enough. This perception of hers drove her to an almost frenetic state of resoluteness to make herself prettier, yes, in order to be worthy of a man.
The nightmares started during the course of a relationship with a man far better looking than any of her past beaus. He is a doctor, and she a nurse, and the romance bloomed in the emergency room where judgements of physical appearances are less preoccupied with considerations of beauty than of the immediate need for a cure. They were in the first bloom of love when a woman whose husband shot her in the face was brought in; a crime of passion, they said, the usual story of a jealous spouse over an adulterous better half. The woman was said to be beautiful, and it is because of this fact that the husband became possessive of her and paranoid of her interactions with other men until the wife became suffocated with this imperiousness that she was driven toward the arms of another man.
After the surgery, the aforementioned woman lost her nose and her left eye. All that’s left of her face is a mangled mess of flesh bereft of any trace of her former beauty. There was something about the sight of this atrocity that hit deep within her. She didn’t mind so much the gravity of the events which led to the woman’s present tragedy, but rather the notion that the face, where so much of human relationships depend for its communication and subtle cues, would in a flash become disfigured and deprived of any ability to express emotion. As she looked at what was left of the woman’s face--truly, it was no longer a face but a jumbled lump of skin, an almost sacred fear as yet untapped within her innermost instincts floated to the surface of her thoughts.
Her face, by no means a face that would launch a thousand ships, was her only gateway to human interaction. She wouldn’t know how to show love, joy, and pain without her deep-set eyes, incapable of expressing disgust and annoyance without her nose, and will not be able to indicate her childlike charm with mutilated lips.
Oddly enough, the nightmare began before the fear set itself in. During that first night she dreamt that she was at home sitting by the window looking out through the street when a naked man without a face appeared and stopped directly in her line of vision; with the staccato irrationality oneiric scenes are characterized with, the naked faceless man out of thin air conjured up a gun, and notwithstanding the physical distance of the street where he was standing from her position behind the window, pointed the gun toward her face, it’s tip smack-dab at the tip of her nose. Although that first nightmare did not culminate with the gun’s trigger being pulled, she had variations of the same dream since with varying degrees of destruction wreaked upon her face. One morning after a few nights of the recurring dream she woke up with the fear of getting shot in the face imbibed in her with an intensity far surpassing that of her own fear of the Lord.
The doctor meanwhile seemed to her like mirage in the middle of her desert of nightmares; he took on the quality of a daydream, tangible yet ephemeral, and effable yet elusive, he became a metaphysical quest that she learned to seek daily for a bit of respite. There may have been times when this vitreous daydream cracked on the surface and threatened to pierce her with its shards, their passion reaching saturation point and when he began showing signs of disinterest that’s when she knew that it’s time to wake up.
She did let go of him eventually, but her demons prevented her from bidding a silent goodbye; the intensity of the nightmares increased and along with it her doubts, her questions, from accusing him of infidelity to blaming herself—just like she did with past lovers—that she simply wasn’t beautiful enough. Initially, the doctor bore through her misapprehensions patiently, insisting that he loved her the same, but one can only take so much a woman’s paranoid accusations before waving the white flag. This surrender was for her the proof of the veracity of her misgivings, the final nail on the coffin where their whilom verdant love lay withered and dead.
The art of losing as she read it from Elizabeth Bishop, isn’t hard to master. The doctor, true to the oasis that she thought he once was, is merely an illusion that by its nature is intended to fizzle out in a matter of time. Losing him seemed to her like the letting go of a childhood teddy bear: one lets go of a small part of oneself, and along with it frees some space within for one to grow and flourish. This was her noble intent. However, in this space sprouted doubt and insecurity instead of the growth she aimed for. The nightmares around this time grew more intense that she dreaded falling asleep every night. It was always a naked man, and she was always looking out the window, the gun was always pointed directly at her face, and by the time the man pulls the trigger, she would always wake up in a cold sweat. She told a friend about the nightmares who in turn advised her to consult a psychiatrist, but she was afraid of what the psychiatrist might tell her. Nobody needs to be told that they’re losing their mind, she thinks to herself, and besides, she can’t afford the additional burden of being labeled with a mental problem, if indeed she does have an ailment.
Each night before going to sleep she would pray the Rosary, mumbling the words and barely registering their meaning for she looked upon prayers not as a solemn form of communication with a Higher Power but as a mantra to repel evil and attract good. Once, as she fell asleep after the second mystery, the same nightmare took on a different skin: she dreamt she was looking at a mirror and interestingly, she was looking at it behind the bars of her window. Her reflection stared back at her and it was naked. Suddenly, a naked man without a face appeared behind her reflection and merged with herself in the mirror, her reflection, if she may still call it so, became without a face, it held a gun in its right hand and when she looked down at her right hand in the dream, she too was wielding a gun. This time it was she who pointed the gun at her reflection and she was about to pull the trigger, the figure in the mirror, still faceless, grew a bloody slit where the mouth should have been and out gushed together blood and an equally blood-curdling scream. She woke up with tears in her eyes from the fright it gave her.
On the next day while watching the news, headlines reported about the rape and murder of a woman named Eileen Sarmenta. The death of a young lady is always a tragedy in itself, she thought, but in view of the fact that she died at the hands of another human being who before killing her subjected her dignity to utmost debasement by raping her is a scelestious crime, an unforgivable sin that may God Almighty burn the culprits’ souls in hell for all eternity. Her roommate, who sat beside her while watching, loudly exclaimed that this world is getting more and more dangerous, especially for girls; she nodded vigorously in affirmation and was to add another comment when something in the report caught her off-guard. Eileen Sarmenta, it turns out, died because of a gunshot to the face.
The mind is a microcosm of all our waking life’s perceptions--nothing in the intellect without passing through the senses, they say, but what does one make of unfounded fears? Is she merely the product of a hypersensitivity to her environment? Are her nightmares the augur of a nefarious threat? paranoid delusions? or possibly, the fantasies of a mind depraved and languishing for some sort of vaguely sexual gratification? It might have been way too carelessly thrown around, but the power of a gun as a phallic symbol has been made part and parcel of psychology; the Freudian connotations of virility found in the barrel of a gun, when pointed at the face of a woman, conjure up images of sexual submission. This is a theory she has recently been considering in her mind, but it is not enough to convince her as being the root of her nightmares.
Once, while gazing upon herself in the mirror, she finally found the answer she was searching for: she was with all her being dissatisfied with her face. A few years have passed since the nightmare began, and although they are less frequent now does not mean they are any less intense. Time had exacerbated her unwanted features and it dawned on her to ask the question that would thus lead her to a downward spiral and doom. What if?
What if I have the power to take it upon myself to change my appearance?
And so she has undergone many plastic surgeries to correct her perceived flaws, painstakingly saving money to go under the knife believing it would alleviate that nagging voice in her head which was saying that she will never be good enough for anybody. She became obsessed with a perfect face, a face that would be pretty enough for men to take a second look. The first couple of surgeries succeeded in their aim, but a second look was not enough. In her sixth facial surgery, the dreams took on a different quality. This time it was she outside of her own home looking in at an unfamiliar woman sitting by her window. The woman was crying, and there were no guns this time.
When morning came the first thing she did was to look at herself in the mirror. A face deformed and different gazed back at her. She was the unrecognizable woman in her dreams. She was the man aiming the gun at her face, and in the end, she succeeded in killing her self.
No, physically, she wasn’t dead, but the ragged breathing afforded by her all-new, way-too-narrow nose certainly gave off the impression that she was struggling to survive. No, not even this terrible fact indicated the death of her essence. Inside the shallow grave of her bosom, she mourns for the death of her heart. Her past lovers only knew her on a superficial level but never got to her heart; there was always an empty space that was never quite filled, not even by the best of them.
The monster in the mirror formed the rictus of an anguished scowl and before she knew it, tears were falling from her all-new, way-too-wide eyes. This thing she had done to herself, it was like being shot in the face, but the thing is, like the woman in the emergency room from all those years ago, she lived to tell the tale. Or in her case, she lived to see herself a mangled mess. It couldn’t get any worse than that.
What is there to life when one is already dead? The dead do not know what goes on in everyday life because they stopped living it. She counts herself as one of the dead, and buries herself every night in her dreams. The dead cease to be conscious of life’s pleasures and pains as she has discovered for herself. Neither sorrow nor joy could stimulate back to life what has been lost. If she believed in resurrection she was not destined for it, for she was not worthy of a second chance. But one would ask, what grave sin did she commit to be cursed with such fate? Try as she might, she can’t figure out an answer to that.
Maybe life is unfair, but that’s beating a dead horse. Maybe life is cruel, but that’s something most of us already know. Maybe life just happens.
And perhaps life is just like a gun in the hands of a lunatic in that out of an irrational spite, it aims at you and hits you square in the face.
Labels: aiko-lactaotao, asian writers, filipino women writers, filipino writers, short story
Monday, February 18, 2019 | February 18, 2019 |
Darling
The late afternoon sun-- glaring like a petulant lover in need of appraisal, shone down directly upon darling's slightly hunched back as she struggled with maximum effort to open the gates to our house which was locked with chains. Equally, the late afternoon breeze, lulled down to a zephyr, made its scarce presence known through the lightly swaying leaves, and overhead on the telephone lines, birds are perched like a flock of tourists waiting to have their picture taken. Making a motion to genuflect by the gate (the pain visible on her face as she did so), darling rattled the stubborn chains and mouthed wondering why the damned thing won't open. Her sad form, a back fallen victim to osteoporosis, papery-thin, wrinkly hands barely trembling and arthritic, and her head--crowned with a mop of frizz, and tied in a neat ponytail accentuating the grizzle of the hair-- a melon-sized world of enigma.
What goes on in darling's head counts as a mystery albeit her habits consist of quotidian activities that a regular housewife does. Quiet as a brand new engine, she speeds through her daily chores like a well-oiled machine without so much as a complain that some people suspect that she may be incapable of showing emotions. But as the years passed, I began to see through this stoicism and am finally able to decipher darling in her old age.
Darling has always been old as long as I could remember. Her hair greying way before we became husband and wife, and her wisdom reminiscent of the days of yore, back when the world was younger, and life, simpler. There were siestas in the early stages of our marriage where we'd sit on chairs at the front porch, my eyes nodding off to sleep while darling talked about the adage that we always reap what we sow, citing examples that are now lost in the haze of memory. Her hands, until recently, were strong and sturdy; a picture of sangfroid realized each time I watch her do intricate needlework--a hobby that again, until recently, took up every afternoon of her long life.
The ravages of time however, are unforgiving. Chronos assigned to darling the deterioration of strength seen in all elderly people; the wheels of time runs at high speed, parallel to the slowing down of her reflexes, which fact made her clumsy and accident-prone. The once agile body that could drag a sack of rice from the front yard to the pantry turned out to be less than hale these days. Worst of all she begins to manifest bouts of forgetfulness--gaps in her memory paid at a high price. She would forget to lock doors at night, forget to turn off the gas in the kitchen, among many other things, including the one at the moment with the key to the gate's lock.
What darling forgets, I remember. I've unlocked the key to the mystery that is her. In her silence all she ever wanted was to be appreciated but all I reciprocated her with was an equal, deafening silence. In her refusal to show emotion was an invitation for affection, but on my part there is only indifference. And the heavy burden of everyday work she bore with dignity only to receive more silence from the other end. She has only herself to blame for this--it is she after all, who once told me that we reap what we sow.
I've been watching darling more often lately and I know she watches me back. Her maladroitness because of age is beginning to show. Her rusty knees are beginning to give way, same with her hands that could no longer hold a knife steady. She is also experiencing faecal and urinary incontinence which makes her smell absolutely repellent. Add in the above-mentioned fact of her forgetfulness, and you get the picture of an elderly person fribbling away at the twilight of her life with little else to do but wait for the sun to come down on her.
It is not a pretty picture.
I'm sorry darling that you're forgetting a lot things nowadays, the key to the gate's lock being the latest.
I'm sorry darling that as you lower yourself with both knees arthritic and in search of the spare key, I merely watch you with a bit of impatience because I'd like to lay on a comfortable bed already.
I'm sorry darling that I know where the spare key is (on the plant pot furthest to the right) but don't bother to tell you.
I'm sorry darling that you're useless now.
I'm sorry darling that you haven't figured that out yet.
I’m sorry darling that no one wants to have anything to do with you anymore except me.
When darling finally found the key and managed to open the gate, she turned to look at me, gesturing with her head that all is ready. She went up to the tricycle whence I am sitting, and the driver with a nonchalant look observes us: darling lowers herself once again with trembling difficulty and I latch on to her back. Darling carries me with what little strength she has left, kyphotic and struggling. I would have walked by myself but my legs are amputated due to complications from Diabetes. She may have complained out loud but there's no way I could hear her anymore. And even if she did I'll only respond with my silence. A dead weight, that's what I am, but darling is no more as useful.
Together, my darling and I, we'll watch the sunset. I'll no longer be on her back but beside her, holding her hand. We’ll reminisce about the old days in the comfort of our heads without a single word to be exchanged between us. My darling, she’s tired. I could see that but it really does not matter at this point, we both are.
Then when night comes, we'll patiently wait for each other to go to bed, both of us hoping and praying for the other to die in his or her sleep—basically the same thing we did last night, and the night before that, and the night before that, and the night before that.
Labels: 2019, aiko lactaotao, aiko-lactaotao, aikolactaotao.com, asian writers, filipino women writers, filipino writers, first drafts, flash fiction, literature, short story
Monday, January 30, 2017 | January 30, 2017 |
Of Caffeine And Clonazepam
“Would you like a quick bite along with that Ma’am?” The barista asked; gesturing to the array of confectioneries beside the counter. “I think I’ll have a Sans rival please.” She replied; inwardly scolding herself for the apparent impulsive decision. “Great choice, Ma’am!” The perky barista chirped. She resisted the urge to moue. It is overtly polite people— barista or otherwise— that gets on her nerves. Something about the saccharine demeanour strikes her as downright hypocritical if not manipulative; like a con artist out to bamboozle unwitting victims.
She paid for the coffee and dessert without a word. Tomorrow would be the last day of her finals and tonight she was going to pull an all-nighter to study. It is around 10pm. Luckily, cafes like the one she’s in now are open until the ungodly hours of dawn.
All her notes are laid out on the table alongside what she ordered. She pulled out her earphones from her tote bag and plugged them on her smartphone. Her go-to Spotify playlist when studying is Jazz Fusion because she read somewhere that students are able to concentrate more when listening to music that have no lyrics. Around her, the cafe’s muzak eased out softly through the sound system playing mostly Christmas tunes.
It is that time of year again.
Last year, this same season, she lost her boyfriend due to an incident of brutal mugging around the same area where the cafe is located. Eleven stab wounds with the fatal injury being the one inflicted on his liver. He lived for two days before succumbing. Not a word was exchanged between the two of them in those final two days.
After the funeral, she found herself peeing on the loo with her panties on while staring at empty space, her mind blank. A month of erratic behaviour passed before her parents decided to consult a psychiatrist.
She was diagnosed with PTSD or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress occurring as a result of injury or severe psychological shock. She barely heard the psychiatrist break the news to her because she was feeling groggy that day from lack of sleep. The recurring sleep disturbances was taking its toll on her health. She would have panic attacks in the middle of the night and would sometimes be in a state of catatonia. The doctor prescribed her medicines; one of them being Clonazepam to help her with the sleep disturbances. She has been under medications for almost a year now.
Upon doctor’s advice, she wasn’t supposed to be ingesting any form of caffeine but somehow she couldn’t evade from drinking coffee because it gets her through the nights when she needed to study— and forget.
The past few months she dedicated to studying; burying her self in workload just to compensate for the unrelenting pain she felt from her loss. Adding to the predicament too was the delay of the police in capturing her boyfriend’s killer. Knowing this, she merely kept it at the back of her mind and focused on law school.
She took a sip of her coffee. It was getting rather cold. Looking outside, people were walking to and fro; the nearby mall was having a midnight sale. She put down her highlighter and began observing the people outside.
A group of matrons walked by with shopping bags and she noticed one of them dyed the bangs of her hair green. Then a well-dressed man helped his elderly mother cross the pedestrian lane— they too, were carrying shopping bags. Furthermore, there were also many young adults out and about. She readily assumed that they were call centre agents. Another group of people were going to cross the pedestrian when she spotted a peculiar man walking rapidly alongside them.
The man looked like he was around his late thirties and walked with a limp. His right leg was shorter than the other from what might have been polio. He had dark skin and small beady eyes that pierce from beneath two thick eyebrows. He was of average height, and, she reiterated to herself, had a limp.
According to the police who interrogated her boyfriend a day before his death, the man he described walked with a limp, emphasising that he was able to move swiftly in spite of this.
Her head reeled at the sudden realisation. The mixture of caffeine and the clonazepam she took just a while ago made her feel discombobulated. Nevertheless, she got up and rushed her way out the cafe; leaving her things behind to follow the strange-looking man to find out once and for all the truth behind her boyfriend’s death.
The man with a limp moved quickly indeed; he turned left making jerking movements with his shorter leg. She had to jog a little to catch up with him but she made sure she was a safe distance behind. The man with a limp turned another corner into a busy street. There is a night market on this street. For a while she lost sight of the man in the sea of people but was able to catch him again as he stopped to linger outside an eatery. At a distance from the man, she noticed that he was observing a woman eating all by herself.
She stood still and watched on. When the woman he was looking at got up to leave, he very discreetly followed her. And SHE in turn, followed him.
They tread on the heels of each other until they reached the outskirts of the city. It was quiet except for the passing vehicles. The man with a limp in expeditious albeit jerky movements, was able to corner the woman. SHE, on the other hand, stopped in her tracks. Her heart was beating wildly. She needed to move fast.
When the man declared a hold-up, she bent down to grab a plank of wood from an on-going construction site and in quick steps walked behind him. She knocked him a good one on the back of the head with the plank. The man’s shoulders shook in surprise but he didn’t fall down. He slowly turned around to look at his assailant. Small, gleaming eyes met with hers. She felt all the blood go to her head like it was about to burst. A pin dropping could be heard from the silence brought about by their encounter.
“Your boyfriend is a sissy.” He said, and gave her a wry smile. Rows of yellowed teeth protruded as he smirked.
It was him. All the months of pain and grieving overwhelmed her until she reached her breaking point. She tightened her grip on the piece of wood and attacked him with a tenacity known only to those who finally had enough. She hit him repeatedly until the plank broke. His left temple was bleeding but he wouldn’t stop sniggering.
“He was weak as a little girl.” Blood was running along his cheek. She hit him again.
“Weak!” She was unsure if he was referring to her dead boyfriend or her attacks.
All of a sudden her head felt dazed and her knees wobbly.
“Weak!"
Everything within her sight was spinning. The man with the limp continued to taunt her but his voice now seemed to her like a distant echo. Above, the stars were swirling in a jamboree of celestial proportions. The other woman ran in the other direction and still the man with the limp mocked her.
“Weak!"
Darkness engulfed her like a predator.
“Ma’am?” The barista was urgently tapping her shoulder.
“Ma’am?"
She lurched forward in her seat stupefied at being awakened.
“What?” She asked, astonished yet mildly irritated.
The barista fixed a ready smile on her face. “My apologies ma’am, but we are about to close."
She looked around and realised that she was the only one left in the cafe.
“You were looking dumbfounded for a while there and we thought something might have happened to you. Are you alright ma’am?"
She tried her best to recall what took place a while ago but she could only remember observing some people walk by and then her mind went blank.
“I’ll be leaving now. Thanks for the concern.” She hastily packed all her things.
Outside, the cool night air hit her face. It was exactly what she needed. In a nearby church, the bells started tolling signalling the start of the annual Misa de Gallo.
Labels: 2017, aiko lactaotao, aiko-lactaotao, anxiety, barista, caffeine, christmas, clonazepam, depression, filipino writers, flash fiction, mental health, philippines, ptsd, short story, starbucks
| January 30, 2017 |
Almost Appropriate
{REC ON}
Tell me ninety-nine reasons to justify a suicide. Illustrate with the power of logic an explanation which appropriates to man the right to take his own life. And pray tell, if men, as such bestowed with free will, how is it that an act requiring one’s volition to execute is deemed preposterous and even forbidden?
I do not suffer from Melancholia nor am I perverse; for many, a variation of these comprise their ninety-nine reasons to vindicate suicide, but I’m afraid these are weak explications.
What about the hundredth reason? Is it any different nor any stronger? We’ll get down to it in a moment.
Let us first consider young Werther.
Werther, if memory serves me right, was what we might consider a jilted lover. He longed for a woman beyond his reach and so took his own life. Howbeit, that wasn’t his only reason. He also made mention that he wanted to, and I quote “come home to God”. Werther was a man of faith. Suicide was merely the means to the end he wanted which was to be reunited in Paradise with his Creator. I too, am like Werther.
I believe in God and in Christ who shed His blood for my salvation but I do not believe in suicide as a sin-
{REC OFF}
The camera stopped recording. I played it back and watched myself. A few seconds into the video, I had to pause it. I hate the sound of my own voice. It was like a machine droning- except the machine made slow farting noises, the kind that sleazy B-list comedians let out in Will Ferrel movies. The voice sounded like a cow mooing and I hated the fact that it came from me.
I deleted the footage then threw the camera to the wall. It fell with a slight thud. Looking around, the room was a mess so I decided to clean it before-
Before I do it.
I don’t need a camera to record what I’m about to say. The burden of carrying this weight on my shoulders has gone on for too long and I want out of it.
First let me start off by saying: I am going to hell.
This realization hit me when I was about eighteen years old. I had an argument with my father concerning my future plans; he had it laid out before me, after graduation I was to attend Med School and become a physician just like him. Needless to say, I disobeyed. Disobeying everything seemed to be my forte, I’m ashamed to admit. I have been breaking laws (albeit in petty fashion) since I was young. Wasn’t I the one who disobeyed that voice in my head commanding me to not push that little girl from the swing many years ago in first grade? She ended up with two bruised knee caps and it was the guidance office for me. I tried to make up for it several years after by asking her to the prom only to ditch her during the dance for another, prettier girl.
A flood of memories came over me, one by one, sin by sin. I was like Mephistopheles, but in my case, I had good intentions and was doomed to forever commit evil. My mind is racked with voices arguing back and forth, commenting on all my activities, telling me what to do. Paranoia has been a staple for me the last couple of years. Looking over my shoulder, eyes are always watching me and they can see that I am wont to sin. They follow me everywhere, even in my head. Whenever I aim to do good, the voices in my head won’t stop chattering until I do the exact opposite of what I set out to do!
Although, these may seem trivial to some of you, but if you add one after another, the result is one ginormous boulder of a sin. And don’t argue with me that it’s the intention that counts, not the act.
For, really, was it not said that the road to hell is paved with good intentions?
My hard-headedness gets the best of me. I could never count the times I made my mother cry, poor thing! I refused to go by society’s standards and found myself apprehended by authorities not once but for several. Bad to the bone and going to hell.
I decided over a year ago to end my life. Knowing of my after-life destination, I resolved to commit suicide by shooting myself. Perhaps more than to silence the voices in my head, but rather to consummate the Divine Will of my Creator. The plan was, to record a video of myself to decipher my reasons, afterwards point a gun to my head and have everything recorded on camera.
That was over a year ago today.
Right now, I rescinded my initial plan of recording on camera (once again, evincing my knack for disobedience!) and settled to just clean the room first. Once everything is in place, I took out the gun from the drawer.
As I’ve said previously, I believe in God and in Christ who shed His blood for my salvation, but I do not believe in suicide as sin. Freewill is given to me that I may obey the Lord out of the autonomy of my heart and I know the Lord willed for this day to come.
I am going to hell. Save your prayers for the worthy who need it. The Lord foresaw that I am to be nothing but grime on the surface of his covenant, the dross of all creation, a scum of the earth. Through death, I shall purify the sins of those condemned to hell like I am that they may not suffer the same fate.
It is already night and the wind is howling outside. The curtains swing back and forth excitedly, as if aware of what I’m about to do. I pointed the gun to my chest. I determined not to shoot it directly at my head for that would be too messy. See, even in the last moment, I am disobedient. Such is my kismet.
So it is written, so it shall be done.
[INSPECTOR’S P.O.V.]
He had to admit, despite the blotch of blood on the chest, everything was in order. The desk was neat, the books aligned perfectly on a nearby shelf and there was no sign of any external struggle. He bent down on his knees to get a closer look of the face, it wasn't protocol but he was rather curious; the dead man’s face was serene as a sleeping toddler. Furthermore, he swears by the good Book that there was a smile on the lips-or at least a hint of it, as if what he did to himself was the most natural thing in the world. He couldn't look away; he's had his share of cases like this but this was the only one where he felt like suicide was the right thing to happen. A gust of wind entered from an open window and he shuddered. He wasn't supposed to be thinking this way, afterall, he's been taught all his life that suicide is a sin, an act that will send your soul straight to the pits of hell. However in this case, the young man's room, his outfit, his face- he’ll be damned if it hadn’t looked almost appropriate.
[/END INSPECTOR’S P.O.V.]
Labels: 2017, aiko lactaotao, aiko-lactaotao, demons, dostoevsky, fiction, flash fiction, fyodor dostoevsky, short story, suicide, the sorrows of young werther
Thursday, December 29, 2016 | December 29, 2016 |
The Wild In Me
Nothing is more lethal than the combination of fear and sex. The rush of adrenaline pumping in my veins brings me closer to the zenith of euphoria unlike any I’ve experienced before.
Her name was Amaranta, like the flower. Timid yet graceful, she lit up the room on the day I first met her; thin waist, wide hips, ample derriere— oh she was the stuff that drove men crazy. She glided across the room like a lone feather in the wind. The hypnotic rhythm of her hips in sync with my breathing brought forth a familiar tingling south of the belt. When she sat beside me and uttered those words- “May I borrow a pen?”, I felt something primal to all rational beings, namely, the need to satisfy one’s lust.
That night, I decided to play my cards right.
Classes ended at half-past nine. It was dark outside the building what with only a few lights scattered around the area; there were no people around save a handful of students. Amaranta was nearing the exit and I had to move fast. She was walking towards her car as I eased my way behind her, I took out a penknife from my pocket and put an arm around her neck. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” I declared, whispering into her ear. She didn’t struggle and from where I placed my arm around her I could feel the slow heaving of her chest. Instead, she let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I knew you’d come for me.” Her breath was cold and it sent a chill up my spine.
We got in her car and drove to a nondescript motel. We lost no time in conversation, tearing up our clothes in the heat of the moment. My lips grazed her alabaster-like neck, fumbling with her bra as her supple fingers sought the buttons of my pants.
She was laid out on the bed, in all her naked glory and my eyes hungrily feasted on her body. I stared straight into her eyes and she returned the gaze with equal intensity.
Again, I grabbed the penknife from my pocket. I didn’t take my eyes off of her. I let the blade skim down her chin, her neck, the valley of her breasts, her belly, stopping to hover the knife on the tuft of hairs just below her navel. It was during this time that I first caught a glimpse of something akin to fear on her eyes. A slow smile creeped up my features.
“Allow me to show…the wild in me."
It all happened the day before. I now sit on the dining table, reading from my iPad the latest headline on the news:
VAGINA SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN
I could still hear her muffled cries beneath my hand. Her blood, it tasted sweet. But nothing could be more sweeter than the fear in her eyes. In their eyes. Virgins making love to a knife.
I felt the stirrings of heat in my groin and knew I needed it again. Lust, like all addiction, must be sustained at all costs. But this isn’t just lust, it’s my nature. The thrill of it all is knowing I’m being hunted down but never getting caught. I doubt it that they’ll ever catch me. I'm free as the barrenness haunting a wasteland, and I linger like a scavenger waiting for the next prey.
After all, to the wilderness, the wild belongs.
Labels: aiko lactaotao, fiction, filipino writers, flash fiction, short story
