The House

Part V

A man was waiting for me at the end of the alley, hiding in the corner. He wasn't too smart. I could see his shadow breaking the light from the street lamp above him.

One of the things my education taught me was that there is always a choice. Always. And when things don't turn out the way you want them to, then you choose to live with it and adapt. That's how you survive, my teacher said.

My assailant made his choice when he decided to kill me. As I approached the end of the alley, I was thinking of whether I should make it his last decision.

It was a knife. The light reflected off the blade's surface as he swung sideways. I blocked it with one warm then struck upwards with the edge my palm, hitting his elbow. There was a soft crack as a few bones gave way. He dropped the knife. It was still in midair when I yanked his broken arm, slid my leg under his and tripped him. He landed face first on the pavement. I pulled his hair backwards and slammed his head on the ground thrice. I think he went limp on the second hit.

I stood up and hid his body. He was alive, but he's probably going to miss a few of his teeth. I pocketed his wallet and his cellphone, then arranged his position to make him look like a vagrant. A car engine roared to life and sped away, tires screaming against the pavement.

Teach me...

English.. english.. english. I knew that eventually they'll be implementing the Speak in English policy to help the engineers "polish" their english communication. I must admit that we do need this and it's a pitty that they have to implement it in a very childish manner. Wear the hat if you get caught. I guess this is the most effective way to do it since we must admit that we are childish in many ways. Most of us would rather be spoon fed not only with the information that we need to know but also in what we want to do in the future. We always need some sort of an affirmation from others before we do what we think is right. If it's right, why do we seek for other's opinion?

This new policy didn't just brought up the need to develop our communication but also the need to speed-up one's latent initiative to motivate oneself. Motivation should not come from others especially not from a hat with the words "teach me...". Do not let other people tell you what you need to do.. you have to get up and push your self in achieving your own goals. Live your dream and make your self alive.

The House

Part IV

I left my hotel room and went down the stairs. The elevator was working but I needed to breathe, needed to clear my head and focus. The booze was starting to kick in. My senses were coming alive. I could feel the air as it passed along the hair on my forearms. My face felt like tiny needles were prodding it. My hand felt every groove, every bump on the banister as I went down.

I was shuffling between working and studying then. It was a no-win cycle. I worked to pay for my schooling but did not study that well because of work. I was fortunate to be exclusive to the House and not some hellhole the others talked about. I knew most of the girls by name and they were kind enough to speak with me even if it was forbidden. My questions about their mistress were met with hushes and gestures of silence. To talk about her was also not allowed. To speak ill of her was said to be punishable. By what, they did not know, but the last time someone did was simply never seen again.

I reached the ground floor. I turned around, went to the back of the building and opened the rear exit door.

I was immediately drenched. My clothes were soaked, the rain hammering on the hat I was wearing. The booze felt warm inside me, so maybe it was cold but I didn't know. I didn't care either.

Walking towards the corner of the alley I was in reminded me of the day I left the orphanage. The government placed me in one shortly after my mother disappeared. They told me she'd gone to heaven and that this was my new home now. I was to be a good boy if I wanted to join her there. I believed every word of it. I behaved myself, obeying the grown-ups, doing my chores, even turning the other cheek when the older boys bullied me. Through it all I thought of only one thing---that I would see my mother someday.

One day, the grown-ups told us that people were going to visit us during the afternoon. If we behaved ourselves, some of us might be leaving with them. They tried their best to explain about foster parents and how good it would be for us to have them. I clung to every word. I had a chance to have a home of my own again.

I ran to my room and prepared as best as I could. I cleaned my bed, arranged my things, took a bath and dressed up. I was neat. I was ready.

The throbbing at the back of my head woke me up. I tried to stand up but my head came in contact with wood so I just sat still. Regaining my senses, I found myself locked in the closet where the cleaning stuff was. My clothes were wet and sticky. I smelled of floor wax, dirt and detergent. A few seconds later, I heard the sound of an engine starting then speeding away.

I cried then. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks like they did years ago. I just sat there and wept. A few hours later the closet opened and they found me. One of the grown-ups had heard my weeping as she passed by.

I stayed in my room for days after that, refusing to eat and mingle with the other kids. The bullies didn't bother me as much. I was no fun, they said. I didn't bother resisting them anymore.

A week after the incident, I crept to the kitchen, stole whatever food I could find and left the orphanage. It was midnight then. I walked along the road for a while until a car passed by and offered a lift. I got off when we were in town. I saw a nearby hotel and looked for the rear entrance. The alley was dark, but its light source was a bulb that illuminated the door I was looking for. I swallowed my fear and headed to it.

Something flashed to my right and I found myself pinned against the wall, a hand gripping my throat. Fear. Panic. I was already beginning to lose consciousness. As sudden as it held me, the hand let go.

"Just a kid." A voice in the darkness. I could hear his disdain.

"I'm just looking a place to stay," I gasped, feeling my throat.

"This town isn't a safe place, kid. Go home."

"I don't have a home," I admitted. My voice cracked.

"Don't cry, kid. I can't stand crying. Hell, I might as well kill you. Save you from your misery." There was something odd about his voice. He said it like he meant it, but I heard no malice in it either. I choked, then coughed. I spat blood.

"Kid, you gotta learn to survive if you're going to stay here." Without another word, he grabbed me and my stuff and led me down the alley.

It was the start of my education.

The House

Part III

I awoke to the sound of a car horn piercing the silence of the night. I'd fallen asleep on the chair. The bottle I'd been drinking was empty. That was when the headache kicked in. Felt like the world was tipping over.

Through the haze I saw her. She wore the same dress that fell on my bedroom floor on the last night we were together. She told me it was her way of saying she was dressed to kill. She was both predator and prey. Out to get what she wants yet yearning to be taken body and soul. That night, I decided that I never wanted to see her dress like that for another man ever again. But there she was, a goddess bathed in the moonlight.

I remember the way she looked at me so long ago. We'd just spent one afternoon in between classes at the university. Later that day I took her home and was about to say goodbye. She asked if I had...commitments, to which I said yes. I considered lying, but I did not, not with the honesty she'd shown me. I thought little of it then. We barely saw each other after classes ended that semester. Aside from being classmates, all we had was one afternoon. Nothing more.

Two years later. A chance encounter. She told me she wanted to see me on her birthday. I showed up. We talked, laughed even. Then she told me she wanted to kiss me two years ago, before I told her I was committed.

One afternoon and nothing more.

Now I look at her from afar, watching her move, missing her, hating her. Struggling to keep the promises I've made, I shudder. My thoughts linger. I close my eyes and listen to the beat of my heart. I find it amidst the noise of my emotions.

The girl in the red dress
Moving, swaying
In my eyes she is dancing
Her eyes sparkle
She is smiling

The girl in the red dress
Shifting, soothing
Burns afire like never before
One afternoon
And nothing more

The House

Part II

When I was a kid I was addicted to sweets. Sure, every kid liked candy every now and then but I was really, really into it. My pockets were always full of the stuff. I'd eat them just after waking up, then eat another after breakfast. By noon, I'd have sucked, swallowed, chewed and gnawed around twenty of all sorts of candy, gum and whatever I could get my hands on.

I was in the kitchen looking for my fix in the fridge when my mother started cooking. My eyes followed her hands as they took a bottle from a cabinet and removed the cap. A bottle of liquid gold that carried the smell of paradise. Honey, my mother told me, smiling her knowing smile that told me she was making something good. Something really good. All for me.

A crash. The sounds of glass breaking and wood splintering into a hundred pieces. My mother is screaming. I try to turn but something hits my face hard. The world turns black.

When I woke up I was lying on the sofa. A nurse was sitting beside me, looking a bit relieved. She told me everything was going to be all right. I asked about my mother, fearing the worst. We can't find her, she said, looking at me with eyes that I couldn't understand back then. I remember crying. Crying hard. I was alone. My mother was gone. I felt helpless. The nurse pitied me. I didn't want to be pitied. I didn't want to me cared for. I just wanted her back.

The nurse offered to get some water for me. I ignored her, stood up and headed for the fridge myself. She tried to stop me but I twisted free and ran. I didn't need her to protect me.

Two cops were in the kitchen. A third was outside the back door, writing something on a pad. There were specks of blood on the floor. The fridge was open, just the way I left it before I blacked out. A scent was lingering in the air, sickly but sweet. The ingredients my mother had taken out were still on the counter, scattered but otherwise the same.

"Kid, you're not supposed to be in here," one of the cops said.

"I just wanted a glass of water," I explained.

"Make it quick then," he said.

I filled my glass with water and drank. I wasn't really thirsty. I just wanted to see the kitchen for myself.

"What's that smell?" I asked.

"That," he answered, pointing to a spot on the floor that they were standing close to.

Someone had vomited on the floor. I couldn't tell if the red stuff in it was blood. The broken bottle of honey was in the middle of it all, split in two, honey mixing with vomit. It gave off the same odor that I'd been smelling since I got here.

My throat felt dry. Seeing the bottle reminded me of everything that happened. I ran back to the sofa and lied down. I closed my eyes, waiting, pleading for sleep to come. I couldn't. The smell of honey followed me.

The House

Part I

It's been raining since morning. I can hear its constant battery on the roof of this sorry excuse for a hotel. My bag was on the bed, unopened, doing the same waiting I've been doing since I got here. The bottle's already halfway through. I take a sip from my drink and continue watching.

The window across the street looked ordinary. Not one clue of the events that took place inside the room. The building itself was a well-known establishment, kept alive by the sheer lust of its clientele. I should know. I used to work there.

Five years ago I was part of the cleaning crew that went to that place thrice a week. Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays. Clean up then get out. Same routine, strictly no deviations. The girls were usually tired when I got there, but they were polite. Some even said they liked it there because it was better than the other places they've worked in. None of them left voluntarily.

I was cleaning one the rooms on my third week on the job when one of the girls told me the name of the place. Sally's. Named after the owner's daughter. I thought she was joking at first. Who would name a place like this after his or her own daughter?

I was still thinking about it when I smelled lilac and honey behind me. I turned.

She stood by the doorway, wearing a bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her hair. She took one look at the girl I was talking to and nodded her disapproval. The girl left hastily. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.

The smell grew stronger. It was intoxicating.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice had a certain ring to it. This was a girl who was used to having her way.

"I'm just one of the cleanup guys," I replied.

"Exactly. Don't talk to any of my girls again." With that said, she turned and left, closing the door behind her.

The aroma lingered for a few minutes before dissipating. I finished cleaning the room and went down the hallway, heading for the stairs.

I passed rooms that were all occupied, even during the daytime. Some carried the sound of laughter, others of tears. In some there were screams. Ones that were devoid of panic, the kind that tells you that pleasure is being received. In some rooms music can be heard. In the nearby distance the crack of a whip echoed through the corridor, followed by the stifled moan of a man biting his lips.

This is the House. The scent of lilac and honey followed me.

Panaghoy sa Ulanan (Emong's Reprise)

I'm back to catching raindrops again. To each one a name, but your name I can't seem to find. How could I? You are just a name, a face, a single drop among all others, and the possibility divides infinitely in every direction, every second.

I run barefoot, but it doesn't matter, for nobody can see me. I cry only to find out I cry alone, and it won't matter if the sky will cry with me; it can only cry this much, never enough to comfort me. I shout in pain and it won't matter even, because I can't hear myself as the wind carries away my voice almost instantly. And the cold it brings I can't even feel, for I am colder inside. I run alone, because there is no reason to stay in one place. It is raining.

But... have you been there all these times?

This shouldn't have been my life, chasing raindrops forever, if only you tried to hold on to me tighter, even for that one last time...

Chasing raindrops, to each a name, a chance, so elusive I can never find it. I can never see you. I am as blind as my heart, and being blind I can only face forward, forever forward, no sense looking back. Have you always been a few steps behind, following? I cannot know it, never. If only you'd reach for me and call my name.