Bitter 2.0

Bitter

Figure 1: Proposed Cover for Bitter 2.0 (Design by Don Vittorio C. Villasin the Handsome, and Lay-Out by Mr. Kim Alvarez Nevermind)

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

Bitter 2.0 Happy and Inspiring Stories

by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

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Bitter Copyleft 2013 by Don Vittorio C. Villasin PDF Distribution is not for capitalistic means. Because fuck you Capitalists!

This is a work of Fiction. So please lang, tigilan niyo na ang kaka-tanong sa akin kung based on real-life ba talaga ang mga nakasulat dito. Kung ang ike-kwento ko e totoo, edi sana hindi ko na pinahaba pa. Kung sakaling maka-relate ka, edi maganda. Kung tatamaan ka man, o kung sa tingin mo e ikaw ‘yung isa sa mga tao sa kwento, edi ang kapal ng mukha mo.

Bawal ang assuming. Ang mga assuming, laging natatalo sa huli. Konting salita lang, may meaning agad sa’yo? Ang kapal mo ‘te.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin You are the signifier that signifies my discontents: She smokes now Lovers in the Bus Signs na hindi ka maka-move on sa Ex mong Hitad The Girlfriends I Had Kantahan How to Write a Love Letter (The Don Style) Best Friend Hindi ko na siya Iniisip Facebook Romance Kolehiyalas Tubig The Times I have become Forever Alone Zafra To the Raymond Carver of this Haruki Murakami Naiinis Ako Ang Manananggal Journal Entries Walang Magmamahal Sa’yo August 26, 2013 and Happy Stories Szomoru Vasarnap About the Author

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Bitter Acknowledgements This work would not have seen the light of day without the inexorable toiling of significant others. That is why, I would like to utter profound words of thanks to: Mr. Karl Orit, Markus Aserit, and other people I’ve been with on the many writing workshops/seminars I have attended, and somehow picked up gleanings that made me mature (at some point) in my writing; My fellow writers at Fiat Lux, the official student publication of the National Teachers College, for the laughter and insights I have gained, which at some point, inspired me to write even more; To the College of Cardinals, Vic, Jerome, Ken, Kim, Anthony among others, for the “conclaves” which enabled me to recall so many memories and used them as fuel to burn during the writing of this book. Salamat pati sa blurb na sa sobrang wasak e halatang lasing sila nung isinulat nila. Lalo na kay tropang Kim na nag-lay out ng cover.

To the boys and gals whom I begged to write blurbs for this book: Marco Hernandez, Bryan Bugas, great friends who never cease to make me laugh especially when depressions bombard my erratic life; and Kai Pajutagana, editorin-chief of the 2013 staff of Fiat Lux, the official student publication of the National Teachers College; To the people I never knew who read the first volume of Bitter, thank you for the continued bitterness and support; Truly, one may stumble and fall, but may still remain firm and still once he learns and accepts that life is a brobdingnagian struggle—to live one’s life in pursuit of a satisfying existence!

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Dedication

In the loving memory of all the memories I have buried and burned; of the people I have met but went through doors of forgetting; of the friends I have found but lost during the qualms of time; and to the roses I have left in the rain.

And also to the Midori Kobayashi of this Toru Watanabe: Kristelle May Marcelo

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Bitter 4 Pics 1 Word

“Gave me nostalgic chills. It channeled me back to a timeline of memories—those cherished ones that I certainly wanted to remember and those cursed ones that I certainly wanted to forget. Everything is a slap in the face because everything showed the truth in our lies— pretending to understand our essence and existence when actually we don't and we just can't and that we are but wanderers of time and space and life and death.”

—Kai N. Pajutagana Selfie Mistress of Lord Byron and Edgar Allan Poe

“Another book blossomed from Don’s astringent appetite. Although it wasn’t as acrid as before, it still has its biting effect in the end. I must say that this is truly a metamorphosis of his last book.

So mature, edgy, yet bitter. PWE!” —Marco Raphael Hernandez Artist; Human Resource Manager; Lucid Dreamer

"A pageturner. A humorous book that any young adults can relate to. Yan na pre ung blurb ko.

Maigsi lang. Pre pero binabasa ko na ung buong book mo ngaun. Ang galing keep it up."

—Bryan Luna Bugas Animator / Musician “Ang pag gawa ng obra maestro na ito ay parang pag inom ng Empi, mapait pero swabe. Kung tatanungin ninyo si Vic Tioson isang paring pedopilya ng simbahang kalikot, ang pagiging bitter ay parang pagiging tanga lang, kahit itanung ninyo pa kay maria at junior. Isa pa ayon din kay Ken Bernardo, isang piliantropong loko loko at may ari ng mga naglalakihang Puregold, nakakasama sa pag tagay ang pagiging bitter, itanung ninyo pa kay Aling Puring. Lalo na pag si Anthony Felipe, isang bading na kardenalya, walang naitutulong ang bitterness inchendes, chinenes chinorva mula ulo mukhang paa, HAY NAKU HA! Ayon kay katotong Syrel Lace, na wala naman talagang kinalaman dito at wala rin alam sa mundo kundi umabsent at maleyt araw araw, buraot pa. Kung susumahin ayon kay Kim Alvarez, Afrikanong maka Kpop, mahirap maging bitter kasi nararanasan niya eh. At syempre mula sa Blackhead ng SokSay, Si Jerome Abubakar Karim Abdul J***l wala talangang saysay ito gaya sa pagtiyaga mo sa pagbasa nito.

Tanga Lang.

—The Black Society of NTC Mga Kardenal ng Pag-Ibig

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Introduction

This book was written out of discontent. Discontent in the sense that we never really knew or understood anything, except when those things were all over and done. In other words, when they become a memory, and can never come back.

When the first volume Bitter was released, I was also faced with discontent. This time, discontent in terms of the contents of that book, of the stories and rants in that book, that there were still so many more stories to tell, so many things that I could have written and done, so many things I could have changed not only in my writing but also in myself. By then it was already too late.

In fact, everything was and always will be, too late. I wrote the stories in that book with the notion that all I am writing about was only memory, and not moments. I did nothing to understand the situation, for all I did was to tell them, boxed in this shell with one ego, with a singular perspective.

The theme of this book is still that: memory. The memory that lingers inside our minds that we often recall in times when we either do not need or need to do, but here, I did my best to trace them, and find some meaning that I could hold on to and be proud of.

There are so many things in our lives we wished we could be, we wished we could have done something more, that we should have stressed more effort on doing the things that we did, but of course, we could never do.

Discontent and memory are the things that fueled me to write this volume 2 of Bitter. Not because of my dissatisfaction with the way the book turned out (I mean, other people bought it and not just my friends and family) but because of my dissatisfaction that those memories only slapped me with more nostalgia and not understanding qua meaning.

Discontent and memory came to me during the Typhoon Maring, with the southwest monsoon, shouting their rage in our country. Classes were suspended for an entire week, and my mind drifted into this “reflecting and remininscencing� mode, and I thought of writing a second book, to calm also the clamor of some of the readers who were requesting for a volume 2. This time, by trying my best to find significance with the stories I will include, I tried putting a few changes in my writing while still maintaining that bittersweet, dark-chocolate flavor that made Bitter volume 1 be embraced by its readers.

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Bitter What changes am I talking about? For one, you may have noticed that I am writing this in English. Writing in English is my signifier that this book has, at some point, “moved on” from the first one; a sort of symbol that this book are new chapters—an introduction to the rest of the doors I have opened and closed. But I have some stuff that are still in Filipino, but expect a dominance of the English language in this book. Language is just a tool we use to share what we have.

Substance is of prime importance.

To conclude this, I would like to tell you that Bitter 2.0 is a book of fiction.

And you are entitled to your own interpretation. If your understanding of the story (or whatever else is written here) is different from my intention, then so what? I have done my job, and that is to write and share. Your job is to read and interpret. If my intention and your interpretation differ, then it’s nobody’s fault but mine. But my intentions I will keep to myself, for I believe that readers are sovereign. Readers rule the text. I, the author, am dead.

For my fans, eto na.

Salamat sa pagbabasa ng introduction, pero I’m sorry to say na lahat nang sinulat ko sa introduction na ito ay kasinungalingan.

DVCV Bacoor, Cavite August, 2013

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

“All the grief and horror and desperation that I thought I felt were not really my own feelings but only what other people made me want to feel, because I wasn’t like them. But the moment you start thinking of yourself as alone, absolutely alone, and related to nothing and to no one, you realize it’s silly to worry and fuss over what you are. You are simply what you are. And you feel as if you had closed a door forever or everything that’s unpleasant.”

—Nick Joaquin, The Woman who had Two Navels

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Bitter

Dave: Minsan, naiisip ko yung “Tayo” dati.

Judy: “Tayo” dati?

Dave: ‘Yung “Ikaw, at ako”, magkasama dito sa mundo.

Judy: Haha. That was so like ten years ago.

Dave: I know. Pero sometimes nararamdaman kong parang kahapon lang ang lahat.

Judy: Senti mo ha. Epekto ba ‘yan ng ulan?

Dave: Hindi. Ng pag-ibig.

Judy: Hahaha. You’re funny. That’s probably one of the reasons why I LIKED you.

Dave: Talagang pinag-diinan mo ‘yung past tense ha.

Judy: Oo naman. History is history. Past is past. What’s important is to know what we learned from them.

Dave: Nag-aaral ako ng History, pero isang bagay lang ang natutunan ko.

Judy: Ano? Dave: Pagkatapos ng lahat ng nangyari, wala namang nagbabago. Wala namang nababago. Paulit-ulit lang ang lahat. May mga nakakalimot lang.

Judy: Hmm…maybe you’re right.

Dave: May mga bagay tayong nalilimutan, at may mga bagay tayong hindi malimutan. Hindi ko nga lang alam kung alin ang mas malungkot dun sa dalawa.

Judy: Hindi naman kita nakalimutan.

Dave: Pero may mga bagay kang ayaw maalala.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin She Smokes Now

Liz started smoking when Nathan Lopez, the basketball player, decided to end his relationship with her. The reason I know was that Liz confided to me— sometimes in tears—the course of their affair.

I and Liz were good friends, while Nathan to me, was just a shadow.

Whenever they’re together, inside the campus or outside on their dates, and I happened to be there as well, say by running to them at the cafeteria or in the mall whenever I had some solitary excursions myself, Nathan and I will just exchange greetings, and that was it. I couldn’t really say if I hated the guy, or if he felt that way toward me, but if it hadn’t been for Liz, we wouldn’t even glance at each other.

The first few days after the break-up, Liz would invite me somewhere, and she’d just cry. Sometimes, she wouldn’t talk, she’d just sag her handkerchief with tears. People would eye us, with some guys looking as if they’d kick my ass if they learned it was me who has wronged this girl crying in front of me. All I could do was tap her shoulder, and tell her stupid stuff like “It’s going to be all right” or some cliché phrases like “There are tons of fishes in the sea…”

More days came and went, and we started going to bars. She wouldn’t cry this time, but she’d rant about how Nathan never really became the boyfriend she expected him to be, while drinking beer. The reason why I stuck with this was probably because of the fact that I like Liz too. It pains me to say it, but when I learned that she and Nathan started going out, I just knuckled under. Now that their relationship had reached its end, I couldn’t understand what I’m feeling.

“I didn’t even know why we lasted this long,” she said. “Dammit, I should have known.”

“You did love him,” I muttered, while wiping foam from my mouth.

She drank first before answering. “Sure did. But I know better now.”

“Cheers,” I raised my bottle. Our bottles clank as it kissed each other.

A few more weeks later, Liz started going to my apartment. I didn’t really know if I should be happy about it or not, for all she does was to eat whatever I cook for her, drink, and talk about Nathan. It would have been better if she spoke about how she despises that guy, but this time she talked about memories: their

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Bitter dates, their kisses while in the darkness of the theater, stuff like that. And I provided her with the listening ear she needed.

One time, she got so drunk and fell asleep on my couch. I tried shaking her awake, but all she did was moan. I cleaned the table, cleared the bottles of beer, cigarette ash, bits of chips, and finally I took off her shoes, placed a pillow below her head and covered her with a blanket. I sort of brushed her hair with my fingers and looked at her face and body for a while, but my attention was diverted by the pack of cigarettes on the table. That was the time I discovered that she started smoking. I slept in my room that night. It was a cold night.

When I woke up the next day, she was still asleep. I fried some eggs and reheated some leftover rice, and made coffee, and glanced at her from time to time. After I ate, Liz woke up.

“Hey, sorry, I got drunk,” she said.

“No problem. Want something to eat?”

“No, thanks,” she said and then put a cigarette on her lips and lit it. She placed it on the ashtray before proceeding to the sink to wash her face. I watched her do that, and for a while I noticed she stopped moving and just stood there near the sink, as if trying to remember something.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Liz looked at me slowly. “Why am I not wearing my bra?” She placed her palms on her chest.

I told her I didn’t know. She went back to the couch, searched through the ruffle of pillow and blanket, and then picked up her bra. She showed it to me, as if showing me evidence to a terrible crime.

“Were you touching me as I slept?” she asked.

I couldn’t find the right words to answer, because honestly, I couldn’t remember myself.

“I can’t believe you.”

“Hey, Liz, listen I—” She took her things and left. I remained sitting at the table, watching her cigarette on the ashtray, burning away. ***

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin We didn’t see each other for a few days. I tried texting her, telling her that nothing really happened, and explained to her the possibility that she herself may have removed her bra, but she won’t reply. Life, for me, continued as usual. I arrive in my apartment early, read my lessons, think about things, about her, about that bastard Nathan who left her, and at some point there arrive at the thought that maybe Liz and Nathan got back together and my status in her life— their lives—went back to its shadowy origin.

Until she called me one Saturday afternoon.

“I’m glad you finally called,” I immediately said.

“I know you didn’t do that,” she replied. “I believe you. I trust you.”

I sighed. “How’ve you been?” I remarked. It was my another way of saying “Have you forgotten about Nathan yet?”

“Fine,” she said in a tone that I couldn’t place. Seconds later, she added: “Do you mind coming over to my place? I just want to talk. My parents are out the whole weekend.”

After we spoke, I sort of thought about everything that has transpired: if this is a movie, is this really my role? Me—the martyr, the beloved shoulder Liz could cry on, until the credits roll and the audience are still snoring. Trouble is, am I really playing my role well? Is this really how the script must go, nothing more than this?

Arriving, she let me in at once, and while eating some adobo with warm rice, she started talking. She told me the reasons why she didn’t want to see me for a while was that she thought of having some time on her own. I just listened, nodding a few times whenever she needed a response from me.

“And I’ve thought about how stupid I’ve been, you know? Drinking and crying, and bothering you…” Liz said, smiling at herself. She paused and then lit a cigarette, and then blew the smoke sideways. “I mean, he’s probably not fussing about it anymore, it’s all over, you know?”

“Well, I’m happy for you,” I replied. “So, no more crying and drinking, huh?”

She laughed. She went to the kitchen and brought out two bottles of beer from the fridge. I was done eating and took a sip from the cold, perspiring bottle.

The smoke felt irritating on my nostrils.

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Bitter Liz and I drank our beer, while talking about other things. She spoke about her dreams after college, of her opinions about certain issues besetting the country, all the while smoking stick after stick of cigarettes, apologizing every time I let out a cough. Finishing the third bottle, her eyes were puffy. I myself feel the nausea setting in. She fell asleep, with her arms as cushion to her head on the table. I shook her, and she raised her head, but her eyes were slightly closed.

I checked my watch. It was ten in the evening. I cleared our bottles, her ash, wiped the table, and noticed that my pace on doing these things were a lot different. The beer’s getting on me. I shook Liz awake, but it seemed she was dizzy. I carried her, wrapping her around my neck, and carried her to her room.

There was a stuffed toy on her bed, together with her pillows. I placed the stuffed toy under her bed and noticed a name lazily sewn on its chest: Nathan. I lay Liz on her bed and told her I’m leaving.

“Wha…?” she moaned.

I leaned close to her ear. “I said I’m going to leave.” As I rose, I glanced at her plastic cabinet, and on its top was the framed picture of her and Nathan at some place—some mall, probably. I wonder how many times Liz gazed on this picture every morning, and every night before going to sleep?

“Okay, Nathan, leave,” she replied.

I laughed. “You sleep now, okay? Call me in the morning,” I began walking towards the door.

“Hey,” she called. I looked back and saw her getting up, resting her back on the headboard. “Wait,” her voice was weak. I went to her and sat at the foot of the bed. “Thank you,” she said.

“It’s nothing,” I answered. My head is getting heavy.”

And then—I didn’t see it coming—but her face was suddenly zooming-in on me, and the next thing I knew, her lips were against mine. A few more seconds, and our lips parted. She was barely smiling. “Why don’t we try it out?” she stuttered.

I smiled. “You’re drunk,” I said, with a voice I knew was not mine, for my real voice was saying “Why not?”

“Maybe,” she said. And then she lay back on the bed.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin I stood, and at the corner of my eye, I could see the framed picture atop her plastic cabinet. My left foot slightly kicked the stuffed toy beneath her bed.

Her kiss tasted like cigarettes—its bitter taste and smell.

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Bitter Lovers in the Bus

The lovers climbed the Cavite-bound bus, and thirty-two year old Shirley watched them walk on the aisle and settle on the seats on her right. She closed the Bo Sanchez book she had been reading and continued watching the lovers. She eyed their faces and immediately gave a sigh of disbelief. Shirley wasn’t sure what disturbed her the most: the fact that the lovers’ ages range from 17 to 19, or the fact that they were both females. Is this really the norm now? she said to herself.

Shirley was on her way back to her hometown for a family reunion—her uncles, her eldest brother, her cousins and nieces and nephews would be there.

Only she decided to settle in Manila after college, a decision she knew was for good. Her brother inherited her late father’s coffee shop, while she chose to manage accounts at a small textile company in the city, earning enough to keep her alive. Her stint in Manila was actually for two things: to have a job that is not oriented with the family business, and to start a family away from the province.

And after years of stay in the city, she has done the former; the latter would be the germ for teasing that her brother and her cousins would use against her.

“Mamang and Papang will be very happy knowing they have grandchildren from you,” her brother told her when he called informing her of the family reunion.

Shirley didn’t answer.

“You’re growing older, sis. Don’t be a nun.”

“I’m having trouble finding the right one, kuya,” she finally said.

“Well, I’m just saying, you know? It’ll bring you a lot of joy to have family.

With kids. Especially with kids.”

Shirley didn’t really believe him. She knew that nowadays, a lot of families tend to be broken. A lot of parents don’t keep their vows during marriage.

“If you want, I’ll talk to Ramon and see if—“ “Oh no, Kuya, not Ramon—“ Shirley exclaimed. Her brother just laughed.

Ramon was Shirley’s childhood friend, and the first boy who actually courted her. Ramon was a cool guy in her opinion, but her feelings for him remained in the best friend zone. And even that feeling went completely downhill

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin when he got drunk in a party they were attending, and tried to grab her chest.

She never told anyone about it, but she avoided Ramon ever since.

Shirley eyed the lovers in the bus again. The first girl had short hair, and the other has long. Long Hair’s head was leaned against Short Hair’s shoulder.

They held hands. Shirley tried recalling what life was for her when she was their age. The image of the city came first, its blazing sun at noon and its mellow, humid nights. She was staying at a dormitory, a few blocks away from the university, with her roommate, Tess, a liberal arts major. Even at present, she considered Tess as the closest friend she ever had during college. Some nights, they would stay up late swapping stories: how was it for Shirley growing up in one of the innermost municipalities of Cavite, with Tess telling her the joys of womanhood; how women should not let themselves be undermined by men. “A woman is just as free as anybody else. We are not slaves,” Tess often said.

Shirley admired her, and there were times also that she wished she could be like Tess, that free woman. But of course, she could never be like her. Shirley couldn’t even stand against those guys in the university who kept on calling her a “promdi”, nor could she tell her parents to stop lecturing her about the avoidance of vices, fraternities and perilous peers which were rampant in the city. I’m a grown woman, she would like to tell them. I can think on my own. I know what’s right and wrong. There’s no need to remind me. Yet, she can never do that.

Unlike Tess, the wonderwoman.

Shirley awoke due to the bus suddenly braking. She looked out the window and saw that the bus was still at Taft Avenue. She placed the Bo Sanchez book in her bag, and noticed that the passengers in the bus have increased in number. The lovers were still on their seats, this time though, they were munching on some chips while sipping some iced tea.

Her eyes were still on the lovers in the bus, Shirley sort of wondered how long their relationship would last. They wouldn’t have kids; they couldn’t get married, not in a religious or political way—at least, not in the Philippines.

Shirley’s mother often told her that a woman’s actualization occurs once she gets married and have children. “It’s a painful process,” her mother had said.

“But it’s destined by God, for our betterment. Every woman undergoes such pain.”

Tess, on the other hand, simply told her to do anything that makes her feel satisfied; to live her life to the fullest.

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Bitter “Enjoy life,” Tess said while they were in their room in the dormitory. “You can always get out of pain, you know. Have fun for you’ll never know what’s gonna happen next.”

Shirley was just silent, all the while trying to digest what Tess had said.

Tess lit a cigarette before continuing. “How many boyfriends have you had?”

Shirley looked at her. “None.”

Tess spat out smoke. “What? You mean you’re still a freakin’ virgin?”

Shirley nodded.

“No wonder you’re so miserable!” Tess exclaimed. She proceeded to crush her cigarette on the ashtray. “Come with me!”

“But it’s already dark outside, and I think we’re not allowed to—” “Don’t be a baby. Come on.”

Tess took her to a club. The music was pounding on Shirley’s ears, and she felt dizzy with all the flashing colorful lights blinking on and off in rapid successions. Tess made her drink something with an awful taste that stung her throat. Seeing her reaction, Tess ordered a bluish drink which Shirley liked better. Tess introduced her to some guys who happened to be from the same university she was in. One was Greg, one of those guys who calls Shirley a “promdi”.

“I didn’t know you also dig this place,” Gregg remarked as they sat at a corner table away from the dance floor.

The music was so loud that Shirley found difficulty hearing what he said.

“What? Digging what?”

Greg shook his head. “Never mind. Do you have a boyfriend?”

Shirley just drank from her glass. The drink was really good. She saw Tess whisper something to Gregg. Moments later, she saw Greg handing something to Tess. When he showed it to Shirley, she asked: “What’s that?”

“It’ll make everything better,” Greg replied.

“What?” Shirley couldn’t hear because of the music. She took what Greg was giving to her. It was a small tablet of sorts.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin “It will make you have a good time,” Tess said loudly to her ear. *** Shirley was lying on a bed. She felt Gregg’s wet tongue between her thighs. Only through her moans could she express how it felt so good. Moments later, Greg were kissing her lips, her neck, her nipples, which were rock-hard at that time, and suddenly, there was pain. She knew that there was something inside her that was getting ripped apart. She couldn’t understand what she was actually feeling—yes there was pain, yet she doesn’t want it to stop. To and fro, Greg went inside her and then out, until finally he stopped and she felt something hot streaming on her stomach. *** When Shirley bled for the first time, her mother told her that she has entered her journey to womanhood. Her Science subject told her that she has became fertile, and that it was possible for her to get pregnant already.

“You should give your virginity to someone worthy,” her mother said. “To your future husband.”

The night she lost it to Gregg, Shirley felt satisfied. Yet she knew it was wrong. She didn’t love the guy, and certainly does not see him as someone worthy. *** Tess was at the dormitory when Shirley returned in the morning.

“How was last night?” Tess asked. “Tell me about it.”

And Shirley told her everything. At first she was angry at Tess for leaving her with Greg, but she couldn’t understand why she couldn’t stay mad at Tess, nor why she couldn’t blame Tess for the feeling of having done something wrong and immoral. What would her mother say upon learning that she lost her virginity to someone who’s not even her boyfriend? That same day, Shirley went to Quiapo church and confessed. The priest listened to her eagerly, and she was crying while relaying to the priest everything that has transpired, from the club to the hotel room. She never told the priest about Tess. She didn’t know why she left Tess out of the story. As penance, the priest told her to ask for forgiveness from her parents also, and to pray the rosary every night before sleeping, for two weeks. But she never told her parents about it. She did pray the rosary every night, though.

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Bitter One night, Tess came home crying. “My father died,” she told Shirley.

Shirley was surprised. Tess never spoke anything about her family. But only about herself. “I need to go home,” Tess continued. She was really crying— the first time that Shirley ever saw her do so.

“I’m sorry I—” Tess hiccupped. “I can be strong, as me, you know? But when it comes to my family I—” “It’s all right,” Shirley said, hugging her.

That very same night, Shirley woke up, feeling someone lying beside her.

It was Tess. And she was nude.

“Hey, what—” Tess put a palm over her lips. Shirley smelled cigarettes from it. “Please,” Tess whispered. She kissed Shirley on the lips, and to Shirley it felt different. She didn’t want it to stop. It felt liberating, it felt like something new, something she knew she could live forever with. Tess undressed her and then proceeded on her chest, giving slight bites on her nipples that tickled her. Tess kissed her again, but this time, Tess’s fingers were stroking the warmth between Shirley’s thighs.

When it was over, Shirley felt that she wants to cry. And she did. Tess embraced her, their chests rubbing against each other.

“What’s wrong?” Tess asked.

“I love you,” Shirley whimpered.

“Then, what’s wrong?” Tess said. *** Remembering it all now, Shirley felt tears streaming down her cheeks. She immediately took a handkerchief and wiped her tears away. If only memories could be wiped away so easily, she thought.

Tess left the next day, and never came back.

The bus stopped at Baclaran to let some passengers in and out. Shirley saw Short Hair kiss Long Hair’s lips. The nerve! she thought.

“A man and a woman are supposed to be together. That’s the way God designed it, hence, the way it has to be,” her mother once said.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Shirley looked at the seat on her left, and saw that Long Hair was left there alone. As the bus passed the Baclaran church, she saw Long Hair do the sign of the cross. You couldn’t really see the church from the main road, but you know the church is there, somewhere.

Shirley stared at the window, and for a moment thought about the possibilities of her marriage, to someone worthy, in the future. Her gaze fell on Long Hair, and she thought, What a pretty girl.

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Bitter Signs na hindi ka maka-move on sa Ex mong hitad

1. Pinagdududahan mo kung nalilinis ba talaga ng washing machine ang nilalabhan mo.

2. Panay ang share mo ng mga lyric video ng mga kantang may temang “letting go” sa timeline mo, sa timeline ng tropa mo, at sa kahit anong page sa Facebook.

3. Panay ang bisita mo sa Timeline ni Ex at binabasa ang latest status updates niya at minamanmanan kung may sinong marshmallow na magko-comment ng “<3”.

4. Just in case na may hudas nga na nag-comment, agad ang status mo ng isang famous quote mula sa isang sikat na pelikula. “Putang ina naman Bash! ‘Di mo ba alam yung 3-month rule?”

5. Gising ka hanggang madaling araw dahil sa isang “movie marathon” pero mga pelikulang napanood mo na ang mina-marathon mo. May ibang bagay ka kasing gusto maulit.

6. Pupunta ka sa bar, hoping na may makilala. Bibili ka ng beer na doble ang presyo kumpara sa tindahan sa labas. Pakonti-konti ang iniinom mo, nakatingin ka sa entrance, hoping na may chicks or gwapo na papasok at titignan ka rin, pero you end up leaving the bar, pupunta sa pinakamalapit na 7-eleven, bibili ng Colt 45 or Red Horse Stallion, pupunta sa isang park, at doon na lang iinom. Minsan may kasama pang luha.

7. Nakikipag-inuman ka sa mga tropa mo at gusto mong lagi silang may dalang gitara.

8. Naghahanap ka ng ibang hobby, i.e., naglalaro ka ng computer games, inaalagaan mo si Pou, bibili ka ng camera at mag-aastang photographer, mag-aaral kang magluto ng spaghetti…gagawa ka ng libro…

9. Madalas kang magpa-load kahit wala ka namang ite-text.

10. Gumagawa ka ng kwento na ikaw ang bida, pero sasabihin mong hindi. *** Maraming nagsasabi na mahirap mag-move on. Maraming beses ko na itong ginawa pero hindi naman ako nahirapan. ‘Yung hirap kasi “to move on” is

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin all in the mind. Kung kinaya mo ngang umibig, dapat kaya mo rin gumalaw paalis. Kung kinaya mong tiisin ang boring na propesor, ang trapik sa Metro Manila, ang pila sa ticket booth ng LRT, ang tae na hindi mo mailabas, ang kakapiranggot na baon—then, I’m telling you, kaya mo rin mag-move on. In fact, ang pagmu-move on ang isa sa mga pinakamagandang regalo mo sa katawan mo at sa sarili mo. Walang mangyayari kung mananatili ka lamang sa isang lugar. Kung alam mong walang jeep, magsimula ka nang maglakad. Tumatakbo ang oras, at bawat segundong sinasayang mo sa pananatili ay nasasayang.

Malay mo, may iba na palang dumating, pero ‘di mo pinansin.

So, ano ang pag-move on? ‘Yung pag-galaw? ‘Yung pag-alis? Ang paglimot? Hindi. Hindi ko sinasabing tuluyan mong kalimutan ang lahat ng alaala niyo ni Ex. Laging tandaan na ang mga alaalang ito, ang minsan ninyong pagiibigan, ay mga chapter sa buhay mo na maaring magsabi kung sino ka. Naging matibay ka ba? O naging dahong tuyo ka lang na tinatangay ng hangin? Ang pag-move on ay pagtanggap. Acceptance. Simpleng pagtanggap na tapos na kayo at kailangan nang magsimula muli. Ipagpatuloy ang buhay. Hindi ka planeta sa solar system na sa araw lang umiikot. Maraming tao sa mundo na pwede mong makilala at ibigin. Choosy ka lang kasi. ‘Di ka na nga yummy e. *** Judy: Ang lakas ng loob mong sabihin na maraming beses ka nang nakapagmove on. Sa’kin, naka-move on ka na?

Dave: Hindi.

Judy: Bakit?

Dave: Kasi ‘di ko pa rin maintindihan kung bakit hindi mo ako mahal. I mean, sa’yo lang talaga ako nakakaramdam ng matinding connection. Alam mo ‘yun?

Judy: Alam ko. Sinabi ko rin naman sa’yo dati ‘di ba, na parang kumportablengkumportable ako sa’yo.

Dave: Oh, ‘yun naman pala e. So anong problema? Why not me?

Judy: Naguguluhan ako sa maraming bagay. It’s like—I’m not really sure about anything. Hindi ako sigurado kung ano ba talaga ang nararamdaman ko, hindi ako sigurado kung handa na ba akong umibig. ‘Yung ganoong feeling na para bang hindi ako ang may hawak sa buhay ko. Let’s say maging tayo. Pero ayun pala, hindi tayo destined to be together forever.

Ibig sabihin, kahit gaano pa natin kamahal ang isa’t isa, balewala lang din.

24

Bitter Dave: Paano mo nasabi e hindi naman natin sinubukan…ayaw mong subukan natin.

Judy: Hindi ako naniniwala na tayo ang may hawak sa buhay natin. Free will?

Bullshit ‘yon. Excuse lang ‘yon na binuo ng ilang mga tao para kunwari e may control tayo sa buhay natin. Para kunwari e maging conscious tayong mga tao sa mga ginagawa at gagawin natin, sa mga desisyon natin.

Dave: So anong gusto mong sabihin, na itinakda na ng Diyos ang lahat?

Judy: Hindi ako naniniwala sa Diyos.

Dave: …

Judy: Sabi nga sa pelikulang The Matrix Reloaded, lahat ng choice at desisyon natin ay napili na natin—ng mga ninuno natin bago tayo. At kaya tayo nabubuhay e para alamin kung bakit ‘yun ang pinili natin—nila.

Dave: Ibang context ang sinasabi sa The Matrix Reloaded.

Judy: Siguro nga.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin The Girlfriends I had

Looking at the stuff I wrote these past few years, I noticed that I mostly talked about the girls I wished for but never had, and not about the girls I actually had.

For the record, I really didn’t know why, but I find it easier to talk about not possessing something rather than actually possessing it. The void that nonpossession leaves inside me wakes this cathartic appetite in me, fueling my desire to share such experience.

But of course, the preceding statement collapses on itself, since my possession of a girlfriend eventually ended, and got somewhere behind me.

That’s the way it is for so many things: there’s a beginning, and there’s an end.

How many times it happens with everything and to everyone goes beyond metaphysical scales. This led me to ask myself: how many beginnings and ends with some of my past girlfriends have I seen and felt?

Some of the stories about the girlfriends I had I have told before in my other works, whether in fiction, or CNFs. So for now, I’ll poke on those I haven’t told before.

The girl that got close to being my first girlfriend I met when I was attending the Sunday school of Born-Again Christians. I was then fresh from my Elementary days and still suffering from High School culture-shock. A desire to escape from the sheer cage of boredom led me to accept a friend’s offer to attend their Sunday activities. So, I’m in that church, singing along the songs I hardly recalled the tunes, closed my eyes and pretended to pray, and dozed off to whatever biblical blabber of the pastor. At first I thought it would just be an extension of my boredom, until I saw her.

We managed to talk after the session, and exchanged contact numbers.

Our texts were all childish, and I could say we got to know each other. As it turns out, Christian Girl wasn’t that religiously inclined, like me, and she was only going to church because her parents forced her to. I didn’t actually fell in love with her, nor did she to me, but one time during church, she brought the idea of us being “boyfriend” and “girlfriend”. And I didn’t know why, even while writing this, but I accepted her offer.

We went to SM Bacoor one Saturday, and there she held my hand for the first time. I bought two Baby Z Zagus, the first time I bought something for a girl.

26

Bitter But both of us were sure: we both didn’t love each other. Just what the hell our “relationship” meant, I have no idea. *** The next girl I will tell was someone I knew a long time ago, and I never cared about her, never noticed her, until I turned sixteen and we stumbled upon each other again. And man, she changed a lot! All at once it reminded me of the cliché phrase: People grow up so fast. I remember back in the old days she was wideeyed and her hair was always locked in a bun. When I saw her again, her eyes were shielded with black-framed glasses and she wore her hair all-out, its ends stretching to the back of her knees; it was so because of her esoteric religion.

So when we saw each other again on a party, we talked a lot: the old days, about our high school lives (we were both high school students at the time) and we even talked about our broken love lives (I shared her the story about my first love [READ: H.H.W.W from my book Bitter] and she relayed to me her recent break-up). We talked and talked until the party ran out of booze and the black sky was creeping toward blueness.

After that night, we texted, went out, until it led to courtship, and us becoming together. My most unforgettable moment with her was when we went swimming with the rest of our old friends. Aside from those solitary moments of ours in the pool, there were a lot of reminiscences about the so many things in the eternal past that led to our present—which was if not for now, we thought, forever. And truly, looking back and recalling how deep and sincere her eyes stared at me, I never knew I would be recalling it like this, embedding it not only in my memory, but in this paper as well. We made vows that night in the pool.

That we’d stay together no matter what happens. That we’d sing songs with the wind and recite poems to the mountains. Long-Haired Girl, back then, was everything to me. I wanted her to be the mother of my children; I wanted to be with her under one roof, forever. We had dreams. We planned to move North, to live where the mountains lie, and plant a garden there; to live a simple life.

We were young. And yes, a lot of things just don’t turn simple. *** The last girl I’ll tell you about was this girlfriend I had in my early years in college.

We both belonged to the same block section during freshman year. She was a provinciana, skinny, but somewhat smart and brainy if not for the fact that her intellect oftentimes haywire to immense disproportions. Freshman that time, I was still adapting to the harsh environment that was college. It seemed different

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin and at the same time overwhelming because I met a lot of people, most of whom are friendly and coming from different parts of the country. I was also surprised by how easy it is to talk and face these college people, unlike during my high school days when I’m usually the silent boy in the corner who speaks only when spoken to.

Skinny Girl wanted to major in Physical Science, while I was going for Social Science. We both belonged to the circle of friends in our block section— going out, hanging out, eating out, and making out—and I don’t know why but I fell for her. That’s the way for some things sometimes. There really was something in her that tends to make people drawn to her, despite her immaturity and inability to differentiate awkwardness from proper actions. She said yes to me while we were alone, perched atop the walls of Intramuros. It was fun for a while. We went out, had our share of romantic moments, and we stayed up late talking about things. I was happy, actually. And I know for a fact that she had been happy too.

And just like many other people and relationships, we encountered trials.

The purpose of these trials was to challenge just how much we loved each other, how much we could hold on.

Yes, maybe it’s fun thinking about it that way. *** Christian Girl and I suddenly stopped seeing each other, especially when I ceased attending their church. I found it inconvenient that their church claims themselves as the right church and the rest of the churches in the country are mere blasphemers. A few years later, I got the news that the pastor of their church got jailed for raping his own daughter.

And like what I said, Christian-Girl wasn’t really my girlfriend, but she was the first girl who made me feel that some other member of the opposite sex aside from my female relatives can be with me and see me in some new perspective.

As of this writing, she’s happily living in Batangas, still unmarried, living with his two sons who don’t look alike. I had no idea if that’s what they teach on her church. From time to time, I’d check her Facebook timeline and read her status updates, which were all Bible verses. I doubt that she remembers me, nor will she do upon reading this.

Long-Haired Girl and I eventually broke up. It was her who invoked it. She said that we’ve been running in circles and that we have built this wall around us, 28

Bitter disabling our chances of grabbing hold to the many more opportunities that may still arrive. I argued that this may be the chance to forever (I was young, so please forgive my highly melodramatic statement) but her decision was as firm as a noose on a depressed man’s neck. Her love ended, and there was nothing I could do to mend it.

A few months after we broke up, I got news that she and her family would be migrating to Canada. I was on my third year in college majoring in Social Science when I saw the life event on her FB Timeline that she got married to some Canadian dude. I sent her a message of congrats, and then I received a reply: “Who are you and how did we meet?” To which, I didn’t answer.

Maybe I should have told her more, explaining that I’m her ex-boyfriend back in the Philippines. But I felt that it wouldn’t matter anymore. Her hair is short now, its ends reaching her neck.

Skinny Girl and I were together for four months, coping with our differences, overlooking the qualities that we both didn’t like with each other, minding only the fact that we were together. And it ate us. It was a truth that slapped us in our faces, a sucker-punch that turned our differences and the things we overlooked against us. Those differences became mild concerns, until it evolved to personal differences.

Last thing I heard, she moved back to her province in Pangasinan, still keeping in mind how much liberated a girl she is while still possessing an immature mind. I don’t know when she’ll ever learn, or if she would ever learn.

Things like that happen to some people.

And me?

I’ve lived my years meeting so many people, got to know them, went out with them, and somehow engaged in a romantic relationship with them, and what have I learned? Perhaps it’s nothing but this cyclical cliché: In so many things in this life, there’s a beginning and there’s an end, and that end at times is a new beginning.

There are always so many doors in this life that we can open and close, and close permanently. And in it, so many people will come. Some you’d approach and treat as your best friend, while some you’d want to spend the rest of your life with. The rest will appear, and then move on. And few would remember you, few would actually care. As for me, my doors are always open.

People are the ones who close it when they leave.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

Dave: Minsan, naiisip ko na wala talaga tayong ibang maasahan sa buhay natin kundi ang mga sarili natin.

Judy: Pa’no mo nasabi?

Dave: Alam mo ‘yun, kahit na sa dinami-dami ng kaibigan natin, sa mga taong nakikilala natin at nakakasalamuha natin, at the end of the day, mag-isa pa rin tayong natutulog sa gabi, mag-isang nag-iisip tungkol sa mga bagay-bagay like “May mga nagawa ba akong matino ngayong araw?”…mag-isa tayong nananaginip…’yung ganun?

Judy: What’s your point?

Dave: No point. Naisip ko lang. Alam mo ‘yun, after everything, after lahat ng ridiculous at outrageous na mga pangyayari sa buhay natin, it all ends in death—mag-isa tayo sa ataul, mag-isa tayo sa libingan…

Judy: Alam mo ‘yun sinasabi nila na “Hindi mo mapipili kung paano ka nabuhay dito sa mundo, pero mapipili mo kung paano ka mamamatay”?

Dave: I agree. Hindi naman kasi tayo ang pumipili sa mga magulang natin. In my case, hindi naman ako pwedeng humiling na “Sana sa ibang family na lang ko napunta. ‘Yung hindi broken at hindi mahirap.” Ang pwede ko lang gawin e tanggapin ‘yon at piliting huwag din mangyari sa pamilya kong bubuuin ‘yung nangyari sa’kin.

Judy: Tama. Pero ako mas iniisip ko na mabuhay na walang iniisip na bukas.

Alam mo ‘yun, hahayaan ko na lang dumating ang kung ano mang darating. Kasi, nandoon na ‘yun e. Kung bukas mananalo ako sa lotto, ngayon pa lang determined na ‘yun e. Andun na ‘yun sa future ko. Na-gets mo ba?

Dave: Hmm…to tell you the truth, hindi ko talaga ma-gets kung bakit mo pinaniniwalaan na lahat ng bagay ay nakatakda na.

Judy: …

Dave: Nakakalungkot isipin na kung minsan, sa totoo lang ha, mga sarili lang natin ang nakakaintindi sa mga sarili natin.

30

Bitter Kantahan

1. Singer May naging crush akong singer dati. Kumakanta siya sa school kapag may event. Kumakanta siya sa simbahan kapag pipila na para sa communion.

Minsan, ka-partner ko siya sa Field Mass Demo. Honor student siya. Minsan kasama ko siya sa mga contest. Masarap siya kausap, ayos din kasama.

Umamin ako sa kanya, and then hindi na niya ako pinansin.

Hanggang sa lumipat siya ng school. Hanggang sa naging BF niya ‘yung dati kong kapitbahay. Hanggang sa naging okay kami. Hanggang sa nagkakasabay na kami sa sasakyan papasok ngayong college. Hanggang sa nakapag-kwentuhan ulit kami ng masinsinan ngayong malalaki na at college na kami at may sarili na kaming mga buhay na malayo na sa nakaraan—sa mga alaalang inaalala ko ngayon.

Minsan, gusto ko siya maka-inuman. Para marinig ko siyang kumanta.

Bihira ako magsimba e.

2. Kanta ng Buhay mo “Ano ang kanta ng buhay mo?”

Minsang tinanong sa’kin ‘yan. Hindi ko na maalala kung sino, baka nga ako lang din ang nagtanong niyan sa sarili ko, o baka ‘yung imaginary friend ko (kung sino man sa kanila).

Hindi ko alam kung bakit, pero nahirapan akong sagutin ‘yan. Kung contestant ako sa quiz bee at ‘yan ang tanong, sure na ang pagkatalo ko. Hindi naman sa wala akong maisip na kanta, kundi may feeling kasi ako na wala pa talagang kanta na ubod ng lapit ang sense o tema sa buhay ko. At isa pa, hindi ko pa rin gaano naiintindihan ang buhay ko, kaya kung sakali mang mahanap ko na ang tamang kanta, e baka hindi ko rin maintindihan.

Kahit kalian, hindi ako nagkaroon ng obsession sa musika. Nag-self study ako para matugtog ang ilang basic chords sa gitara; hindi ako natutong kumanta (except kapag lasing). Mas gusto kong mag-soundtrip na lang, namnamin ang tunog, at makakuha ng isang bagay na maaari kong itago sa sarili ko at magamit sa buhay, in whatever little form or way. Hindi ko na iniisip ‘yung kanta ng buhay

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin ko o ano man. Minsan, hilig lang talaga nating mga tao tahiin ang mga bagaybagay para masabing may “meaning” ito. *** Dave: Ano’ng kanta ng buhay mo?

Judy: Hmm…’wag kang tatawa, ha?

Dave: Oo naman.

Judy: ‘Yung “Buko” ni Jireh Lim. Dave: WHAT?! Bakit naman ‘yun?

Judy: Kasi “Buhay ko” ‘di ba?

Dave: Nagjo-joke ka ba?

Judy: Hindi. Simple at direct kasi ‘yung kanta. Sa opinion ko kasi, lahat naman ng buhay ng tao ay direct. Ipapanganak tayo, and then mamamatay. At sa tingin ko rin ha, lahat ng buhay ng tao ay simple. Tayo lang ang pilit na nagpapaka-special, at pilit pinapa-bongga ang buhay, pero in the end, tao ka pa rin. Tao pa rin tayo.

32

Bitter How to Write a Love Letter (The Don Style)

NOTE #1: Hindi ako expert sa paggawa ng love letter kaya hindi ito reliable source kung gusto mo talagang sagutin ka ng nililigawan mo o ng taong gusto mo.

NOTE #2: Ito ay ang style ko at walang nangyari after kong mabigay ang love letter.

NOTE #3: Kung hindi ka sang-ayon sa mga sinulat ko, wala akong pakialam.

Know your purpose. Mahalaga ito. Kailangan naka-focus na sa isip mo na magbibigay ka ng sulat para sa isang taong mahalaga sa’yo. Dito rin kasi nagsisimula ang sincerity. Kung nagsusulat ka para sagutin ka niya, e hayop ka.

Kung magsusulat ka para mapansin ka niya, edi epal ka. Dapat magsulat ka kasi may gusto kang ipa-alam. Gusto mong malaman niya na mahalaga siya para sa’yo, at sa sobrang halaga niya e mage-effort ka pang gumawa ng love letter kahit pwede ka naman mag-like nalang ng profile picture niya at mag-comment ng “I love you” (‘yun e kung gusto mong ma-basted agad). Sulatan mo siya dahil gusto mo siyang sulatan. E paano kung ‘di kayo magkakilala? E di ang purpose mo ay kilalanin siya. Di ba?

Huwag kang matakot na baka maging baduy ka. Sa panahon ng social networking websites at text messaging, parang wala na ata sa uso ang pagsusulat ng love letter. Totoo ito, at baduy na nga ito sa karamihan ng kabataan ngayon. Pero alalahanin mo: sa pag-ibig, may kanya-kanya tayong style. At siyempre, dahil sa dinami-dami ng gasgas na style ng mga kalalakihan ngayon, ang hanap ng ilang mga babae e yung unique. AT DAPAT MAGING UNIQUE KA. At sa pagbibigay mo ng love letter, at some point, unique ka.

Kung sa tingin mo e okay na at wala ka nang problema, maari ka nang magsimulang gumawa ng love letter. Eto ang ilang writing tips: 

Gumamit ng bolpen. ‘Wag na ‘wag kang gagamit ng lapis. Bakit?

Mawawala ang sincerity. Baka isipin pa ng pagbibigyan mo na kaya lapis ang gamit mo e dahil mahilig kang magbura o bobo ka sa spelling. Dapat black ang tinta ng bolpen mo. Mas mukha kasing seryoso. Pwede ring blue o green, pero ‘wag red kasi magmumukha kang proofreader. ‘Wag din alternating colors. Ituring mong isang work of art ang sulat mo.

Tandaan mo rin na special ang taong pagibibigyan mo, kaya ‘wag mo

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin naman sana babuyin. Kung sa tingin mo mas magiging special ang love letter mo kung iba-ibang kulay ng tinta ang gamit mo, edi good luck. 

Pumili ng papel. Gaya nga ng sabi ko, ituring mong isang work of art ang paggawa ng love letter. Kumbaga e lagyan mo rin ng lalim. Pumili ka ng malinis na papel dahil repleksyon ito ng kalinisan ng intension mo, ng personalidad at pagkatao. Ikaw na bahala kung gagamit ka ng stationary, coupon bond, cartolina, foil ng sigarilyo, intermediate paper, yellow pad, o manila paper. Kung ang gusto mong papel e ‘yung lukot-lukot at sunog ang gilid, edi sana dineretso mo na ang pagsunog dito. Kung ang gusto mo e ‘yung may drawing ng cartoon characters o anime sa margin, baka isipin pa nun na isip-bata ka at gumagawa lang ng assignment sa GMRC. Depende pa ‘yun kung malalim mag-isip ang pagbibigyan mo.



Handwriting. Iiral ito kapag nagsusulat ka na. Print ang gamitin mo at ‘wag cursive. Hindi ito isang professional letter kaya ‘wag kang mag-cursive (unless cursive ka talaga magsulat), lalo na kung trying hard ka lang.

Actually, hindi naman mahalaga kung cursive o print. Mas madali lang kasi basahin kapag print. Kung ayos kang mag-lettering, mas ayos kung makakagawa ka ng sarili mong font. At least mas special, ‘di ba? At nga pala, huwag na huwag kang magsusulat ng love letter na tinayp mo lang sa MS Word. Magpakatao ka naman. At mas lalong ‘wag mong isusulat ang love letter mo sa jejenese, ‘yung wika ng mga Jejemon. Oo, pinaguusapan natin ang uniqueness, pero iba ang uniqueness sa ka-epalan.

Lalo mong pinakita na pagiging epal lang ang gusto mong ipakita sa pagbibigyan mo. Tandaan: sincerity and uniqueness ang dapat mong icombine habang nagsusulat ka. Nagsusulat ka—hindi nagte-text.



Language. Depende sa pagbibigyan mo, pero sa tingin ko English at Filipino lang ang maari mong gamitin (unless kaya mong magsulat sa ibang dialect within the country i.e Ilocano, Hiligaynon, etc.). Ngunit may problema rin sa dalawang ito. Halimbawa, kung pure Filipino ang gagamitin mo, edi ayos, lalo na kung bihasa ka sa balarila. Ang problema e magtutunog piyesa na pang Buwan ng Wika ang love letter mo, at siyempre, nakakahiya mang aminin, pero mas bihasa ang karamihan sa atin sa wikang banyaga (hindi naman lahat). Kung pure English naman, okay din, kasi may social construct na mukha kang intellectual at maaari siyang ma-impress sa’yo kahit hindi naman ‘yun ang intensyon mo. Ang problema nga lang e kapag sobrang malalim (high-brow shit) ang words mo, mawawalan ng gana ang pagbibigyan mo na basahin ang sulat mo.

Mas malaki ang problema kung mali-mali pa ang grammar mo. At ang 34

Bitter pinakamalaking problema e kung nakakaintindi ba siya ng English. Kaya ang dapat mong gawin? TagLish. Oo, napaka-unprofessional, pero trust me mas magiging kumportable ka ‘pag ginamit mo ito. Mas mae-express mo ang mga nararamdaman mo ‘pag ginamit mo ito. Hindi naman academic paper ang isusulat mo para mag-marunong ka sa English o Filipino. Mas maganda kasi kung tunog nakikipag-kwentuhan lang ang love letter mo. Maaaliw pa siya.

Kung sa tingin mo e all-set ka na, edi go, kunin mo na ang bolpen at papel, at magsulat na! a.

Wag mong lalagyan ng date, lalo na kung mahiyain ka (tulad ko) at hindi mo alam kung kailan mo ito maibibigay. Hindi na rin naman mahalaga kung kailan mo ito nagawa. Pakialam ba niya, ‘di ba? At hindi kasama sa hangarin mo na ipaalam na noong unang panahon mo pa siya balak bigyan ng love letter.

b.

Bating Panimula. Don’t tell me hindi mo alam kung ano ‘yan? Kung ganun, ‘wag ka nang magsulat. Kung alam mo ‘yan, eto ang dapat mong tandaan: magbigay respeto, lalo na kung mas matanda siya sa’yo. Huwag mo na gamitin ang “Dear”, pwede na ‘yung “Hi” or “For you” para magkaroon ng kakaibang tono ang sulat mo.

c.

Katawan ng Liham. Eto ang pinaka-exciting dahil ito na ‘yung pinakaimportanteng bahagi ng sulat mo. May kanya-kanyang style na tayo dito, pero ito siguro ang ilan sa mga tips na mabibigay ko: (1) Huwag mong sisimulan ito sa salitang “Kamusta ka?” Bakit? Dahil ang hangarin mo ay magsabi ng nararamdaman at hindi magtanong. (2) Kung ito ang una mong sulat sa kanya, i-kwento mo kung paano mo siya nakilala, at kung paano ka nahumaling sa kanya. Sabihin mo kung bakit mo siya sinusulatan. SABIHIN MO ANG LAHAT. ‘Wag kang matakot maging corny. Doon lalabas ang sanctity ng love letter mo, pati na rin ng feelings mo para sa kanya. (3) Importante bang mahaba?

Punyeta, kahit abutin ka ng sampung pahina ng coupon bond, basta nasabi mo ang lahat ng gusto mo, walangya, walang problema doon.

Pangit din kasi ‘yung sobrang ikli e. Pero kung sa ten sentences e nasabi mo na ang gusto mo, e wala rin namang problema. (4) Dapat mo bang sabihin na mahal mo siya? Oo. Pero mas maganda kung isusulat mo ito nang hindi ginagamit ang mga katagang “I love you”, “Mahal kita” o iba pang phrases na direct to the point. Say “I love you” in a creative way. (5) Diskarte. Lagi mong tatandaang dapat kang maging humble. Humble yet honest. Ano ang ibig sabihin nito? Yakapin

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin mo ang katangahan mo. Bakit? Dahil ‘yun ang ikakatuwa niya sa’yo.

Aminin mo na minsan ka nang nadapa dahil nakatitig ka lang sa kanya.

‘Yung mga ganun ba. Aminin mo ang lahat. d.

Bating Pangwakas. Kung sa tingin mo ay nasabi mo na ang lahat ng gusto mo, oras na para tapusin. Sa bating pangwakas, ‘wag mo nang gamitin ‘yung “Sincerely yours” o “Lovingly yours”. Maging creative.

Pwede siguro ‘yung “See you when I see you…” bahala ka na. At pagkatapos no’n, ilagay mo ang full name mo. Oo, Full Name. Tapos pirmahan mo.

e.

Ilagay mo ang sulat mo sa isang envelope. Ikaw na ang bahala kung ano ang design ng envelope o kung anong klaseng envelope. Dapat malinis. Repleksyon pa rin ito ng intensyon mo at pagkatao mo.

Ikaw na ang bahala kung paano ito ibibigay. Isa lang naman ang dapat mong tandaan: dapat ikaw ang magbigay. Huwag na huwag mong ipabibigay sa iba (gaya ng ginawa ko). Labanan ang hiya. Kapag tinanong niyang “Ano ‘to?” Agad kang tumalikod at tumakbo.

Huwag kang maghihintay ng reply. Huwag na huwag kang mage-expect na susulat din siya sa’yo. Blessing na kapag nag-thank you siya sa FB. Ang mahalag, nagawa mo ang goal mo—ang maipaalam sa kanya ang nararamdaman mo. Bonus na lang kung magreply siya. Ang saya ‘di ba?

Laging tandaan na ang pag-ibig ay hindi kundisyunal. Magmamahal ka lang, wala ka na dapat pang hilingin pa.

Pero minsan, masarap ang bonus.

36

Bitter Best Friend

Jericho Rivero oftentimes regards his roommate, Nathan Lopez as his best friend. He found Nathan’s company buoying his own life in the city, considering that he came from a not-so-wealthy family, relying only on an academic scholarship to finance his studies. His Aunt from overseas pays for his rent, and almost every time Nathan lends to him his gadgets, most especially the laptop which he uses to encode his term papers, or for playing games when he wants to burn some time. Every first week of the month, Nathan would receive his allowance from his parents, and Jericho knew what it meant: they’d spend a weekend night bar-hopping and pick-up girls whom they’d immediately bring to a hotel.

There was something in Nathan, and Jericho knew it was because of his fame in the university as heartthrob and one of the top players of the university’s basketball team, which Jericho always admired.

“I won’t be back until evening,” Nathan said to a half-asleep and halfawake Jericho, whose face was still buried on his pillow. Of course, how could Jericho forget? The basketball team has begun their all-day practice and training every Saturday.

“All right,” Jericho mumbled, all the while thinking about the fact that he would be alone in the room the whole day.

“Lock the door if you’ll leave,” Nathan reminded him. He was dressed in the team’s jersey from last season, with his brand new basketball shoes.

“Won’t leave,” Jericho said.

“Good. Take care of my stuff then,” Nathan replied. “You may use the laptop if you want to. I’ll leave the ipad too.” When he left, Jericho went back to sleep.

A gentle sunlight was pouring from the windows when Jericho woke up.

He went to the bathroom in their dorm-room, and splashed water to his face.

When he came back to the room, he had a long, good look at Nathan’s nook in the room, and slightly shook his head. Nathan’s bed wasn’t fixed, his gadgets and earphones scattered, with pieces of clothing and underwear enclosed beneath his bed or under his pillow.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Jericho fixed the bedsheet, placed Nathan’s iPad and PSP on the bedside table with the laptop, sorted the scattered clothing placing the dirty ones on Nathan’s empty humper and the clean ones in Nathan’s dresser. Inside, there was also a half-empty pack of Lucky Strike which he immediately pocketed.

When he was done with the sorting and the cleaning, Jericho looked at what he has done. He knew Nathan would be happy.

He didn’t feel like eating, so he just lit some of the cigarettes, his head out of the window of the room, tapping ashes at the street, while looking at the variety of people passing by below. When he felt he had enough nicotine in his system, he went to the bathroom and took a shower, to remove the cigarette smell.

When he was done, he opened Nathan’s dresser, and searched for some clean underwear, boxer shorts, and an old basketball jersey with “Lopez” printed on the back. The clothes felt light and comfy in his body.

Jericho felt hungry so he stepped out and went to a carinderia and ate a light lunch: some ginisang ampalaya and a cup of rice, downed it all with a bottle of Sparkle. He smoked two cigarettes on the way back to the dormitory, while eyeing the people who were walking with him, hoping they were someone he knew, so that he may invite them to his room, just so he’d have company.

Returning to the room, he sat on Nathan’s bed, toyed with the PSP for a while, and then later played Temple Run 2 and Dumb Ways to Die on the iPad. When he got bored of it, he opened Nathan’s laptop.

What immediately greeted Jericho upon plugging the laptop and unfolding the screen was that Nathan left her Facebook account logged in. He smiled just by imagining how careless Nathan could be. He read Nathan’s notifications, some were about Likes on photos of him and his girlfriend, as well as some comment replies. He hovered the mouse over the Log-Out link, but he received a message.

“Why aren’t you calling?” It was Liz, Nathan’s girlfriend.

Jericho thought about what to say before he pressed the keys. “I’ve been busy. Basketball stuff.”

Liz took time replying. Jericho browsed her Timeline, looking at her selfie photos, some with Nathan, and some pictures were also taken with Jericho. He wondered if Nathan have done to her the stuff he does to the girls they pick-up.

He smiled for a second, imagining Liz’s moans.

38

Bitter “I know you’re avoiding me. You know that I know the schedule of your basketball practice. Don’t lie to me.” Liz typed back.

“I’m not. You know I love you. Things have been difficult these days. I needed space.” Jericho smiled. He phrased it exactly the way Nathan would put it.

“You never called me. Never even messaged me here in Facebook. That was for a week. What were you expecting, that I’d be fine afterwards?”

“Go on. Be mad. I’ve told you my reason. If you don’t believe me, then don’t. I don’t want to waste time trying to convince your or anything.”

A long while passed. Jericho knew Liz, and he knew that she easily gives up on their arguments. He proved it when she and Nathan argued in front of him.

Nathan walked away, and Liz ran after him.

“I’m sorry.” He smiled and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry too.” “Let’s just talk later, okay? I’ll call you.”

“Ok.” She said that her big sister’s going to use the PC so she logged out.

Jericho logged-out Nathan’s Facebook and logged-in his own. There was nothing much to it so he signed out after a few minutes and played Skyrim, and played his character, where he slayed a few puny orcs on the way to the main town to meet his bride. They had a romantic conversation.

After a while, he decided to watch a movie, but for some reason he forgot the folder where Nathan kept his downloaded movie files. It wasn’t under “movies” or “downloads”. What was that? he tried remembering until he didn’t want to watch anything anymore, but just kept browsing on folders, viewing some word documents, pictures of Nathan with other girls, with his friends, with Liz, until he stumbled on the folder “Natnat private”. He double-clicked on it and saw some video files with numbers as file names.

He opened one, and the smiling face of Liz welcomed him on the screen.

She was on a bed, and she was naked. Nathan appeared from the left side of the screen, and he was naked also.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Realizing what file he had found, Jericho, in a hyped pace, took the laptop and lay on Nathan’s bed, where he stripped from the waist down. The sight of Liz’s breasts set his mind ablaze. Slowly he stroked his hard-on.

On climax, he lost control and squirted everything on Nathan’s bed. Some got on the laptop.

40

Bitter

Judy: Sabi ni Murakami, ang pinaka-purpose raw nating mga tao dito sa mundo ay i-trace ang mga connection natin sa mundo, sa universe, sa mga tao.

Dahil sa mga connections na ito, mate-trace natin ‘yung tunay nating meaning.

Dave: Anong libro ni Murakami ‘yan?

Judy: Kafka on the Shore ata. Ewan, nalimutan ko na. Baka nga hindi rin kay Murakami ‘yan e. Baka nga dalawang quote na ‘yun, napagsama ko lang.

Sa dinami-dami kasi ng nabasa kong libro, napaghahalo-halo ko na.

Dave: You mean napagkone-konekta mo na.

Judy: Minsan ganun tayong mga tao e, ‘no? We always want to be connected.

‘Yung pag-abot mo ng bayad sa jeep, pagbili ng shampoo sa tindahan, pagpulot sa panyo nung taong naglalakad sa unahan mo…naiintindihan mo ba?

Dave: Uh…medyo. Sa tingin ko, parang ganito e: gusto natin lagi tayong connected. Kung hindi man, naghahanap tayo ng koneksyon: sa ibang tao, sa mga bagay sa paligid natin…kasi parang doon tayo kumukuha ng baterya para mabuhay araw-araw.

Judy: …

Dave: Natahimik ka?

Judy: Wala. Naisip ko lang: paano kung ‘yung distance nating mga tao sa isa’t isa, ‘yung empty space na pumapagitan sa ating lahat, ang mismong mga koneksyon natin?

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Hindi ko na siya iniisip

Hindi ko na siya iniisip kasi matagal ko na siyang kinalimutan. Diyos ko, ilang taon na kaya ang nakalipas. May sariling buhay na siya, at may sariling buhay na rin ako. Masaya na siya ngayon, at masaya na rin ako.

Kapag ganitong walang tigil ang ulan, mas lalo ko siyang hindi naiisip.

Hindi ko nga naiisip ‘yung araw na naligo kami sa ulan at unang beses ko siyang nabigyan ng halik sa labi. Hindi ko na nga naiisip ‘yung lasa ng labi niya na may kahalong tubig ulan. Oo, maaring noong moment na ‘yun e ang cute-cute tignan, pero ngayon na hindi ko na nga ‘yon naiisip e balewala na lang sa’kin.

Sa tagal naming hindi nagkita, halos nalimutan ko na nga ang mukha niya.

Hindi na ako dinadalaw nito sa gabi. Hindi ko na naiisip ‘yung buhok niya na hanggang leeg, ‘yung matangos niyang ilong, ‘yung nunal sa likod ng tenga niya na hinahalikan ko kapag magkasama kami sa kwarto, ‘yung amoy ng buhok niya, ‘yung matataba niyang mga daliri, ‘yung kamay niyang kahit nakalapat e kayangkayang balutin ng mga kamay ko—lahat ‘yon, kinalimutan ko na. ‘Yung boses niya kapag galit siya at isisigaw niya ‘yung buo kong pangalan e isang tugtugin na old-school na sa buhay ko.

Hindi ko na rin iniisip ‘yung sayaw namin noong prom. Hindi ko na nga maalala ‘yung violet na gown na suot-suot niya tsaka ‘yung tiara na ubod ng kinang na sabi niya e sa lola pa niya. Hindi ko na nga maalala ‘yung “If Ever You’re In My Arms Again” na tumutugtog nung sumayaw kami at nagpalitan kami ng “Mahal kita” e. Hindi ko na iniisip ‘yung time na tinawagan niya ako ng disoras ng gabi para mag-inom sa bahay nila dahil umuwi ‘yung parents niya sa probinsya, at siya lang ang tao sa kanila. First time naming natulog sa iisang kama noong gabing ‘yon.

Ngayon, gaya ng sinabi ko, kinalimutan ko na ang lahat. Kung kinaya niya ako balewalain at sumama sa ibang lalake, edi dapat kayanin ko na rin na wala siya. At kinakaya ko naman. Usually talaga, ‘yung mga first time ang masasakit.

Pero okay na: naka-move on na ako. Naka-galaw na ako.

Hindi ko na iniisip na siya lang ang naging girlfriend ko. So what? It’s not a big thing.

Hindi ko na iniisip na sana iniisip niya ako. Kung nasaan man siya ngayon.

42

Bitter Facebook Romance

In my early days in college, before I became a member of a writers association and managed to be involved in their writing workshops, I was first a writer in a Facebook page (actually, I liked to call myself, then, as a “struggling writer at home and internet”) who let writers share their works. I managed to earn a little fame, crafting stories whose themes range from eroticism to your hack-and-slash love affair. For that, I earned little attention from some people in Facebook whom I only met there, and it caused the number of the friends I have in that website to boost up. There, I met this wonderful girl whom I will call Aomame. The reason I wish to call her that, I really don’t know. When I think about her now, that name pops up in my head. Plus, she was both wonderful and beautiful—and Aomame is the Japanese for “Green Peas”, the same name that writer Haruki Murakami used for one of the protagonists in his magnum opus “1Q84”.

Aomame chatted me on Facebook, telling me that she liked my stories, even though what I wrote back then were trying-hard humour laced with eroticism (for some effect that, even up to this point in time, I couldn’t explain myself) as well as dark stories of dark people doing dark things in this dark world (Read: Pessimist Literature. I couldn’ help but laugh whenever I say it). The thing was, whenever some girl sends a PM to me, I immediately check her profile page. So I saw her, viewed some of her pictures, and right now, I could say that I got attracted by the way she smiles in her pictures. It wasn’t love yet, really. And then, I asked for her number, which she gave, willingly, I guess.

So, we texted. We started talking about our school life, and then she started relaying to me her life at the province, her family, her dreams and troubles, and she always looked forward for what I would write next. Every time I’m online, and she happens to be online too, we’d chat. She tagged me to some stuff she wrote, which I read and honestly gave my comments. I encouraged her to write more, but in fact, when I met her, even though I haven’t seen her before, my desire to write ablazed if not hotter, then enough to scorch even the deepest bowels of hell! That was how it felt like. Even now, while recalling those things and putting them into words, I feel perplexed; like those moments I spent in front of the PC in the corner Internet Shop would leap out of the laptop right now, hover in the air, where I could go ahead and touch it.

During those days, when I try to meditate by myself if what I really felt for her was indeed love, my mind tried to somehow kick me. Is love truly a concept that is utterly universal that it seeps not only in this physical, tangible world, but

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin also within the contours of the closest thing we humans have to hyperrealism (while awake that is)—the internet—and on Facebook? Would pictures and comments and words and likes, smiley faces, calls in the night—suffice for me to say that “Yes! This is love!”?

In the end, I told her about it. And she openly accepted what I have to say, although I know that she too wasn’t sure about it. If the internet—specifically, through Facebook—establishes human connections, then I think trust is the hardest to establish. Yet I told her that she does not need to believe me; for I don’t care. I feel what I feel.

One time, I couldn’t remember exactly when, but she was on some tour, and she called me at night and sang to me the song “My Valentine”. It was something I could not place, like “What the hell is happening? What does that mean?” You see, with everything that happened after I told her I fell for her, she did these sweet things; which made me question the nature of what was already going on.

Maybe it didn’t mean something. And I was just the one who tried to give meaning to those things, which eventually led for me to assume that maybe she liked me too, that maybe someday we’d meet, which was the only thing lacking, and then she’d tell me that she thinks I’m the right one for him. Because, when we were still texting and calling and chatting, I’d always run this movie of sorts in my head where we’d stay-up late talking, or (worse) we got married at some church high up in the mountains of the Sierra Madre. But of course, nothing of the sort happened. We never met in person. We both got busy in our studies that we seldom text, chat or call.

When my first book went out to the market simultaneous to the MIBF at SMX Convention in the Mall of Asia, I told her about it and invited her. When she agreed to come, I was optimistic. Which was strange really, because even though I expect for better things to come, a bulk of my brain still remains chained to the immovable post of pessimism. It rained during the signing, and my time at the booth was over, and she hasn’t arrived yet. I was preparing to leave when finally she texted me. We agreed for a spot to meet, and I was elated actually.

Before the date of my launching was her birthday and I thought of asking her to grab some coffee, and have our first-ever face to face conversation, or maybe grab a drink or two at a nearby bar, where I could finally tell her I love her in person, so that she may erase the notion that when I say “I love you” it was just SMS. Don’t get me wrong though. She did come. With her boyfriend.

44

Bitter Oh, I didn’t know she had one. She never spoke about it. But just the same, I gave her a copy of my book with an autograph, smiled at her and told her how happy I am that we’ve finally met each other in person. I smiled as well on her boyfriend, and almost told him that he’s a lucky man, but something kept my mouth tied. I gave one long look on her eyes, before I turned away and left.

We seldom texted after that. Sometimes, when I’m drunk, I send her drunken text messages, to which, if ever she’s reading this, I’m apologizing for.

Don’t get me wrong, those weren’t angry text messages, but just messages which I sort of wanted to say to her.

Like what I said, it’s just me putting meaning to some things, thinking they meant something, but at the end of the day, the sun will set and the darkness of the night arrives.

As of this writing, I couldn’t say if the pain still lingers somewhere in the chasms of my heart. Pain? Was there really pain? Perhaps, I haven’t yet accepted that everything that happened between us meant nothing, even though after meeting her for the first time I proved that it really meant nothing and that to her I’m just a bloody-hell who-gives-a-damn textmate/chatmate. What I couldn’t place is that for me, everything felt so real even though her words were only a bunch of letters appearing on the screen. And when we finally met, there was reality, holding hands with her.

Sometimes, I think the internet and these social networking websites are the bridges we use to connect with people other than those within our circle, to establish relationships and connections, hence, meaning. Some fall in love, some become enemies, etc.

But at the end of the day, they are nothing except that—bridges.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Kolehiyalas

Bago ako pumasok ng college, sabi sa’kin ng mga tropa kong college na, na mas marami raw akong makikilalang babae ‘pag tuntong ko sa kolehiyo. Medyo skeptic pa ako noong una, kasi nga ‘yun yung panahon na iniiwasan ko nang mag-expect ng kung anu-ano (oo na, pessimist na kung pessimist. So what?).

Hindi ko naman inakala na sobrang dami pala.

Nag-aral ako sa isang teacher institution sa Quiapo, Manila. At of course, ang degree program na kinuha ko ay vertical sa pagiging isang guro o propesor balang araw. At noong first year, sa block section namin, aba, mas marami nga ang mga babae! At ‘yung ibang mga lalakeng kaklase ko, mga beki!

So ngayon, gusto ko lang i-kwento ‘yung dalawang kolehiyalang nakilala ko. Actually, mga naging crush ko. As usual, ako nanaman ang nagbigay ng meaning sa mga bagay-bagay, and while writing this I’m starting to think na baka ‘yon nga purpose ko rito sa mundo. Baka nga. *** Ang una kong ike-kwento ay papangalanan kong Venus. Second year in college na ako nang makilala ko siya, magkaklase at magkatabi kami sa isang major subject. Hindi ko alam ang pangalan niya noong una, at noong malaman ko ito e nagka-problema pa ako kung paano ipo-pronounce ang surname niya.

Nagkausap kami, nakapag-kwentuhan, you know all that stuff about getting to know each other, and kahit papaano e nakapag-perform naman kami very well doon sa subject namin. Doon ko lang siya naging crush, tapos nili-link na kami ng mga kaklase namin na medyo kinatakot ko kasi nga baka ma-ilang si Venus. For a short while, inakala ko nga na nailang siya kasi ‘di niya ako kinausap (this was so Bitter vol. 1 again), pero hindi naman, fortunately.

Ginawan ko pa siya ng tula dati. Acrostic Poem, ‘yung bawat line e attuned sa letters ng pangalan—buong pangalan—niya, pero ginaya ko ‘yung style ni Edgar Allan Poe na ‘yung first letter ng pangalan ni Venus ay first letter din doon sa first line ng poem; and then ‘yung second letter ng pangalan ay second letter din doon sa second line ng poem—so on and so forth. Binigay ko ito sa kanya, and then nag-thank you siya, and hindi ko alam kung binasa niya ba ‘yun seriously or as a friendly gesture lang.

After ilang semesters, crush ko pa rin siya at naging magkaklase pa kami sa iba pang mga subjects. Kapag nagkakausap kami, sinasadya ko talaga na 46

Bitter magbitaw ng pick-up lines at pagmamasdan ko ang reaction niya: kung tuluyan na ba niya akong iiwasan or kung iti-treat niya as parang wala lang. Gladly, tinatawa lang naman niya ang lahat.

Sa totoo lang, nagkaroon na ako ng plans para i-pursue siya, sa buong pag-aakala na single siya all those years na magkakilala kami. Timing na timing naman kasi kung kailan balak ko na talagang seryosohin ang da-moves e saka ko pa nalaman na since pala nung nagkakilala kami e in-a-relationship siya.

Kinwento pa niya sakin na matagal na pala sila.

Natawa na lang ako. Sabi ko, sayang. Pero okay lang, ganun talaga e.

Kaya pala tinatawa niya lang ang lahat, at hindi na siya affected or whatever…kasi nga, wala nang bisa sa kanya. May nakatira na sa puso niya.

Sige na…aaminin ko na. Sana maging bakante na ang kwarto. *** I would like to tell the story of this next college girl in English.

For some reason, up to this point in time, she remains implanted in my brain, like a tumour, and that when I try to reflect on myself in times of my existential trance, her name echoes to my ears.

I would like to call her Sakura—cherry blossoms—for some reason that I would like to keep to myself. I met her first before Venus. Sakura was a year ahead from me, and was considered as the best in her major. I first laid eyes on her when she peeked into our Zoology class, and immediately wanted to know her name. I added her on Facebook, and later asked things about her to some of my classmates who happened to know her as well. She became my crush afterward, and it became like a scene in a movie: I, for example, walking in the corridor, and she was there, walking toward me, and I wouldn’t look at her straight, but instead glance at her from the corner of my eye, and giggle to myself (weird, right? Ever heard of a boy—a straight boy—who actually giggled?). One time, I was at the school canteen eating some hotdog-in-a-bun, with my lips dripping with ketchup, and she passed by and looked at me. I actually felt embarrassed!

I planned to give to her a love letter on Valentine’s Day. A day before, February 13, I wrote the letter. But I got worried that she wouldn’t understand a thing in it because of my poor handwriting. So I asked a friend of mine to copy what I’ve written on pieces of coupon bond dipped in coffee (for aesthetic purposes). The next day, I didn’t want to give to Sakura the letter. Not if I’m the

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin one who’d hand it to her. I was attacked by bashfulness; I felt like if I’d hand her the letter, and she didn’t accept it, I’d immediately shatter into pieces, right there in front of her. So I asked some friends of mine (who happened to be Sakura’s co-majors) to give it to her.

The letter contains my “feelings” for her, how it appeared all of a sudden in me. I told her about how she barely knows I exist, and how I barely knew her, but still has forever to know her, things like that. Words from the heart. I even gave her my number (in the letter) and hoped that she would text me, but she didn’t.

When I received news that she already have the letter, I sat in the classroom, praying that she won’t put it in the trash.

Sakura did not throw it in the trash, of course. Instead, I received a thankyou message from her in Facebook. And everything seemed to be going well!

Once, after a particular event in school, I found myself in the same jeep with her. She wanted to pay for my fare, but I immediately pulled money from my pocket and paid for the two of us. I wanted to say something while we were sitting together in that jeep, but I couldn’t think of anything. That was the worse mental block ever.

I wrote some blogs about her like “Eukaryotic Amylase”, etc. I wrote her an acrostic poem (similar to what I did for Venus) and tagged it to her in Facebook. I wrote a longer, and more post-modernist (sorry for the term) poem for her, some stories (which she no longer read; these I kept to myself), until I decided to be serious and ask her if I could court her or something.

I tried relaying that to her in a second letter. This time, I summoned all courage to personally give it to her. I wrote it by myself, with no help from anyone, thereby stressing more effort in writing well. I was staring at her eyes when I handed her the letter, which she took. Back in Facebook, she thanked me, and that to be fair, she would also answer with a letter! I was ecstatic! My elation was on its metaphysical apex!

So, I waited.

I attended Mr. Eros Atalia’s book launching at UST, and planned to give to Sakura a copy of Mr. Atalia’s book with his autograph, for her birthday. I even asked Mr. Atalia to jot “Mahal ka ni Don” on the first page with his signature. I gave it to Sakura, to which she was thankful.

48

Bitter There was even a rumor that she has a boyfriend. That was why during those days I sort of wondered if I do have a chance on her. Pessimisn striked again.

I received her letter one sunny day when I was idle and settled on the blue benches near the canteen. She was the one who handed it to me, to my surprise and utter happiness. It was in a violet envelope, with cut-out letters “D-O-N”.

Sakura graduated with flying colors. I didn’t attend the ceremony because of financial problems. We continued to communicate; I even congratulated her, and wished her luck for the licensure examinations.

As of this writing, she is teaching in a high school, somewhere in Mandaluyong, I think. We still chat sometimes.

Oh, and the letter? I never read it. I never opened it. I told her about it, and she told me that it was crazy of me not to do so. She even told me that she could just say it to me at that moment, but I told her, no.

I kept Sakura’s letter somewhere, but as of this writing, I no longer knew where it was.

Sometimes I feel angry at myself. Sometimes I feel it was better that way.

Sometimes, I wish things became different.

I wrote this on August 24, 2013. I gave Sakura the second letter last August 23, 2011.

We never had a picture together.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

Dave: Alam mo noong high school pa ako, gustong-gusto kong makasali sa mga rally. Parang kakaiba kasi tignan noon. Pero ngayong college na ako, ngayong nakikita ko na lang sa bintana ang mga nagra-rally, na-realize ko na ayoko nang sumali.

Judy: Pwede ba ‘wag ‘yan ang pag-usapan natin? Every time na ganyan ang topic, I feel out-of-place. Oo, may pinaglalaban sila at may adhikain sila, pero…sa dinami-dami ng naganap na rally, may naidulot ba? Nagkandapaos-paos na nga sila pero may nagbago ba? Sus. Dave: E anong gusto mong pag-usapan natin? Ayaw mo naman pag-usapan natin ‘yung tungkol sa ATIN. Judy: Tungkol sa ATIN? Dave: Ikaw at ako. Ano na ba tayo? I mean, pang-ilang beses na ba tayong lumabas? Sabi mo kanina, minahal mo ako. Kahit pa sabihin mong ten years ago na ‘yun, minahal—nagmahalan—pa rin tayo. So, ano na nga?

Ano ba ‘tong ginagawa natin? Naguguluhan na rin ako.

Judy: ITO tayo. Itong nag-uusap, itong lumalabas.

Dave: Ano nga ito?

Judy: …Masaya tayo. ‘Yun tayo. Hindi ka ba masaya?

Dave: Ha? Masaya naman kaso— Judy: Hindi ka masaya. Kasi kung masaya ka, bakit may hinahanap ka pa? Bakit gusto mo pa na magbago pa kung ano tayo ngayon kung masaya ka na nga talaga?

50

Bitter Tubig

1. Hito Sabi ng Mama ko, ipinaglihi raw niya ako sa hito. Madalas niya itong i-kwento tuwing may mga bisita kami: mga kaibigan o kaklase ko, at nitong lately, kay Bing, ang girlfriend ko.

Araw-araw, hito lang daw ang gusto niyang nakahain. Kahit almusal pa nga. Naging suki nga raw si Papa, noong nabubuhay pa ito at hindi pa nawawala sa gitna ng karagatan, nung kalapit na palengke na nag-titinda ng hito, na ninong ko rin sa binyag, si Mang Carding. Halos maubusan na rin si Papa ng iba’t ibang luto na pwede sa hito, para lamang may variety sa kinakain ni Mama. Pero kadalasan naman e prito lang ang request ni Mama.

Hindi naman ako naiinis sa kwentong ito ni Mama. Ang kinabi-bwisit ko lang e paulit-ulit na lang, at lagi na lang sa tuwing may bisita ako sa bahay. Sa tuwing magsimula na kasing mag-kwento si Mama, nakararamdam ako ng konting pagkahiya at kaunting pagdududa: ‘yung pakiramdam na may halong pagmamalabis na ang kwento ni Mama at hindi lahat ay nangyaring talaga.

“Peter,” d’yan lagi natatapos ang kwento ni Mama, sa pagbanggit kung paano niya naisip ibigay sa akin ang pangalan ko. Katoliko rin si Mama. Banal daw ang pangalan ko. Kay Peter daw ipinamana ni Hesus ang kanyang iglesia.

Si Peter daw ang unang Santo Papa. Minsan, ipinapaalala ko rin kay Mama na si Peter ay ipinako sa krus na naka-patiwarik. Tatawa si Mama kapag sinasabi ko ‘yon, tapos sasambit ng: “Si Peter ay mangigisda. Si Peter ay pinalakad ni Hesus sa dagat. Pero sa gitna nito, nawalan siya ng pananampalataya at lumubog.” At lagi’t lagi, pagkatapos pakawalan ni Mama ang mga salitang ‘yun, titingin sa akin ang sinumang bisita, at ngingiti—isang kakaibang ngiti—para bang nagbago ang tingin nila sa akin.

“I like your mother,” bulong ni Bing sa akin. Katatapos lang namin kumain, at pinagtutulungan namin ang hugasin habang si Mama naman ay nasa sala at pinapanood na ang mga drama sa TV. Ngumiti lang ako kay Bing. “I’m sorry na narinig mo pa ang kwento na ‘yun.”

“Ha? Bakit naman, ang cute kaya.”

“Siguro noon. Pero ngayon, parang hindi na ata.”

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin “Nakakatuwa lang kasi. I mean, of everything na pwede niya i-kwento sa’kin, na girlfriend mo, ang naisip pa niya e ‘yung pagbubuntis niya sa’yo,” paliwanag ni Bing.

“Buti na nga lang at hindi ako nagmukhang hito,” sabi ko.

Natawa siya sabay wisik ng tubig sa’kin. “Hindi ka mukhang hito, Peter.

Pero hindi ka rin marunong lumangoy.”

Nagkatawanan kami.

2. Langoy Oo, hindi ako marunong lumangoy. May pasensya akong pag-aralan at himayhimayin ang mga pangyayari sa kasaysayan, pero kahit noong bata pa ako, hindi ako nagkaroon ng pasensya para matutong lumangoy. Hindi ako tinuruan ni Mama. Sa probinsya naman, kapag magbabakasyon kami, walang ibang ginawa ang mga Tito at pinsan kong ang lulupit lumangoy kundi itulak ako sa tubig, at tawanan ako. Kapag mga outing naman ng mga tropa, madalas e nagiging tagabantay na lang ako ng gamit sa cottage. Kapag pipilitin akong isama sa pool, nagbababad lang ako, at mahigpit ang kapit sa mga bakal na railings.

Isang “must” daw ang pag-aaral para lumangoy, katulad ng pag-inom ng walong basong tubig kada araw. Pero hindi naman ako nakatira sa isang isla para kailanganing lumangoy araw-araw. Kung ba-biyahe man ako papunta sa malayong lugar, mas prefer ko ang eroplano.

“Pa’no kung someday mapatira ka sa lugar na binabaha? Aba, kailangan matuto ka nang lumangoy,” sabi ni Bing, habang nagyoyosi kami sa may garahe.

Siya, Marlboro Lights. Ang sa’kin, E-Cigarette.

Lagi na lang iisip si Bing ng pangontra sa akin. Pero hindi naman kami umaabot sa tuluyang argumento. Natutuwa na lang ako kapag ginaganoon niya ako.

“Wala ka naman kasing dapat ikatakot sa paglangoy, Peter e,” dagdag pa ni Bing. Inakap ko siya. Sabay napa-ubo ako.

“Masaya ako at nagustuhan mo si Mama,” sabi ko, para ma-iba na ang pinag-uusapan. Napa-ubo akong muli. Isang malakas at tuyong ubo.

“O, ‘di pa rin nawawala ang ubo mo? Magpa-check up ka na kaya?”

52

Bitter “May iniinom na ako,” sabi ko. Humithit ako ng usok. Manamis-namis.

Sabay buga.

Mali si Bing. Hindi ako takot lumangoy. Takot ako sa tubig. Takot at galit.

3. Sirena Sabi sa akin ni Tito Lando, kapatid ni Mama, hindi raw totoo ang mga sirena na nakikita ko sa TV o ‘yung mga nababasa sa libro o komiks. Hindi sila magaganda at magagaling kumanta. May matatalas na mga ngipin daw ang mga sirena, at hindi lang sila namamalagi sa dagat. Basta may tubig, andun sila. Sa ilog, sa sapa, sa swimming pool, kahit sa timba habang naliligo, o sa baha.

“Ang mga sirena ay dating grupo ng mga taong nakatira sa isla.

Sinasamba nila si Bathala nang walang halong pagdududa. Kapalit nito, biniyayaan sila ng masaganang huli sa tuwing mangingisda, lakas sa pakikidigma laban sa mga kaaway na tribo mula sa ibang isla, at higit sa lahat, angking talino upang mapagmasdan at maintindihan ang misteryo ng mundo at ng sansinukob na kinalalagyan nito.” Nakasakay kami sa bankang de-motor ni Tito Lando nang i-kwento niya sa aming magpipinsan iyon. Dahil isa itong panibagong kwento ukol sa matagal nang alamat na naririnig ko rin paminsanminsan kay Mama, bukas na bukas ang tenga ko sa pakikinig.

“Hanggang sa nagpakita ang masamang Anino sa Pangulo ng isla. Inakit siya nito na pagkakalooban siya ng kapangyarihan upang makita ang mga kamalasang hinaharap, kapalit ang kaluluwa niya at ng mga taong sinasakupan niya. May sakit noon ang Pangulo, kasabay pa nito ng isang iringan mula sa isang isla na di hamak na mas malakas kaysa sa kanya. Sa tingin ng Pangulo, kapag nakikita niya ang hinaharap, maaari niyang maiwasan at agad-agarang mabigyang lunas ang anumang sakunang paparating. Pumayag ang Pangulo sa alok ng masamang Anino. Nalaman agad ni Bathala ang nangyari. ‘Anak ko,’ ika niya, ‘Bakit mo ako tinalikuran?’ Imbes na humingi ng tawad ang Pangulo, may lakas ng loob pa itong sabihin na “Ibinigay mo sa amin ang lahat, ngunit hindi mo kami binigyan ng kapangyarihan!” Huminto si Tito, kasabay ng paghinto ng bangka niya. Sa paaligid, asul na langit at maningning na tubig lamang ang nakita ko.

“Tapos po?” tanong ko.

“Nagalit siyempre si Bathala. Kaya, inangat niya ang dagat, at ginamit itong kumot upang balutin ang buong isla,” sagot ni Tito.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Habang inaalala ko ngayon ang kwento niya tungkol sa mga sirena, natatakot ako. Kasi baka may nalimutan akong importante sa kwento niya. Hindi na nga ako sigurado kung tama ba ang pagkakaalala ko sa kwento niya. Basta’t ang pinakanaalala ko, wala kaming nahuli maski na isang isda sa dagat noong araw na ‘yon. Pero, nakakita ako ng sirena.

4. Kalamidad Nagsimulang umulan habang nanonood kami ni Bing, kasabay ni Mama, ng My Husband’s Lover. Hindi naman ako totoong nanonood, kundi sinasamahan ko lang si Mama. Hindi pa rin tapos ang bagyo. Ilang araw nang walang tigil ang ulan. Wala namang tropical storm signal warning, kaso ayon sa PAGASA, ‘yung bagyo e nakikisayaw sa hanging Habagat, kaya buhos ng buhos ang ulan.

Huminto nga ng saglit kanina kaya nasundo ko si Bing, kaso eto nama’t bumalik.

Pumayag si Mama na dito na matulog si Bing sa bahay. Nagtext na rin si Bing sa kapatid niyang panganay sa Valenzuela kung saan siya tumutuloy na kinabukasan na siya uuwi.

“Ilang araw na ‘yan a,” narinig kong sinabi ni Mama. Napansin na niya ang ubo ko. “Nagpapaulan ka ba?” Pero alam kong alam niya ang “maaaring” dahilan ng ubo ko. Alam ni Mama na malakas akong manigarilyo, pero ni-minsan ay hindi siya nagsalita ukol dito. Sisitahin lang niya ako, halimbawa e “Ang baho mo anak amoy sigarilyo ka” pero hindi niya ako pagbabawalan. Nang tinamad na ako kabibili ng stick o kaha, may tropa akong inalok ako ng E-cigarette, o Vape para sa mga susyal, na mas nagustuhan ko kesa sa normal na sigarilyo.

Nang matapos na ang mga telenovelang sinusubaybayan ni Mama, pumunta na siya sa kwarto niya. Malakas pa rin ang ulan. Maingay sa bubong.

Pumapasok na ang lamig ng paligid sa mga bintana ng bahay. Nanood pa kami ni Bing ng balita.

“Tignan mo, sino naman kaya ang makakatulog ng maayos kung ganyan ang mapapanood mo?” sabi bigla ni Bing.

Tumingin ako sa screen, pero parang wala ako sa sarili. Parang hindi ko naririnig ang tunog ng TV. Pinagmasdan ko lamang ang mga imaheng lumalabas, at parang pinipilit itong intindihin.

“Mga baranggay na binaha, mga taong nalunod, nawala, at magsisimulang muli; at ‘yang pakshet na nagnakaw ng pera para sa tao!”

Umiling-iling si Bing. Sumayaw-sayaw ang buhok niya habang ginagawa ito.

54

Bitter “Maswerte na tayo kung sumikat ang araw bukas.” Napansin niya siguro na wala akong imik kaya napatingin siya sa akin. “May problema ba?”

Umubo muna ko bago sumagot. “Wala. Inaantok lang siguro ako.”

“Tulog na tayo?” Matipid ang ngiti niya sa akin.

Alam na namin kung ano ang mangyayari.

5. Lubog Hinila ako ng sirena mula sa bangkang de-motor ni Tito Lando. Mabilis—hindi nga napansin ng mga pinsan ko o ni Tito Lando mismo, ang akala nila e tumalon ako o nahulog dahil sa anumang dahilan. Malagkit at mahihigpit na mga kamay ang nakakapit sa braso ko at dinala ako sa ilalim ng dagat—madilim at mabato.

Hindi ito ‘yung puro makikinang na korales at mga makukulay na isda’t halamang-dagat. Hindi ako makawala sa kapit niya—kung sino man siya— basta’t ang natatandaan ko e matining ang boses niya, parang isang lasenggo na umaawit.

“Lulubog sa tubig ang Papa mo,” sabi nito. Noong una, hindi ko ito naunawaan. Pero ilang taon matapos ang insidenteng ‘yon ay malalaman ko.

Hindi ko raw ito pwedeng sabihin kahit kanino man, ayon na nga sa utos ng sirena. Kundi, matutulad daw ako sa kanya—mga nilalang na nakakulong sa baul ng dagat, naghahanap ng mabibiktima, at kadalasan nga nilang mga biktima ay ang mga taong may kamalasan sa hinaharap.

Nagising na lang ako, nasa kama na ako, at mabigat na mabigat ang pakiramdam ko. Nakapa-ikot sa akin si Mama, si Tito Lando, at ang mga pinsan ko. Huwag na huwag ko na raw uulitin na tumalon sa dagat. Lalo na raw at hindi ako marunong lumangoy. Umiiyak si Mama.

Lumubog ang barkong sinasakyan ni Papa sa gitna ng karagatang Pasipiko. Hanggang sa kasalukuyan, hindi pa rin ito nakikita, at marami pa sa mga nakasakay roon, mga turista, mga trabahador sa barko, ay nawawala pa.

May ilan na na-rescue pa sa pagtutulungan ng iba’t ibang tao, pero hindi maswerteng napabilang sa kanila si Papa.

6. Litaw

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin “I’m sorry.”

As usual, ‘yun nanaman ang sinabi ni Bing. Sa ilang buwan naming pagsasama, walang nangyari sa amin. Ilang beses na kaming natulog sa iisang kama, pero hanggang hawak lang kami.

At siyempre, isa lang ang maaari kong isagot: “Okay.” Ayoko kasi pilitin.

Parang mas maganda kasi kung dalawa naming gusto. Pero minsan, nahihirapan na rin akong magtiis.

Binaba na niya ang T-shirt niya, sabay yakap sa akin habang nakahiga.

“Galit ka ba?”

“Medyo,” sabi ko.

“Hindi naman sa hindi ko gusto,” paliwanag ni Bing. “Pero—” “Hayaan mo na,” hinarap ko siya at hinalikan ko siya. Sa bintana, kitangkita sa kalapit na post ng ilaw ang mga guhit ng ulan. Makati pa rin ang lalamunan ko.

“Naalala ko ‘yung sinabi sa’yo ni Mama mo kanina,” sabi ni Bing, nakayakap pa rin siya sa akin. “Yung tungkol kay Peter. Pinalakad siya ni Hesus sa tubig, tapos bigla siyang nawalan ng pananampalataya, kasi natatakot siya, kaya ayun lumubog siya.”

Napatingin ako sa kanya. “Ano’ng ibig mong sabihin?”

“Wala naman. Naisip ko lang na lahat naman tayo nakapaglalakad ng matiwasay sa tubig e. Pero kapag nandyan na ‘yung baha, andyan na ‘yung alon, bagyo, o tsunami—nawawala na tayo sa sarili, lumulubog na tayo.”

“Nakakatawa ka,” lang ang nasabi ko. Ubo pa rin ako ng ubo. Parang gusto na ng katawan ko na iluwa ko ang baga ko. “Pero gusto ko ‘yang sinabi mo. Lulubog, pero in the end, lilitaw. Ako nakalubog na ako—” “Ang tanong e, kailan ka lilitaw?” sabi ni Bing.

“Kapag hindi mo na ako binitin,” biro ko.

“Heh! Hito!”

Natawa na lang ako.

56

Bitter 7. Ubo “Peter, may tubig ka sa baga,” ang statement ng doktor. “Iyan ang nakumpirma natin sa mga tests. Pero don’t worry, early stage pa. May treatment pa. May mga bagay akong ipagbabawal sa’yo, plus medications.”

“Okay po,” sagot ko.

Hindi naman ako nag-aalala. Sa ngayon. Hindi pa kasi bumabalik ang sirena. Kahit noong nagdaang ulan at baha. Wala pa siya sa ngayon. Minsan, kapag nagrereklamo si Mama na may masama sa katawan niya, hindi ako naliligo. Hindi ako nagpapakabasa. Hindi ako umiiyak.

Hindi ko rin alam kung babalik pa nga ba ito. Minsan, iniiwasan ko ang bintana kapag umuulan.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin The Times I have become Forever Alone (From someone’s Diary)

I remember Ranne, she was the first. I never held her hand, never kissed her lips. I never looked into her eyes. We just exchanged text messages, our “I love yous” written in the trending abbrecviations in text messaging. Our theme song was “I Don’t Love You” by My Chemical Romance. I believed there was love. Maybe she did too.

And then there was Sorrow, a texting-clan-mate. She told me she had a boyfriend in the past, and they lasted for a year, even though they never met in person, not once. Their electronic love affair was over when we met. She couldn’t move on. She asked me if I could help her forget. I refused to become a bandaid. We never saw each other, only in text messages, yet I could feel a sense of reality, a somewhat tangible connection, that perhaps, at some point there, she loved me and I loved her.

Until Rose Butterfly came along. We met on Facebook, I asked for her number, and then we conversed in that intangible world of words and emoticons.

Sometimes, she’d call me late in the evening, and we’d just chat. Sometimes she’d call when I’m drinking with my friends, which made me tell her, while drunk, that I at some point love her. We became together, but after a few days, much like the world where we dwell in, we fell apart.

Things falling apart have been nature’s way of telling us that nothing is really permanent. Even life ends in death. Text messaging is over when credits have been depleted, or the Unlitxt has ended. That is why whenever I see people trying to fix things that have already fallen apart, I get this awful feeling of loathing and pity. Sometimes, even envy. *** Some people have questioned why I have written nothing that is socially relevant.

You know, something about the government, the dirty politics, the corrupt system, things like that. And all I say to them is that their idea of “socially relevant”, which they affirm as “social truths qua social realities” are boxed within their ideological standards.

I believe that change begins from within; from yourself. That is why, my stories, my characters, are always in this sort of soul-searching trance, of finding

58

Bitter themselves in the world while living in the heart of the society that blocks them from attaining it. And isn’t that “socially relevant”?

Man is the heart of the society. So if man does not find conformity within himself, then how will he make society a better place? That is what I want to write about. And by it, I know I have done something to achieve a much better change!

(Actually, dapat may mura dito e. Kaso hindi na lang.) *** Boyfriend/Girlfriend? Sino’ng may kailangan no’n? Ang sarap-sarap maging single. Walang text ng text sa’yo, walang tatawag sa’yo ng “Baby” o “Pukyutan”, hindi ka obligado magpa-load, makaka-gora ka pa kahit saan with your friends, at walang mag-aalala kung nakauwi ka na ba o baka sumusuka ka na sa may Roxas Boulevard, at wala ring kokontra kung may ka-one night stand ka. Malaya ka pa!

Masarap maging single. Lalo na kapag bonding moment niyo ng mga tropa, at lahat sila kasama mga gf/bf nila, at ikaw wala kang kasama, tapos naiwan na ‘yung tagay sa gitna dahil lahat sila naghahalikan sa tapat mo. Okay lang, dahil alam mo naman na ngayon lang nila ito gusto, pero kapag hindi sila magkakasama, aba, sinusumpa rin nila!

Masarap maging single. Mararanasan mo ‘yung thrill na nilalamig ka sa loob ng sinehan. ‘Yung sagot mo ang pagkain mo. At ang the best: habang kumakain ka, nakatingin ka sa harap mo at ang makikita mo ay empty na silya.

Lagyan mo ng salamin para kunwari may kasama ka talaga.

Masarap maging single. Maaga kang nakakatulog. Wala kang pino-post sa FB na mga screenshot ng Skype. Pfft. Kalokohan ‘yon! Early to bed, early to rise, makes a person grow healthy, wealthy, and wise! Walang babati sa’yo ng good morning kundi ang nanay mo, at sa gabi, ang maggu-good night lang sa’yo e ‘yung tropa mo na nag-group message ng isang quote about love tapos may “Good night” sa dulo.

Forever alone? So what? Masarap naman.

Masaya?

Teka, pag-iisipan ko.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Zafra

Naging kaklase ko siya sa isang minor, pero feeling major, na subject. Inalam ko ang pangalan niya, and then in-add ko siya sa Facebook. Itatago ko na lang siya sa pangalang “Zafra”, after sa writer na si Jessica Zafra.

Tuwing pupunta ako ng library, makikita ko siya, kasama ‘yung mga tropa niya, nagbabasa sila, nagchi-chikahan, habang ako e nagbabasa pero at the same time, tinitignan at ino-obserbahan siya.

Hanggang ngayon, hindi ko pa rin maintindihan kung bakit naging interesado ako sa kanya. Nakakita siguro ako ng something interesting, something na hindi ko nakita sa iba.

Gusto ko siyang makilala, pero inabot pa ng susunod na semester bago ito nangyari.

Matagal kong pinag-isipan ang move na gagawin ko. Sabi ko sa sarili ko, ayaw ko na gumawa ng love letter, dahil kung may pag-gagawan man ako e gusto ko ‘yung sure na mamahalin na rin ako <huhu>. Kaya ang naisip kong gawin ay bigyan siya ng short story.

So, sinulat ko ang kwento. Short story in English. Tungkol sa dalawang taong pinag-uusapan ang birthday party na pinuntahan nila, hanggang sa mauwi ang pag-uusap nila tungkol sa “past” nilang dalawa. “Gray Skies” ang title.

Inabangan ko si Zafra sa library para mabigay ang kwento. Para akong assassin na nag-aabang sa target. At noong papalabas na siya sa library, nakakuha ako ng tiempo. Malapit na ang Christmas vacation noon.

“Um, excuse me,” umpisa ko. Lumingon siya sa akin. “You’re *some text missing*, right?” Tumango lang siya. Nagulat siguro. Kinuha ko ‘yung 3-page coupon bond na short story at inabot ito sa kanya. “This is for you.” Sabay talikod ako at balik sa pwesto ko sa library.

Parang narinig ko pa ang “Thank you” niya, pero hindi ko alam kung ilusyon na lamang ‘yon.

Lumipas ang ilang araw bago ako nagkaroon ng lakas ng loob na hingin ang number niya sa Facebook. Nag-send ako sa kanya ng message.

Kinabukasan, nag-reply siya. Sabi niya na gusto na nga rin daw niya ako makausap at makilala, at ibigay ang number niya, simula noong binigay ko ‘yung 60

Bitter story sa kanya. Nagulat at natuwa raw siya. Kaso, nawalan ng chance na makausap niya ako kasi nga nag-christmas vacation na.

Binigay niya ang number niya! Haha. At pareho pa kami ng network! So much win!

So, habang Christmas vacation, tinext ko siya. Tinext ko siya noong umaga, noong hapon, noong gabi. Walang reply. Inisip ko na lang na bakasyon nga, so siguro walang pang-load. Tinawagan ko siya noong umaga, noong hapon, at noong gabi. Cannot be reached. Umabot pa sa point na ni-loadan ko ‘yung number niya. Pero wala pa rin.

Nag-message ako sa FB niya. Sabi ko, baka mali ‘yung number na binigay niya. Sabi ko, tinatawagan ko, tine-text ko pero walang nangyayari.

Sinabi naman niya na hindi lang daw naka-insert ‘yung sim niya, kaya nagbigay siya ng panibagong number, this time, other network na. Ako naman si Gagong umaasa na interesadong-interesado nga siya sa’kin, bumili ng sim sa tropa ko para lamang matawagan siya. Wala pa rin. Cannot be reached pa rin.

Doon ako nagduda. Hindi kaya mga pekeng number lang ang binibigay niya sa akin dahil ang totoo e iritang-irita siya sa akin?

So, tinigilan ko na.

Hanggang sa isang araw, siya ang humingi sa number ko. Binigay ko naman. Hinintay ko ang mga text niya or whatever, pero wala. Noong bumalik na ang pasok, nagkasalubong kami sa corridor at hiningi niya ulit ang number ko.

Ibigay ko kaya e peke? Naisip ko. Pero hindi kasi ako gano’n e.

Nagka-text at call kami. Nakapag-usap rin in person, nagkwento siya about her past love lives, etc. Nakapag-date rin kami sa Bookay-Ukay sa may U.P Village, nakapag-palitan ng books, at iba pa.

Natanong ko rin sa kanya kung bakit niya ako binigyan ng pekeng number. Sabi ko, kung ayaw niya ibigay, sana diniretso na lang niya ako. Ang sabi naman niya, ayaw daw niya akong paasahin.

Mga rason talagang out-of-context! Diyos ko!

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin To the Raymond Carver of this Haruki Murakami

People tend to touch our lives. And just when they have touched us the most, to the point the point that our actions, our line of thought, our perspective towards things, are reflected in the midst of their influence, they disappear. And once that happens, all we can do is to recall, as well as somewhat measure, in whatever simple way, just how they have touched us—and if it was worth it.

I was a freshman when I first met him. I thought he was strict, and I know for a fact that he immediately took me as one of those Braggadoccios littered all over our college. The way I sit and my manner of speaking tend to make people mistake me as someone who exudes overconfidence, when most of the time I rarely participate in class nor talk to anyone.

I took my preliminary examinations in his subject where I got the highest score. His innovative style in test-making, especially in stating the directions; he used high-brow language (the subject was English by the way) which I encircled, for some reason, to which he responded with comments. The last item involves a dialectical exploration (THESIS-ANTITHESIS-SYNTHESIS) of what different writers say about the ephemerality of beauty and just below my synthesis, he wrote: “Very good! You really are blessed with a beautiful mind!” For me, that was the start. I began to admire him as a teacher.

I believe he was surprised to find that his first impression of me never lasted the whole semester. When he asked us to write our research paper, I believe he was also astounded with our group’s topic (The Jejemon Phenomenon) and the design my group used (I had no idea back then; but now, it was a mixed design—an amalgamation of Quantitative and Qualitative research designs). That first course I had him as my professor was the first course where I got an A minus. He tried persuading me to major in English rather than in Social Science, but what could I do? The shouts of the latter were more powerful.

The following semester, he wasn’t my professor in any course. My career as a writer was escalating then, and I was attempting to write a novel which I immediately gave to him for consultation. Up to this point in time, I never really knew if he ever read it. All he ever told me was that I should have majored in English. Sometimes, I’d stop by in one of his classes and I’d ask him all sorts of questions about literature, about creative writing and poetics, and he’d give me his academic opinions and heartfelt advices. Meanwhile, I also poked into his 62

Bitter past and learned just how brilliant he was as a student in the same college I was in, and how much he truly was a Corinthian of excellence!

He became my professor again in another course. A course where he has long since gained reputation. I never had a single absence in that course, even though the schedule’s at night. I was the president of that class, and did well.

Our-sort-of-friendship blossomed as well. That was the year my first book got published, and I gave him a free copy of it. Sometimes, when he heads back to the faculty room, we’d chat about Derrida’s Deconstruction, Schlovsky’s Defamiliarization, etc. We even talked about his masteral thesis. Once, he offered to help me because I was then a struggling student (financially speaking).

None happened, but no matter. It’s not like I’m his son or anything. My true parents oftentimes jump ship, and I guess I became used to living without them. I got an A minus on this course.

Once again, he became my professor in one of the courses I enrolled in that were exclusive for English majors. I am a Social Science major, but I leapt out of my curriculum to enroll in this course because of my passion for literature which he (my Raymond Carver) told me to keep ablaze. His teaching approaches and strategies fueled me in a way that I even used them on my own teaching demonstrations that the ones who observed me queried that I talk and move just like him (sadly, though, I will never get his looks!). And being with English majors, I was surprised when he trusted me, and let me present my literary paper in a public colloquium. I was overwhelmed. After the colloquium, I thanked him. I got a flat A on that course—the last course I had with him.

At present, he is out of my college and went to a university that’s been standing since the colonial period. A place where, you could say, parts of the foundations of Philippine literature thrives.

Just like many people, he left and moved on.

I feel sad to think that I viewed myself as someone dear to him. What with all the attention he gave me, the words we shared—most probably just a teacher’s kindness to his student. It’s funny that I always think of myself as special to others, especially if we have been together for quite some time, and had even pinches of moments shared. Things, most of the time, don’t work that way. Fear embraces me, because after all that has happened, I know he may not remember me. I do not even known if he knows how much he influenced me— my writings, my goal as a future teacher—I doubt he knows that I am writing about him now.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Sometimes, we admire people so much that we tend to forget that they are not perfect. That no one, in the entire observable universe, will ever be perfect. And that at the end of the day, these people we admired and looked up to are still, and forever will be, humans. Humans with greatness and flaws.

What does that mean, being great and being flawed? It was morality that dictated such terms. I am an existentialist—but in the end, it all boils down to one thing: reason and acceptance. Reason in the sense that it’s all a matter of choice; and acceptance in the sense that—that is what’s supposed to happen because of the choice. Some people, at least in our perspective, tends to fall sometimes. IN OUR PERSPECTIVE. But rest assured, there remains a kick in my heart, reminding me that much of the things I learned in life at present, about writing, literature and existentialism, I learned from him.

To end this, let me conclude it the same way I closed my literary paper during the literary colloquium he made me present in: “No matter how far they go, people can never be anything but to be themselves.”—Haruki Murakami, Birthday Girl.

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Bitter

Judy: Kung ako ang tatanungin mo, sa tingin ko dapat sirain ang sistema para muli itong buuin, pero this time, mas maayos na.

Dave: You mean, kaya tayo naghiwalay noon e para magsimula muli tayo, pero this time, mas maayos?

Judy: Ang epal mo. Lagi mo na lang sinisingit ‘yan.

Dave: Kasi lagi mong iniiwasan.

Judy: …

Dave: Oh, ano?

Judy: Naguguluhan pa kasi ako.

Dave: Wala namang magulo e. Sige nga, kung ayaw mo na talaga sa’kin, bakit magkasama tayo ngayon? Bakit mo pa rin ako kino-contact at yayayain sa kung saan-saan?

Judy: Kung ayaw mo, e di sana ‘di ka sumama! Pwedeng-pwede ka naman tumanggi a.

Dave: Kasi mahal pa rin kita. At sa tuwing kino-contact mo ako, umaasa ako na makakapagsimula tayong muli. Na babalik ang dati.

Judy: Hindi mo naman ako mahal e. Sarili mo lang ang mahal mo. Ang gusto mo, kung ano ang nararamdaman mo, iyon lang ang masunod. Hindi mo iniisip ang nararamdaman ko.

Dave: …

Judy: O, kitam? ‘Yan ang totoong ikaw. Wala kang inisip kundi damdamin mo lang.

Dave: Well, sorry kung ganyan ang iniisip mo. Pero iniiwasan mo ang mga tanong ko at mga statement ko. Sabihin mo nga sa’kin, isang diretsong sagot para matapos na ‘to, mahal mo pa ba ako, o hindi na?

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Naiinis ako

Naiinis ako sa mga taong nakabukaka kapag nakaupo sa jeep. Akala mo kung sinong mayaman. Akala mo solo niya ‘yung upuan. Mas lalo akong nabi-bwisit doon sa mga kumakain sa loob ng air-conditioned na van. Oo, alam ko, gutom kayo and all that, pero hindi niyo ba naiisip ‘yung ibang pasahero na nagugutom din? (Di bale kung namimigay kayo ‘di ba?) Plus, ang hirap-hirap kayang kumain sa loob ng sasakyan, lalo na kapag ‘yung driver e grabe pumreno at magpatakbo ng sasakyan. Umaalog ng umaalog ang mundo mo, nakakahilo at nakakasuka.

Naiinis rin ako dun sa mga pasahero na ubod ng lakas magkwentuhan sa jeep at van, lalo na kung gabi, akala mo sila lang ang pasahero. Walang ka-kwentakwenta naman ‘yung pinag-uusapan nila. Kung hindi man, puro pagbibida lang sa sarili ang mga sinasabi nila, tipong pati bagong panti’t bra na nabili nila sa tiangge e pinagmamalaki pa.

Naiinis ako sa mga taong ang hilig pumapel. Epal ng epal sa mga bagaybagay kahit alam naman ng lahat na bobo siya at wala talagang kwenta. Naiinis ako sa mga taong ubod ng galing mag-bida ng sarili, na magaling siya sa ganito, sa ganyan, na siya ang top 1 sa klase, na tumira siya sa Japan, pero pagdating naman sa realidad, dito sa lupa, e wala naman palang binatbat. Kunwari pa kayang-kaya niya kami, pero in reality architect lang siya na nagtatayo ng pundasyon para sa monument niya ng kayabangan para tingalain ng madla at makitang henyo pero puro utot lang naman ang dinidighay at dighay lamang ang inuutot.

Naiinis ako dun sa mga taong kung makaasta e akala mo henyo na alam ang lahat, at kahit anong kumbinsi mo sa kanila, ikaw na talagang mas reliable, e paiiralin pa rin ang kayabangan at hindi makikinig sa’yo, kaya ang ending e kapag nabigo siya, mas lalo siyang tanga pero dahil nga sa ubod niya ng yabang, ‘yung tipong almusal, tanghalian at hapunan niya ay kayabangan, hindi siya tatablan, sa halip e mas lalo lang siyang lalala. Ang masama pa, hindi pa magte-thank you sa’yo, at hindi niya aaminin ang pagkakamali niya. Hindi ko alam kung bakit may mga taong ganyan.

Naiinis ako sa mga babaeng iiyak nang iiyak sa isang lalake, ‘yung tipong isumpa ng isumpa ang ex niyang hitad. ‘Yung matapos mong makinig sa mga problema niya sa buhay, matapos niyang dantayan at basain ng luha ang balikat mo, ang ending e hindi ka niya kayang mahalin, kesyo raw kailangan niya muna mag-move on, tapos after a short while malalaman mong may bago nang BF. At kapag nagka-problema nanaman, makikita ka nanaman niya.

66

Bitter Naiinis ako sa mga taong magpapagawa sa akin ng tula, magpapatulong sa mga projects at kung anu-ano, pero pagkatapos e kalilimutan na ako. Maalala na lang nila akong muli kapag may ipapagawa ulit silang bago. Mas kinaiinis ko pa â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;yung mga babaeng magpapagawa ng kung ano, at feeling nila na kaya ko ginagawa â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;yon e dahil sa maganda at chicks sila. Sabagay, tama naman. Kasi kaya nga sila magaganda e dahil sa â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;yon lang ang meron sila at wala nang iba.

Naiinis ako sa mga babaeng may anak na nga pero landi pa rin ng landi ng ibang lalake. Naiinis ako sa mga babaeng mga lalake lang ang sinisisi sa lahat. Wala ka bang utak para gamitin? Ang puso at libog pinapakbo lang din ng utak.

Naiinis ako sa mga babeng hindi na natuto.

Naiinis ako sa mga matatanda na walang kinatandaan. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Yung tipong hinahambing pa rin nila ang panahon nila sa kasalukuyan. Laging binibida ang panahon nila, na ito raw ay mas maganda at mas may kwenta kaysa sa present generation. Ito ang dahilan kung bakit hindi ko nakahiligang makipag-inuman sa ganitong mga matatanda. Tingin nila sa sarili nila e punong-puno sila ng wisdom sa mga bagay-bagay dahil sa mga experiences nila. I understand those experiences, but never compare those to the current generation! The old will just be a mirror; the new will be the reflection! Kung pangit ang current generation, tiyak na may kinalaman ito sa mga pangit na pinagmulan!

Naiinis ako sa sarili ko kasi alam kong mas maraming bagay pa sana akong nagawa dati. May mga salita akong nasabi noon na hindi ko na mababawi pa. May mga ginawa ako noon na sana magawa kong muli kaso malalayo na sila sa akin at mababalikan ko na lamang sila sa mga alaala.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Ang Manananggal

August 26, 2013 nang malaman ko ang balita.

Sa gitna ng sigawan, mga iwinawagayway na bandila, at mga signboard ng pagkasuklam, sa ilalim ng makakapal na ulap sa Luneta, isang cellphone ang nag-ring.

Akin.

“Hello?” sabi ko, habang humahakbang papalayo mula sa nagsisigawang madla.

Hindi ko pa gaanong marinig ang boses ni Dave, ang kababata ko. May sinasabi siya, ngunit mahina ang tinig niya, parang sabay niyang ayaw at gustong sabihin ang kung ano mang dahilan ng pagtawag niya.

Lumayo pa ako sa madla, paulit-ulit binibigkas ang “Hello? Hello?” hanggang sa umabot ako malapit sa bantayog ni Rizal.

“Edwin, naririnig mo na ba ‘ko?”

“Oo p’re, bakit ka napatawag?” tanong ko.

“Si Ella…” basag ang boses ni Dave. “Pare, si Ella, nasagasaan kaninang ‘maga.”

Tinig na lamang ni Dave ang naiwan sa mga tainga ko. Lumabo pati ang ingay ng paligid. Para akong nasa ilalim ng dagat.

“Ano?” lang ang lumabas sa mga nanginginig kong mga labi.

“Hit and run…” dagdag pa ni Dave. Kahit hindi ko siya nakikita, ramdam ko ang pagtangis niya. Humihikbi na siya. “Pare, hindi kinaya ni Ella…”

August 26, 2013—huling taon ko sa kolehiyo. Ga-graduate na ako at makakauwi ng probinsya matapos ang ilang taong pamamalagi dito sa lungsod.

Matutupad ko na sana ang pangako ko kay Ella, na susunduin ko siya at isasama na siya sa akin paalis ng probinsya—ang kulungan na matagal na rin niyang gustong matakasan. ***

68

Bitter Sina Dave at Ella ay mga matatalik kong kaibigan—iyon ay noong nasa probinsya pa kaming tatlo at laging magkakasama, magkakausap, nagkwekwentuhan, walang pakialam sa mundo, basta’t maliligaya kaming namumuhay.

Nag-iba lang naman ang lahat nang sabihin ko sa kanila noong graduation namin noong high-school na sa Maynila ako mag-aaral.

“Bakit?” ang tanong nilang dalawa.

“Buo na ang desisyon ko,” sagot ko. “Gusto ko namang makita ang mundo sa labas.”

“Nasa mundo ka rin naman ngayon a,” kontra ni Dave.

“Nagsawa na kasi ako, p’re,” sabi ko sa kanya. “Dito na tayo ipinanganak, pero, dito rin ba tayo mamamatay?”

Hindi na umimik si Dave. Si Ella, walang sinasabi.

Matagal-tagal din bago ko naipaliwanag sa kanila ang kabuuan ng desisyon ko. Sinabi ko na paikot-ikot na lamang ang buhay namin sa probinsya.

Ipinaliwanag ko na nais kong makita ang sarili ko na namumuhay sa siyudad, sa lugar ng matatayog na gusali at maiingay na sasakyan.

Nagpaalam ako sa kanilang dalawa bago ako sumakay ng jeep papunta sa may bayan kung nasan ang mga bus na magdadala sa akin sa lungsod.

Niyakap ako ni Ella. “Iiwan mo na ako,” bulong niya.

“Wala akong iiwan,” sagot ko. “Mayroon lamang akong hahanapin.”

“Magkikita pa ba tayo?”

“Oo,” sabi ko. “Babalik ako at susunduin kita.”

Biglang umiling si Ella. “Hindi ka na babalik. Alam ko.”

Hindi ko alam kung bakit nasabi niya iyon.

“Babalik ka, pero pagbalik mo ako mismo e wala na rin dito.”

At sa tagal ng panahon ko sa lungsod, ni isang mensahe ng pangangamusta, sa text man o sa Facebook, wala akong nakuha mula kay Ella.

Si Dave lang ang minsang nangangamusta, pero alam ko ginagawa na lamang niya iyon para wala akong masabi, kahit na sa totoo lang ay alam kong malaki rin ang tampo niya nang dahil sa desiyon kong umalis.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Hindi ko alam kung naintindihan ba talaga nila ang pinili kong landas, o tulad ng tao, na tulad ko rin, ay pansariling mga kagustuhan lang din ang iniisip nila—ko—namin. Ayaw nila akong umalis, ngunit gusto kong umalis.

Ngunit nang makarating na ako sa lungsod, nang magawa ko na ang gusto kong gawin, nalaman kong hindi pala buo ang desisyon ko. Sa kung saan mang parte ng puso ko, naiwan ang isang Ella: nagtaka ako na siya lang at hindi kasama si Dave, mga alaala ni Ella na sumisipa sa akin at ginigising ako tuwing umaga Ngayong nalaman ko ang pagpanaw niya, lalong lumakas ang sipa.

Malakas ang sipa, ngunit hindi masakit. Tanda lamang na oras na para bumalik at humingi ng tawad na hindi ako nakabalik. At sabihin sa kanya na “Oo nga, Ella, tama ka. Hindi na nga ako nakabalik.” *** Si Ella ay mahilig magsulat. Minsan, ipinapabasa niya sa amin ni Dave ang mga nasulat niyang tula o kwento. Iyon siguro ang pinaka-hobby niya, ang pagsusulat. Kapag susunduin namin siya ni Dave sa bahay nila upang yayain na maglibot, minsan maaabutan pa namin siyang nagsusulat.

Puro tungkol sa kalikasan ang mga tula ni Ella: tungkol sa punong nakikisayaw sa hangin, sa paru-parong ginto na ibig kunin ng mga tao, sa mga kabute at damo na inaapak-apakan lang, mga ganoong tema. Hindi siya nagsusulat ng tungkol sa pag-ibig dahil sabi niya, hindi pa raw siya umiibig kahit kanino man.

Inibig ko si Ella, pero ni minsan ay hindi ko ito sinabi. Hindi ko rin alam, kahit kalkalin ko ang anumang alaala ang mayroon ako sa kanya, kung nakaramdam din ba siya ng kahit kaunting pag-ibig o pagtingin sa akin. Kung iisipin nga ngayon, natatawa ako kasi kahit sobrang tagal ng pinagsamahan namin, naisip kong hindi ko rin pala siya ganoon kakilala. *** Minsan, nang-magka-dengue si Ella, dinalaw namin siya ni Dave sa ospital.

Bumili kami ng dalandan at lanzones at dinala ito sa ospital. Doon ikinuwento sa amin ni Ella ang kagustuhan niyang isulat ang isang kwento tungkol sa isang manananggal na umibig sa isang lalake. Hindi raw niya ito maisulat kasi nga nasa ospital. Iyon sana ang unang kwento niya na tungkol sa pag-ibig.

“Kapag nagtuloy-tuloy na ang paggaling ko, isusulat ko na,” sabi niya.

70

Bitter “Manananggal? Bakit naman manananggal?” tanong ni Dave.

“Kasi napansin ko, ang mga manananggal sa pelikula at ibang kwento, e ‘yung laging kinatatakutan at laging masama. Gusto ko namang ibahin: isang manananggal na may mabuting puso, na nagkagusto sa isang lalake.”

“Parang ‘yung kwento na rin ‘yan nung bampira na nagkagusto sa isang babae,” kontra ko. Ganito kami ni Dave: minsan nagtatambal kami upang asarin si Ella.

“E bampira ‘yon, sa’kin manananggal—may pakpak, kalahati lang ang katawan, at may kapangyarihan.”

“Kapangyarihan?”

“Kaya niyang pasukin ang panaginip nino man, at ibahin ito,” sabi ni Ella, habang ngumunguya ng lanzones. *** Tuwing umaga, nagtitinda ng kakanin ang manananggal. Kapag nasa katawang tao siya, isa siyang marikit na dalaga. Laging bumabaling ang tingin sa kanya ng iba pang lalake. Ngunit may iisang lalake lamang sa puso niya: at iyon ay si Jose, ang anak ng haciendero na si Don Victor, ang tanging lalake na kahit kailan ay hindi siya pinapansin. Ganoon ang mayayaman kung minsan.

Kapag lumubog na ang araw, pupunta sa may sagingan ang dalaga upang mag-anyong manananggal. Araw-araw, buong buhay niya, kailangan niyang magpahid ng langis, tiisin ang hapdi ng napupunit na balat at laman, at humanap ng tao o hayop upang maibsan ang kumakalam na sikmura. Kailangan niya pati tiisin ang panghabambuhay na prosekusyon mula sa mga taong mortal—mga nilalang na hindi niya ginawan ng kasalanan kahit kailan. Hindi siya nambibiktima ng sanggol, o nga tao kundi mga hayop lamang.

Kapag nakakain na siya, ng kalabaw o aso o ano mang hayop ang madali niyang makuha, lilipad na siya patungo sa bintana ng kwarto ng iniibig niyang si Jose, at panonoorin lamang itong matulog. Naka-ngiti siyang tititig sa perpekto nitong mukha: mga matang saradong-sarado, mga labi na tikom na gusto niyang hagkan, mga bisig na sa tingin pa lamang ay alam na niyang sa mga yakap nito ay hindi na siya lalamigin.

Ayaw gamitin ng manananggal hangga’t maari ang kanyang kapangyarihang pasukin ang panaginip nito. Talagang tunay ang pag-ibig niya, sapagka’t ayaw niyang pagsamantalahan si Jose.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Ilang araw pa ang lumipas, patuloy ang manananggal sa kanyang pagtitig sa natutulog na si Jose, patuloy rin ang pangarap niya na makikita siya nito at iibigin rin, tatanggapin ang kanyang tunay na anyo.

Ngunit isang araw, nabalita sa buong barrio na ikakasal na si Jose sa isang babaeng anak rin ng isang haciendero mula naman sa ibang bayan.

Dito na naisip ng manananggal na oras na upang gamitin ang kapangyarihan niya. Ngayon lang naman naisip niya. Ipararamdam ko lamang sa kanya ang nilalaman ng puso ko, sabi niya sa sarili. Wala akong gagawing masama. Hindi ko siya aagawin. Magpaparamdam lamang ako.

Noong gabing iyon, pinasok niya ang panaginip ni Jose.

Nasa gitna ng kagubatan si Jose at hinahabol ng dalawang gutom na gutom at naglalaway na lobo. Hingal na hingal si Jose, para bang bibigay na ano mang oras ang katawan niya. Ngunit alam niya na kailangan niyang bilisan, kailangan hindi siya mahabol ng mga lobo na sabik na sabik sa kanyang dugo at laman.

Ngunit kamalas-malasan, may bato siyang naapakan, dahilan upang madapa siya at sumadsad ang kanyang mukha sa magaspang na lupa.

Nakatambad ngayon sa kanya ang dalawang lobo. Kumikinang sa liwanag ng buwan ang matatalas na mga pangil ng mga ito. Pumikit si Jose; alam niyang katapusan na nang lahat.

Bigla-bigla ay may kung anong sumugod mula sa langit—parang paniki, ngunit napaka-laki para sa isang paniki! Sinugod nito ang mga lobo, at kitang-kita ni Jose ginawang paglapa nito sa laman ng mga lobo. Narinig niya ang mga ungol ng mga lobo, para bang nagmamakaawa pa ang ito kay Jose na iligtas sila mula sa higanteng paniki na ito. Doon naalala ni Jose ang mga kwento sa kanya ng lola niya: mga babaeng nahahati ang katawan sa tuwing gabi at kumakain ng tao at hayop—mga manananggal.

Humarap sa kanya ang manananggal. Pumapagaspas ang malalaki nitong mga pakpak—hindi sila tulad ng mga pakpak ng ibon na nakaayang tignan—ngunit mga pakpak na payat, walang balahibo, nangungutay at manipis.

Duguan ang ngiti na iniharap sa kanya ng manananggal.

“Ligtas ka na,” sabi nito. “Huwag ka nang matakot.”

“Sino ka?” sigaw ni Jose. “Layuan mo ako.”

72

Bitter “Matagal na kitang iniibig, Jose,” sagot ng manananggal. Lumutang papalapit ang manananggal. Kitang-kita nito ang takot sa mukha ni Jose.

“Layuan mo ako!” sigaw nito. “Lumayo ka sa’kin!”

“Niligtas ko ang buhay mo,” sabi ng manananggal. “Hindi ako masama.

Hindi kita sasaktan.”

“Lumayo ka sabi!” sigaw pa rin ni Jose. Nanginginig na ito at tinatakpan na mga mukha.

Lubos ang pagtataka ng manananggal. Umalis siya sa panaginip ni Jose.

Muli niyang tinitigan ang mukha nito habang natutulog: naka-pikit pa rin, hindi siya nakikita. At sa umaga, isang kwento na lamang ang laman ng panaginip niya.

Doon naintindihan ng manananggal ang lahat: na kung sakaling gising si Jose at nakita siya sa tunay niyang anyo, tatakbo pa rin ito.

Bumalik ang manananggal sa sagingan, doon sa kalahati ng katawan niya na nakaapak sa lupa.

Nang dumating ang umaga, may balita na isang dalaga ang natagpuang patay sa isang bangin, sa may dulo ng barrio. *** “Kailangan talaga malungkot ang ending?” sabi ni Dave.

Natawa ako. Iyon rin kasi ang napansin ko sa lahat ng kwento o tula ni Ella. Laging malungkot sawi ang bida, o may kasawian na mangyayari.

“Ano naman? Kwento ko ‘to, wala kang pakialam,” sabi ni Ella. Tumingin siya sa akin. “Ikaw, Edwin, ano sa tingin mo?”

“Ako?” Sandali akong nag-isip. “Para sa’kin, okay naman.”

“Ano ba kasi ang problema mo at naisipan mong gumawa ng kwento tungkol sa manananggal?” tanong ni Dave.

“Wala lang. Gusto ko lang ipakita ‘yung pangarap. Alam niyo ‘yun, ‘yung ang dami-dami nating pangarap, mga gustong gawin, pero nalilimutan nating iapak ang mga paa natin pabalik sa lupa.”

Saglit akong napaisip. “Kung ano-anong gamot na sa siguro ang tinurok sa’yo dito kaya ganyan ang mga naiisip mo.”

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Nagkatawanan kami. *** Napa-upo ako sa lapag, malapit sa bantayog ni Rizal, at naalala ko ang probinsya: ang lugar na iniwan ko. Akala ko naiwan ko na ang lahat, akala ko madadala ng mga ingay at dumi ng lungsod ang lahat ng alaala paalis. Pero hindi pala. Naiwan ko ang kalahati ng katawan ko sa lugar na iyon.

Tumingin ako sa paligid. Sa mga taong naka-damit na puti, sinisigaw ang “Makibaka! ‘Wag magbaboy!” laban sa mga magnanakaw na kami rin mismo ang nagluklok sa posisyon. Naisip ko: nagawa ko ba ang gusto kong gawin? Nakaalis nga ba ako talaga sa probinsya?

Mali ka Ella, sabi ko sa sarili. Babalik ako, sabi ko sa’yo.

Pero tama rin siya, dahil pagbalik ko, nakaalis na siya.

74

Bitter Journal Entries

Death. Darkness. Light. Holy moments. Punctuation marks. Hate. Lust. Envy.

Bitterness. Smoke. Liquor. I need a woman. I need love. I need satisfaction and pleasure. To live long and be satisfied, be me. Nobody can stop me. I am not the alpha, but I will be the omega. Waking up is a drag. I want to meet people. I want to drink. I want to sleep. *** Gusto ko ng baboy. Gusto ko ng baboy. Ayokong kumain ng isda dahil ayoko sa mga taong malalansa. Akala mo kung sino magsalita pero wala namang binatbat. Akala mo kung sinong magaling, puro butas naman ang mukha.

Naghahari-harian e aliping saguiguilid lang naman. Isa kang malaking hangal.

Mahiya ka sa balat mong parang mabatong disyerto! Kadiri ka! *** Release.

Ilalabas ko na at tatambolin ko ang iyong dibdib at kukunin ko ang iyong puso at ipapalit ito sa puso kong matagal nang naghihingalo. *** Hangga’t may tinta ang bolpen ko, gusto kong malaman mo: ang pangit mo.

Tapos bobo ka pa. Amoy C2 na panis ang pawis mo. Tuwing tumatakbo ka, tinatawanan ka namin kasi tumatalbog ang bilbil mo. Hindi ka chicks, kaya please ‘wag ka mag-selfie. Kahit terorista tatakbo sa picture mo. Huwag na huwag kang pupunta dito sa amin sa Molino 3, Bacoor, Cavite. ‘Yung mga tropa kong gwapo baka mabiktima mo pa. Baka iligaw ka pa namin dun sa tambayan naming dam. *** FORWARDED TEXT MESSAGE: Somebody asked me, “How does it feel to love someone who doesn’t love you?” And I answered: “It’s like hugging a cactus, the tighter you hug, the more painful it gets.”

Okay, I get it all right. But I just wanna ask, why the hell would you hug a cactus? You’d look stupid. Just imagine, I’m walking at some street in Quiapo,

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Manila, and then I’d see someone hugging a cactus. My instant reaction would be to hit the head of that person with my slippers.

Moreover, you wouldn’t get close to “hugging” a cactus. Dumikit pa lang ang arms and fingers mo do’n, aba e ngangawa ka na. *** Everytime I see you, your nose, your lips, your hair, your ear, your deep-black eyes that seemed to pierce through my soul, that mole in your neck, your smooth hands where my fingers slip off almost at once…

I feel that my life has meaning. I feel that no matter how complicated this world appears to be, somehow I am connected to it—just as long as my heart is connected to your heart.

When I’m with you, I feel important. When I’m with you, I know that everything I do, whatever choice I make, I’m doing things right. I’m living this life the way I really want to, and that is to spend it with you forever.

I want to embrace you, to kiss you, to lean my head on your shoulder, watch the sunset with you, and be with you until my hair starts falling off.

Please, recognize my existence soon. *** All entries included here are taken from some stuff I wrote 3 years ago. And when I read them now, I just laugh.

And then I’d cry. Memory is such a b^%ch.

76

Bitter Walang Magmamahal Sa’yo

Walang magmamahal sa’yo porket writer ka. Kahit malaman nila na may libro ka na, hindi ka pa rin nila papansinin o magugustuhan. Walang bibilib sa’yo kahit tadtad ka ng achievements sa school, kahit manalo ka sa ilang poetry writing contest, regional essay writing contest, o kahit ma-publish pa ang isang short story mo sa Philippine Free Press. Kahit kilalang-kilala ka sa school niyo dahil sa mga achievements mo, kahit ikaw ang kino-consider na the best sa classroom, hindi ka pa rin mamahalin ng taong gusto mo.

Mas pipiliin pa nila ‘yung gwapo na athletic kahit ubod ng bagal magbasa at hindi marunong mag-english kahit nga Filipino hindi makabuo ng isang buong sentence, kaysa sa’yo. Ang pag-ibig kasi ngayon ay sukatan na lang ng pagmumukha. Physical assets na ngayon ang basehan ng pag-ibig. Kaya nga love is discrimination. ‘Yung mga panget na gumaganda, sa pelikula lang ‘yon.

‘Yung mga panget na iniibig ng mga gwapo at mayayaman, sa pelikula at teleserye at sa libro at sa komiks lang nangyayari ‘yun. ‘Yung mga happy endings sa Wattpad, hanggang dun lang ‘yun. Pero dito sa totoong buhay, ang katotohanan ay isasampal sa’yo: pangit ka, wala kang maipagmamalaki sa physical aspect ng katawan mo, kaya kahit anong achievements ang meron ka, kahit punong-puno ng achievements ang CV mo, hinid ka pa rin nila mamahalin.

Ang magagawa mo na lang ay maghintay ng isang someone na maaawa sa’yo, o kaya e kapwa mo pangit, na maaaring magmahal sa’yo, pero minsan hindi pa nga sigurado kung talagang tunay ang pag-ibig o baka gusto ka lang para makasabit din siya sa achievements at kasikatan mo.

Walang taong magpapayong sa’yo sa ulan. Halimbawa, nakapila ka, naghihihintay sa may Post Office ng Maynila para sa utility van na magdadala sa’yo pabalik ng Cavite, tapos biglang umulan. Tapos wala kang payong. Lahat ng kasama mo sa pila, maglalabas ng payong, pero wala ni isa sa kanila ang magaalok na pasukubin ka. Kahit tignan mo sila sa mga mata nila, ipakita na pinipiga mo na ang panyo mo dahil ito lang ang napantakip mo sa ulo mo habang bumubuhos ang ulan, deadma lang sila. Kasi hindi ka gwapo. Kasi, wala silang pakialam kung sino ka.

Hindi ka kakausapin ng katabi mo sa jeep. Walang mag-aalok sa’yo na sumabay sa tricycle kahit na 3:00 am na at naglalakad ka mag-isa sa kalyeng walang katao-tao.

Tingin nila sa’yo e walang alam sa kahit anong bagay. Kahit ikaw ang mas magaling talaga sa pagsusulat sa kanilang lahat, tingin nila sa’yo e maliit. Ang

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin kakapal nga ng mga mukha nila. Samantalang mas marami ka pang award na nabigay sa institusyon ninyo kaysa sa kanila. Minamaliit ka nila, akala wala kang silbi, na basta nagsusulat ka lang. Tingin nila sa’yo inosente. Tanga.

Samantalang sa totoo lang, sila ang mas tanga, ang mas bobo sa lahat.

Palibhasa kasi, mga mukha at boses at mema lang naman ang alam nila—ang mga bagay na wala ka. Puro ka lang kasi sulat, sila puro salita. Ikaw puro teorya, sila puro kilos. Hindi mo mapag-sabay ang teorya at praktika. Therefore, pareho lang kayo. Parehong tanga. Mas tanga sila.

Eto ang masakit na katotohanan: ‘yung mga taong inibig mo, ite-take advantage ‘yung feelings mo sa kanila. Magpapagawa ng tula, ng reaction paper, ng reflection paper, magpapatulong sa kung anu-anong academics, pero pagkatapos ay kakalimutan ka na. Tapos, kapag naman tumanggi ka, sasabihin nila na arogante ka, na mayabang ka, na ayaw mong tumulong dahil gusto mo ikaw lang ang nasa taas. Ang katwiran mo: naalala ka lang nila kapag may kailangan sila. Hanggang dun na lang.

Kaya ngayon, heto ka at iniisip lang sila, mga pusangsiopao sila! Dito sa mundo natin, mata lang ang pinakaginagamit na sense; hindi na nila iniisip na ang mga mata ay test upang makita kung kaya nating makakita ng higit pa— hindi lamang sa ibabaw, sa banaag—kundi mas malalim pa, sa pinakaloob, sa pinaka-ilalim, kung nasaan ang tunay na kagandahan, ang tunay na katotohanan.

Pero, wala. Mapanghusga ang walang-katwiran na mundong tinitirhan mo.

Kahit ginagawa mo ang lahat para lamang makagawa ng mabuti sa abot ng makakaya mo, kahit humahakot ka ng achievements, walang makakapansin sa’yo. Lahat ng mamahalin mo, hindi ka mamahalin kasi hindi ka gwapo/maganda. Kapag wala ang itsura mo, wala ka rin. Out ka.

Ngayon, nabubuhay ka na lang para sa sarili mo. Basta ginawa mo ang lahat para wala kang pagsisihan pagdating ng araw na nasa huling hantungan ka na. Nabuhay ka nang ayon sa gusto mo, ginagawa ang tama. Bahala na ang demonyo sa mga taong minahal mo.

78

Bitter August 26, 2013 and Happy Stories

My friend once told me that in this life, we only have two choices: to leave or to stay, and that once we chose one, there would be no coming back.

He said that when he was drunk, suffering from some heartbreak that our friend Liz had cast on him.

“You know Dave,” he said. His eyes were puffy, his words slipping clumsily from his lips. He already told me this story. “The last time Liz and I were together, she asked me if we could try it out. And you know what I did?”

“You laughed,” I said while lighting a cigarette.

“I laughed,” he said, his tone so low it was like he was reflecting on something by himself. “That’s what I did, man. That’s what I chose. To leave.”

He wasn’t usually like this. It all began with Liz, I’m sure. Everything has its root. Even when learning to drink or smoke. In my case, it was not love alone, but curiosity as well. That lame excuse most youths have when “trying something new.”

The reason I remember his words was that I am currently in the state where I wanted to make the choice, but the situation to make the choice has presented itself in a very different way. In fact, a lot of things became different since I met Judy. *** “When we met,” Judy said. “Everything was so different, you know what I mean?

Like, things would never change; things would never end.”

“I know what you mean,” I replied. “There was excitement, there was this suspense for tomorrow.”

We were sitting on the grass, eating our lunch—adobong manok—in a styro plate. She wore a bandanna, matched with white shirt printed with a No to Pork Barrel sign, and jeans. We ate with our bare hands.

After what seemed like a long time, we saw each other again—and what a day for us to meet again—in a rally.

“Makibaka, ‘wag magbaboy!” someone screamed at the microphone, to be followed by echoed chants and cheers from the crowd. Everywhere I looked,

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin there were signboards, flags of various organizations with their emblem in it, more signboards, effigies, people milling around wearing T-shirts proclaiming their advocacies. Everywhere, there was this energy that I haven’t felt in many years. Or maybe, it was just Judy’s presence.

“So, how have you been?” she asked.

“I’ve been quite fine actually,” I replied.

“Really?”

“I’m working at a newspaper company. Managed to become an assistant editor.”

“That’s very nice. Most of my time now’s devoted to our NGO.” I wiped my styro plate clean and washed my hands with some leftover water in my bag. “Seriously, why are you here? What happened to the Judy I know who doesn’t go to rallies?”

“Things changed,” Judy replied, smiling. “How about you? I never imagined you attending these things.”

“To tell you the truth,” I answered. “I don’t know either. I’d be lying if I told you I enjoy this. Not until I saw you that is.”

She laughed. “Of all the things that changed, your being bolero did not.”

“I’ve been me all this time,” I said. “Always been me.”

Judy just stared at me, and I at her. She slightly shook her head before we joined to the cheers of the ground. Someone on the stage sang. The message was good. *** “What do you think I should have done? Should I have said yes? Fuck no, that’s no longer possible. What’s done is done. There’s no turning back. Why is it like this? Why can’t we be like pencils with erasers on our heads so that we may erase some wrong things we’ve done and replace them with a new one? If not change our mistakes then at least help us wipeout a memory completely so it may not bother us anymore? You know, Dave, if I would write a book with all of my tragic memories in it, it would be as thick as four bibles. With the font sizes so small you’d need a magnifying glass to read it. Don’t laugh, Dave, I’m not kidding you.” It was my friend’s fifth beer.

80

Bitter “I think you’ve had enough,” I told him.

“This is the last one, and then I’ll sleep,” he said, even though I sincerely doubted what he said. “Besides, I’m not drunk.”

“I think you are.”

“If you would just tell me how you and Judy are doing then I’ll shut up here.”

Judy and I stopped weren’t seeing each other that time. She left, while I stayed here. I did try to wait for her, trying to contact her whenever I get the will, the way, and the chance, but to no avail. It became quite clear to me that she wanted to disappear, so I let her.

On times of trance, I often think about her. Trying to find her and wonder what could she be doing, what she could be thinking about, and the like.

That was why when we saw each other again on the rally in Luneta, I wanted to ask her a lot of questions. Questions that I even asked to myself, with the answers nowhere to be seen, a treasure without a map. But of all the things I wanted to ask Judy, only one managed to leapt out of my lips: “How are you?”

My friend laughed when I told him that. He laughed and then he burped.

His beer was done.

I told Judy that I wouldn’t be joining the march to Mendiola.

“Why not?” she immediately asked.

I told her the truth: that I wouldn’t even be in Luneta in the first place if not because of my job. I wished her good luck.

She just stared at me, watching me explain to her everything, giving me that same look that attracted me the first time we met: her eyes with their deepblack pupils—always the blade that gashes through me.

“It was nice to see you again, Dave,” she finally said.

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin I just smiled, but I didn’t say anything. A part of me wanted to stay with her, to talk to her, ask her more things, but somehow, the place, the people around, or even the day itself didn’t agree with it.

“A lot of things have changed,” she added, slightly nodding.

“For better or worse?” I finally said.

Judy didn’t answer to that, but just looked away. I bid her goodbye, and she said that we should see each other soon. I agreed.

But of course, we didn’t see each other again after that.

I remember when the two of us were still together, back in our college days. We weren’t the best of friends, but we had what we would like to call a “mutual understanding”. But then again, maybe it was just me assuming these things, because I know for a fact that there wasn’t anything mutual about us in any way.

Judy once told me that she wants to write a book—a collection of short stories, in fact. She always wanted to be a writer, but failed on the qualifications of Fine Arts major in Creative Writing in a state university, so she ended up becoming a teacher—a heroic choice, whatever the hell that means.

Her stories, she told me, would follow one rule: they would always possess happy endings. Meaning, nobody dies, nobody cries; everybody triumphs, everybody will have smiles on their faces. I was dumbfounded at first, arguing that most of the things happening in the lives of many were more tragic than triumphant. But of course, she’d just accept what I have to say, and maintained her own decision.

“Why don’t you write a book too and do what you want?” Judy told me. *** Judy once told me this story she wrote about a woman named Shirley who couldn’t find the right guy for her. In every relationship she enters to, guys always leave her, hurting her, breaking her heart. Because of that experience, Shirley ceased believing in love, and at some point started accepting that love is just a concept; or just the romanticized term for every mammal’s tendency to mate.

82

Bitter With such thoughts in mind, Shirley made it a point to stay happy, to live on, despite being single, enjoy her life. She thought: “There is nothing wrong with being alone!”

But every night, before she go to sleep, Shirley is disturbed by a pang of dread: that she would die alone. “Alone in this world—in this world where nobody loves me!” And then she would dream: she’d dream of warm hands caressing her body, of hot lips and flowery breath snaking on her face—Who is he? Are you the one? Is my groom and only love existing only in my dreams? Then so, I do not want this dream to end! But Shirley still woke up, of course.

Until she and her college best friend, Tess, met at a shopping mall.

They talked about a lot of things, about the past, about the changes in their lives. Both of them were single still, both of them still searching for the right guys for them, but unfortunately found none.

Shirley was surprised—because seeing Tess brought her a feeling of joy—something that she knew she hadn’t felt since.

Right there and then, Shirley knew.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And they lived happily ever after. *** “It’s a lousy story,” I told Judy.

“How do you say so?” she asked.

“You hurried it up.”

“Huh?” “They’ve seen each other at the mall for the first time. And then there was ‘I love you’ already.”

“Wow!” Judy laughed. “When we met, after three weeks, you told me you love me already!”

I looked away from her. Why is she bringing that up?

“That’s different,” I said. “Three weeks is different from—”

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin “But the feelings were true, right?” she asked.

My throat was as dry as a parched street on a blistering, summer day. “Of course,” I said.

“Do you think time does play a role in one’s feelings? Can’t it be that I love you now because I love you now, tomorrow and forever? Love is not a fruit we wait to ripen before picking, you know. You feel love whenever you feel it. You may love a person now and not tomorrow, but what matters is the feeling: you are true to your feelings.”

When I think about her words now, at some point, I begin to understand everything, bit by bit: Judy did love me, and then Judy didn’t love me. *** “When you think about it, I doubt we would have become great couples had we decided to work it out,” Judy said.

“Just tell me,” I asked. “Why did you leave? Why did you all of a sudden disappear without a trace?”

She eyed her coffee, while I focused my eyes on her, waiting for her answer. She took a piece of tissue, toyed with it for a while, before crumpling it and settling it beside her saucer.

“Can’t answer?” I said.

Her silence continued.

“Remember when I told you that I wasn’t sure of anything?”

I managed a nod.

“Well, I am sure now,” she replied. “I wanted you. But I never needed you.”

I took a deep breath. There was a stabbing pain in my chest, something that I’ve never felt in a very long time.

84

Bitter Szomoru Vasarnap

It was a Sunday. For Lance, this was no ordinary day. As always, the house was empty except for him and the street outside was pretty much the same. The day itself started with its usual routine: a silent sunrise, the sudden appearance of a few patches of clouds. Yet this day was different for Lance was celebrating his 25th birthday.

The previous day, he had gone to the grocery store and bought some stuff needed for a small banquet he had planned for this day: ingredients for spaghetti and a one-liter bottle of soda, enough for a simple celebration. He didn’t invite his friends; he just invited someone very special to him. As soon as he had woken up this day, he began cooking.

Lance doesn’t know how to cook. A cookbook given to him by his mother long ago served as his guide to the right number of minutes to cook the noodles, and to the proper spices for the sauce to taste just right. He analyzed and followed the instructions carefully; he didn’t want anything to go wrong.

His phone beeped. Most of his friends remembered how special today is.

“Happy birthday, Lance! May you have more birthdays to come! God bless!” the message said. It put a smile on his face. “Thank you.” he replied to the text message.

At exactly noon, Lance was done cooking. The aroma of his spaghetti filled the house. He was confident enough that he had made everything perfect.

His cellphone rang. “Hello?”

“Happy birthday, Lance!”

“Oh, Gina. Thank you.” She was one of his good friends.

“Are you okay?” Gina asked.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry,” “It’s your birthday today, so you better let go of the bad vibes—” “Oh, I already have.”

“Do you want me to come over?”

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin “No, I have no plans for any celebration. I’ll just treat this day as a normal day.”

“Don’t be like that. Not everyone turns 25 every day,” Gina paused. “I get off work at 5pm. I’ll bring some guys, we’ll come over and let’s drink!”

“No, don’t bother, Gina.”

“Don’t be silly, Lance. You must enjoy this day.”

Lance forced himself to laugh. There’s just one way to make this woman shut up. “All right, whatever you say. Those boys better be cute, okay?”

“Of course. I’ll call you again once I get off work.”

“All right. If I don’t answer, it so means I’m asleep. So just come over.”

“Okay. Take care, bakla.”

Lance looked at the time. It was a quarter past twelve. He placed two plates and two drinking glasses on the dining table. The spaghetti sauce and noodles are still in their separate pots. He had decided not to set the food on the table since the only person he wants to celebrate this day with, Gilbert, usually arrives late. And that was one thing he never really got used to about the guy.

He lit a cigarette and called Gilbert’s phone.

“Yes?” Gilbert answered.

“Why aren’t you texting me?”

“I have no prepaid credits.”

Lance exhaled sharply. “So, what’s taking you so long?”

“Traffic. You know how it goes here at the boulevard—” “Oh yeah, right. Um, I’ll send you credits, then text me. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay. I’ll wait for you. I won’t eat until you arrive.”

“Oh, you can go and eat if you want to.”

“No, I promised you we’ll eat together.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

86

Bitter “I’ll wait for you.”

“All right.”

Lance went to a nearby sari-sari store which also serves as a local loading station and sent fifty pesos worth of prepaid credits to Gilbert. When he got back to his house, he sat on the sofa in the living room and smoked a cigarette.

The silence in the house was deafening. In fact, the silence of the day was thundering on his ears as though the world had ignored how special this day was. To put some sort of life and soul to the house, he plugged in a small radio and set the frequency to a popular FM station. He sat back and enjoyed the sound, cigarette between his fingers.

“Stay tuned for more music, my friends,” the DJ’s voice blaring on the radio. “In the meantime, I would like to greet everyone who’s celebrating their birthdays today, which is a Sunday. May you have more luck in your life, and of course, a better love-life! Haha!”

Lance’s cellphone rang again. He turned down the volume of the radio. He glimpsed at the screen before pressing the ANSWER button. It was another one of his friends: Pia. “Happy birthday, Lance!” Pia’s voice was loud and clear.

Lance smiled. “Thank you. It really means so much to me that you remembered it.”

“Oh, come on. As if I’d ever forget it.”

“Thank you. Thank you, talaga.”

“Are you okay? Got any plans for your day?”

“Gina’s coming over later. He’s gonna bring some guys with him.”

“Oh, really? Don’t worry. I’m going, too. It’s just a bit of a hassle here at the mall—” “Don’t bother, Pia. I know you have your priorities.”

“Well, one of my priorities is to make sure my best friend enjoys his day.”

“I am enjoying. Don’t worry.”

“Where are you now?”

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin “I’m at the house. Relaxing.”

“Ah, okay.” Pia paused for a few seconds. “Have you talked to him?”

The smile on Lance’s face somewhat faded. “Not yet.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still gonna see him and be with him after you saw those pictures I had sent to you?”

“Do you think I’m that stupid?”

“Of course not. I’m just saying that you could find other guys—much better guys.”

“I know that, Pia. You’ve mentioned that countless of times.”

“And you’ve ignored them for too long.”

“Don’t worry, Pia. I’ve ceased all communication I have with him.”

“Good. But is he still trying to contact you?”

“He’s calling from time to time. I’ll try to answer it, then I’ll give him hell.”

Pia laughed. “Now that’s the Lance I know.”

“Gilbert has been out of my life ever since.”

“And never worry because you still have us, your friends, here.”

“I know. And I’ll be forever thankful for that,” Lance said, smiling. “I’ll see you later, Pia.” “Want me to slip you some chocolates?”

“Please?”

Pia laughed. “All right, Lance.”

He put the phone down as he turned up the volume of the radio. The song “Wonderwall” from his favorite band, Oasis, was playing. “Today is gonna be the day that they all throw it back to you…I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now…”

Lance’s phone beeped. There was a message from Gilbert saying that he was 15 minutes away.

88

Bitter Realizing how those 15 minutes can go so fast, Lance stood and hurried to the kitchen. He opened the lids of the pots where the spaghetti noodles and sauce lay. He was assaulted by the aroma. It made his stomach growl and his mouth water. But something else was missing: the last and most special ingredient. He hesitated putting this ingredient because it was out of the cookbook’s set of instructions. But, anyway, what he cooked was “Lance’s Spaghetti” and not “Spaghetti according to the cookbook”.

From a cabinet in the kitchen, he took the small blue box containing the most important ingredient. He didn’t know how much of the powder he should add to the sauce for maximum effect so he emptied the box and watched the sauce simmer with it. Good thing it didn’t affect the color of the sauce, he thought, or he’d have to put another pack of tomato sauce in it.

Just as he was scooping some sauce and noodles onto the tupperware, the drone of a tricycle came roaring from outside his house. He went outside to see who it was: the man he had been waiting for and the reason he planned this simple celebration for his birthday.

“Hey,” Lance greeted.

Gilbert waved a hand as he paid the tricycle fare.

“I thought you’d bring the car?” Lance asked as the tricycle drove away.

“I asked you money for gas the other day, right? But you weren’t replying to my messages. In fact, I was surprised when you called me yesterday.”

Lance was stuttering. “Oh yeah, right, I’m sorry, I—” Gilbert grabbed hold of his hand. “Let’s get inside.”

When they entered the house, Gilbert’s eyes gazed at the dining table.

“What did you cook?”

“Spaghetti. The Lance style.” “’Lance style’, huh?” Gilbert smiled. It was a smile Lance loved. “Happy birthday,” Gilbert greeted and then kissed him.

It was Lance who broke the kiss. “What’s wrong?” Gilbert asked.

“Nothing,” Lance remarked. “Let’s eat.”

“Oh, right. I’m starving.”

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin Gilbert sat and started scooping up the spaghetti. Lance opened the refrigerator and took out a large bottle of soda and poured soda on the glasses.

“I never knew you can cook this good,” Gilbert said. He was devouring the noodles.

“Did I surprise you?” Lance handed a glass of cold soda to Gilbert. “I’ve got more surprises left.”

Gilbert coughed. It was a dry, husky cough. “Chew your food well,” Lance said. “You might choke.”

Gilbert smiled. The sauce had already reddened his lips.

Lance was scooping spaghetti on a separate plate when Gilbert asked, “Did you put almonds here?”

Lance grinned and watched Gilbert sniffing the spaghetti. “I sure smell almonds,” added Gilbert.

“I told you, it’s the ‘Lance Style’.” Lance forced himself to smile. His eyes focused on Gilbert’s face.

Lance stood up. “Where are you going?” Gilbert asked.

“Just eat. I’ll just get something,” Lance replied before heading to his room. From his cabinet, he took out a small paper bag. There was a label in it, written in thick, black letters: “LANCE”.

When he got back to the dining table, Gilbert was scooping more spaghetti onto his plate. “I’m happy you like it,” Lance said. He sat and placed the small paper bag on his lap.

When Gilbert coughed, Lance smiled. “Take it easy, love.”

But Gilbert was not eating anymore. He emptied the glass of soda beside him. He coughed again. This time, his cough was louder. Soda and noodles sprayed all over the table. Lance simply watched. The third time he coughed, there was blood and foam all over his mouth.

Lance stared hard at the shocked and bloodshot eyes of Gilbert. He tried to stand, but he fell back on the floor, his limbs twitching, blood still flowing from his mouth. Yet he was not making any sound.

Lance stared at him coolly. He stood, paper bag in his hand, and walked to Gilbert’s dead body. He took out the contents from the paper bag: photographs 90

Bitter Pia had sent to him. Photographs of Gilbert and a woman, cuddling and kissing inside some mall. He scattered the photographs onto the dead body, and the photos covered it like a handful of feathers being soaked in blood. Tears flooded Lance’s eyes, his cries silent as the house and this day’s world.

He went back to the dining table, got some of the spaghetti for himself. His hands were shaking as he ate. It does taste good. He took his cellphone from his pocket and dialed Pia’s number.

After a few rings, she answered: “Hello, Lance. Why?” “Pia—” Lance coughed.

“I’m still at work. May you please call back later?”

“No, I just want to say that—” he swallowed the spaghetti “—it’s been a gloomy Sunday.” His voice was cracking.

“Are you crying? Why, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t reply. He put the cellphone down, but kept the line open.

Lance sat still, putting more spaghetti in his mouth. There’s some sort of blistering in his throat; something hot, searing.

Pia’s voice continued to blare out of Lance’s cellphone, now resting beside his body. “Hello? Lance? Are you okay? Hello? Lance, what happened?”

Happy and Inspiring Stories by Don Vittorio C. Villasin

About the Author

DON VITTORIO C. VILLASIN, 20, is studying Bachelor of Secondary Education major in Social Science at The National Teachers College. He is the author of Bitter. He cites Edgar Calabia Samar, Haruki Murakami and David Foster Wallace as literary influences. He is often seen roaming the streets of Quiapo, Manila and Bacoor, Cavite while talking to himself, staring at empty spaces, or eating calamares at a sidewalkâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and probably drunk and wasted as well. He is a Gemini.

Other Works available in PDF: My Life: The Movie 100 Days after Valentineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s: 100 Epiphanies Notes to the Missing Self: A Catharsis HowEver Mga Pag-uulit ng Isang Ligaw na Kaluluwa (Coming Soon)

Novels: Vacant Period & Other Reminiscences Flightless Birds Close Your Eyes, Count to Ten (Coming Soon) Para sa Tabi: Isang Nobelang Wala Lang (Coming Sooner)

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