Short Story

The Witness

Jacinth Banite

“She’s starting to smell,” said the man who stood above the pit the two other guys were digging. I could hear his breath tremble from where I stood, and it had nothing to do with exertion. His hands shivered uncontrollably while he scanned for any other presence around the vast meadow. How unfortunate that a pair of vigorous eyes were sightless on my bravery as I bear witness to his fear, glaring under the blinding moonlight.

While he showered in his own sweat and gruel over his bloodstained hands, I believed his fear was not from standing in the middle of nowhere, effacing the patent stamps that prove his sin. He was fearful that the night might betray him and the morning would tell the whole world what they had done to that woman’s body lying beside him, whose legs were spread apart, wearing nothing but her own battered skin.

As the night got deeper like the hole they were digging, the other gentlemen threw their shovels on the side of the narrow ditch, panting as they climbed up from the edge. Their faces were covered with dirt and their exhales were as heavy as the daunting atmosphere. I could not see their features very clearly, but the shimmer of blood from the fresh cut on the other guy’s left cheek was distinct enough—probably the only trace of power the victim had over these hustling gentlemen.

“Quick! Toss her inside!” demanded the man who was then kneeling down while the soil he was intensely gripping had long given out and slipped from between his fingers. I felt his patient wane into a mere desperation, yearning to bury his guilt and virtue along with the body they plunged inside the hole. The two men were quick to obey his order and carried the body from her arms to feet, tossing her in the hole in a way that is similar to throwing garbage. While the commanding man was using his bare hands, the other two immediately grabbed the shovels and started dumping the soil back into the pit. My lips formed a smirk as I watched them pray for the ground to gobble up the remaining evidence.

The entire night was filled with misdeeds straggled in the mud between fingers and nails, in the arcane scratches on skin, and in the reeking smell of upturned earth mixed with stains of blood and sin. The sound of their footsteps as they all ran away from the grave echoed as they faded from my vision. They all thought it was that easy. I walked toward the clearing, staring at the makeshift grave. Its ragged edges can be easily discerned just by looking at it. I tried kneeling down with my ears moving closer to it, hoping to hear her heartbeat. Her scream. With

my eyes closed, I waited for those signs of life while trying to embrace the ground until the sun launched back to the sky.

Silence welcomed me as I opened my eyes. I can smell the earth with my face almost buried in the soil. As the morning chased out the lingering shadows of the night, I thought about running outside the meadow to plead for help—the same thing the girl below probably did before she took her last breath. Yet, my feet seemed stuck on the crypt and I could not leave. My steps could not move any further. A huge part of me was scared that if I started walking away, I would lose her spot in this field of nowhere, and no one would be able to find her body. So I waited until darkness roared again throughout the desolate field.

The next day was nothing different—the same emptiness, the same silence—and the body was still yet to be found. It was probably around late afternoon that’s when I started tracing random shapes on the dirt. Each was an epitome of everything taken from the person lying six-feet under: circles, stars, and hearts, wishing that despite having no tombstone, these will mark where her unrested soul is lying.

The sun and moon might be starting to get tired of my stagnant figure as they come and go with the clouds and stars, probably wishing every time they appear, someone has already found me and the body has already been recovered. At least on that part, I was not alone. But just like them, I was beginning to get tired of waiting, seeing every mark of the grave slowly fading every day. Grasses started to sprout around its corners, maggots began seeping through the dirt, racing their way to feast from her rotten corpse. The scent of flesh decaying underground permeated the air—a pungent smell combined with a tinge of sickening sweetness.

By how fast time flew, my unceasing perhaps had become more real. Edges and shapes I drew began to fade in the moist of loam, along with the body, decomposing into mere skeletons. Helpless, I was the only one who got to witness it all.

I lost count of the days. Tracking the hours, along with their similar and mundane phases, was indeed an extreme demand for a loner. Yet, among those indifferent exchanges of mornings and nights, one particular day stood out. Murmuring voices from a distance woke me, instead of the daylight’s soft whispers. I immediately hid behind the same spot during the first night as I heard footsteps of two men walking near me.

Two men in police uniforms were taking slow strides toward the grave, guided by a sniffing dog that seemed to have traced the smell of the buried, stifling secret.

Finally! I thought, as hope slowly revived my heart. It wouldn’t be much later until her body was found, recovered like pillaged loot. A dog came into view, walking faster as it was getting near to what it’s probably looking for, apprehensively dragging the two officers toward the grave. It stopped at the very spot where the body was buried, sniffing around, then barking, telling the officers something was buried there.

“He found something,” said the other officer.

“Of course he did.” The man who held the dog rolled his eyes.

He knelt down to check the ground the dog had been sniffing. Then, he saw it! He caught the fading edges of the pit and started tracing it with his fingers. Then, he stood up and erased the mark with his right foot. The other guy checked into their other colleagues from a distance, as they all looked for possible grave marks. Based on his gestures, I discerned that he was making sure they were not looking. That no one was looking. As he turned his head toward them, I saw a bland scar on his left cheek.

“No!” I screamed as desperation squeezed my soul.

“Found something?” shouted another man from the other group.

“Nah, there’s nothing here!” the guy shouted back, yanking the dog by its leash. It started barking toward me as it was dragged away from the grave, almost like a plea. The man looked in my direction, and our gazes met.

“Come on, Boy! There’s nothing there!” He continued pulling the dog away, who kept on resisting as if its life depended on it. Its gaze was filled with apologies for being the only one who could see the naked ghost of a broken, missing, and murdered young girl.

Pahayag

Jacinth Banite

Sa ‘yo na nagbabasa nito,

Kumusta ka? Sana’y maaliwalas ang iyong umaga, at hindi kasing kulimlim ng aking paggising. Sana’y ikaw ay mahimbing sa gabi, at hindi nababalot ng takot at pangamba gaya ng aking maghapon. Sana’y ‘di tulad kong nabibingi sa umaalingawngaw na mga putok ng baril, ikaw ay malayang nakikinig sa musikang iyong tipo.

Ipagpaumanhin mo kung hindi ko na magagawang masilayan ka. Hindi ko batid ang wastong bilang, ngunit alam kong ilang oras na lang ang natitira bago tugisin ng mga armadong tulisan ang aming kuta. Bago iyon, naisip kong pudpurin ang natitirang tasá ng aking lapis at hayaan ang aking nagsusumamong puso ang magsulat sa madumi at pinirapirasong papel. Sana’y maging sapat ang mga salitang aking isusulat upang iyong maunawaan ang nais kong ipahayag. Hindi ko batid ang sukat ng pagitan nating dalawa, ngunit umaasa akong sa kabila ng mga ligaw na bala, mga nakapangkat na nakikibaka, at mga tangkeng nakaharang sa kalsada, hahanap ng paraan ang tadhana upang makarating ang liham na ito sa iyong mga palad. Nawa’y sa puntong iyon, angkin na ng paligid ang kapayapaang patuloy na ipinagkakait sa kanya ng kasalukuyan.

Kung pwede lang sana, nais kong ipakilala sa ‘yo ang aking mga kasama na tulad ko’y nakaabang din sa tunay na paglaya. Nagsisiksikan sa loob ng mabanas na kwarto, hawak ang pluma na akala ng ilan ay kutsilyo at tinatarak ang mga letra sa pahina ng manuskrito; sa kabila ng aming pagkakabaon sa sariling lupa, ang mga dyaryo ay pilit naming pinangingibabaw. Ngunit, sa puntong ito’y madampi sa naginingas na mga kamay, mga abo na lamang itong masisilayan nilang mga dapat makabasa.

Dati kaming labinlima, ngunit nang lumabas ang walo sa amin upang subukang ilathala ang katotohanan sa likod ng mga propaganda, maski anino nila’y hindi na namin muling nasilayan.

Pasensya na kung ika’y nababagot sa aking mga panaghoy. Kung sana’y mamarapatin ng kapalaran, nais ko ring malaman ang kalagayan mo. Habang ito ay iyong binabasa, ikaw ba ay payapa? Malaya nang ibinabahagi ang isip at pananaw? O marahil, ika’y tahimik na nakaupo sa loob ng sariling kweba, makulay, at komportableng nakapikit sa

lahat? Kung gayon, nagagalak ako, ngunit huwag sana ang pinili mong mundo ang maging dahilan upang iyong makalimutan ang lupit ng aming kasalukuyan. At kung aking malalaman na ika’y tulad kong nagkukubli at patuloy na nakikibaka laban sa halimaw ng lipunan, batid ko ang katapangan mo. Gayunpaman, kay lungkot isipin na hanggang sa iyong kasalukuyan ay umiiral ang mapagpanggap na katapatan sa bayan.

Kung ikaw ay ang una, iisa lamang ang aking kahilingan: huwag mo sanang piliin ang pagsunod kasabay ng pagtikom ng bibig sa kabila ng matatayog na bakod sa paligid mo. Huwag mag-atubiling luksuhan ito sa oras na sumigaw ng tulong ang masa. At kung ikaw naman ang pangalawa, huwag sanang mamutawi ang iyong pagyuko sa umaaliping sistema, nawa’y magpatuloy sa pagtarak ng katotohanan at ipaglaban ang api sa ano mang paraan na alam mo.

Kung kanino mang mga kamay ito mapadpad, gusot man o unat ang mga balat, iyong isipin na mas pipiliin kong maglaho ang aking pangalan sa iyong isipan, ngunit hindi ang diwa ng alin mang ipinaglaban ng oposisyong armas ay tanging tinta at mga salita.

Mahaba pa ang tasá ng aking lapis, ngunit ang oras ay napupudpod na. Naririnig ko na ang papalapit na yapag ng mga mabibigat na sapatos. Malamang isa sa walo ang pinahirapan ng mga tauhan ni Mcoy upang pilit isiwalat ang aming pinagtataguan.

Ang mga salitang sa aking isip ay nakaukit, akin na lang babaunin patungong bilangguan hanggang sa aking paglilitis na hindi ko rin batid kung ipagkakaloob sa akin. Ang dami ko pa sanang gustong sabihin ngunit hahayaan ko na lang ang simoy ng nakaraan ang magsabi sa iyo. Nawa’y lagi kang mag-iingat.

Nagmamahal,

Alfredo O Mamahayag mula sa

Daw Delights

Shekynah Angelene Samadan

“Do you trust me?”

The voice is soft as the curtains faintly sprawling their veil on me. When the wind finally ceases, they are quick to go back to their once peaceful stance, like handmaidens making way for a queen. Charming, I much prefer them to be kept in place. Maybe to save a bit of space in here because right now, I cannot bear this cage.

“I said, do you trust me?” Stern, she wakes my drowsy, pent-up head filled with cheap booze and nicotine. Why must she disturb me this late? Why must I follow her every need?

“I honestly don’t know,” I say in my sincerest tone. I finally sat up from my lounging while I tried to make sense of her voice. She is lulling me again but not to sleep; I think she wants to… dance?

“Yes.” Ah, she confirms my suspicion. I can tell a sly smirk is plastered on her face when she utters the word. I bet she finds me amusing.

Sullen eyes, corroding lungs; I am her well-appointed yet involuntary jester as the night sky comes clean of any impurities as thieves and clouds form by smog. Oh, how she wows me for being so foreboding, bright, and skillfully manipulative. She blights my very existence with both joy and despair. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy that she is a reliable companion, but at times I wish she could at least leave me some space. I know in myself that I am much like a domesticated animal, dependent on her guidance, but most times, especially in this state, I am nothing but a weak man.

“I wish you could come closer,” her voice consumes my selfcontrol. So full of mischief and mayhem that it scares the living hell out of me. Every now and then, I hear her relentless commands, saying I should come see her with the excuse that she misses me. Back then, I had the strength to protect myself from succumbing to her before the night struck

twelve, always assuming the same position: one foot tied and a pillow covering both of my ears. Before, I still had reasons not to listen. But now, what am I but a shell of a man? Hollow. Now, I accept all her taunting, her whispers and secrets. 384,400 kilometers away yet her voice is as loud as a fly buzzing around my tired ears.

I’ve gone weary and yet she is still there, august and mighty. She is always so drawn to me because I never sleep.

“Why don’t you dance again? Promise I won’t laugh at your leftfooted moves. I’ve been with you since you were just a boy. Trust me.” She is so compelling in her tone, I hate that it makes my feet stand up from the mattress. My frail figure left a noticeable divot in the soft cushion but I took no interest. The wind blows away the dead skin from my shirtless flesh, replacing it with some stranger’s specks from the city. I accepted the intrusion with bliss. I am in need of new skin anyway, this one is all worn and torn.

“Now, come closer.”

If she had hands, her fingers must have been grazing the bottom of my chin right now. Like a dog, slowly, I followed the sound of her voice. If I still had the will to actually attempt a fighting chance, I might have stopped then and there, screamed at her face and pivoted my way back to the bed. But the air is cold as it welcomes me in such embrace, I guess she is shifting it for my liking. I am flattered, I must thank her.

“What’s next?”

“I think you can’t dance in that stuffy old place, no?” she asks. Her tongue drips with mirth as if already knowing the answer to the question.

“Yes. I think so, too,”

“Perfect.” I still cannot see her face but just from that tone, I sense her mouth is in a toothy grin.

My feet seem to have a mind of their own as they walk toward her light. Silver, she hangs up there. I cannot tell if she is an angel or a

piece of black magic made by some deranged witch of Victoria’s past, but I traverse out the dusty bedroom and into the open-air balcony. The chills clung to me like an old and forgotten paramour, but finally, there she is… oh. She is glorious.

“Nice to see you again.” Unfazed, I pretend. I look up at her form, eyes transfixed to the aura around her shape. To say I am mesmerized is a complete understatement.

She meets my eyes with a low, satisfied gaze, knowing that she finally has me right where she wanted me to be.

“Now, dear. Why won’t you free yourself from that cage you’re in, hm? Why waste your time in that hell of a high-rise apartment of yours? You have wings...” She pauses for a moment, sizing me up and down in a challenge. Probably waiting if I will run back to my ghastly one-bedroom studio box and hide beneath the table. She gives me another chance to speak up, but I am already indebted to the lilt of her words. Then, I found my feet moving up and up, to the point where I found myself on the thin rails of the balcony. My heart is in rapids while the tired metro sleeps beneath me. To put it simply, I am on autopilot. Trapped in the chains of her hypnotic shine that I cannot move. As the breeze fights greatly to rage against my figure, I stand firm like a wolf with wide-eyes.

Then, she finally says, “I think it’s time for you to fly.”

short story

Sa Ilalim ng Langit

Kayla Nicole De Quiroz

Nahihirapan nang huminga si Papa. Ramdam ko ang bawat paghihirap niya sa pagkuha ng hangin. Tinitignan ko lamang ang kanyang mukha, pinagpapawisan at nakapikit.

“Okay lang ako, anak,” aniya. Naramdaman niya siguro ang aking presensya. Ngumiti ako nang bahagya at kumuha ng pamunas para sa kanyang mukha. Sabi ni Papa, lagnat lang daw ito. Huwag daw kami masyadong mag-alala, lilipas din ito, maaaring pagkatapos ng ilang basong tubig at saglit na pahinga. Halos araw-araw niya itong sambit, katulad ng kanyang mga nakasanayang ruta sa bawat pasada. Tsuper kasi si Papa at tanging ang lumang dyip lang niya ang bumubuhay sa amin. Kaso, natigil ito ng halos tatlong linggo dahil sa mandato ng gobyernong kailangang manatili sa bahay ang lahat dahil sa pandemya. Nang matapos ang tatlong linggo, pinilit ng aking ama na bumiyahe muli.

Hindi namin alam kung saan niya ito nakuha. Isang araw, umuwi na lamang siya sa bahay at nahiga. Masama raw ang pakiramdam kaya naman hinayaan namin siyang magpahinga. Noong ikalawang araw, tinignan namin kung anong nangyayari sa kanyang kalagayan. Nagpatulong kami sa kapitana upang maipa-check up kung nahawaan nga ba siya ng sinasabing virus. Kinuha ko ang aking ipon para makadagdag sa pambayad ng pang-test sa kanya. Tatlong libong piso para sa isang swab. “Bahala na,” sabi ko, “babalik din naman ang pera.” Magtatrabaho na lang ako muli habang nag-aaral.

Papa. Matapos ang tatlong araw na paghihintay, lumabas na positibo si

Sinubukan namin siyang dalhin sa ospital, ngunit dahil punuan na, sinabihan kaming kung pwede ay sa bahay na lamang magpagaling si Papa. Kinailangan kong mangutang ng pera para sa oxygen tank na kailangan niya upang matulungan siyang makahinga. Inayos namin ang higaan niya at naglagay kami ng mask, face shield at guwantes para sa aming mga sarili upang maalagaan siya nang maayos. Noong una, nakakakain pa naman si Papa ng sabaw, pinipilit namin siya kahit wala na siyang ganang kumain. Para laging presko si Papa, lagi kong pinupunasan ng tuwalya ang kanyang kamay at paa, pati ang kanyang mukha para lagi siyang malinis. Kinakausap ko siyang madalas, tinatanong ko kung anong nararamdaman niya, kung gusto niyang kumain, at kinekwentuhan ko siya kung ano na ang nangyayari sa paborito niyang palabas.

Nito lamang nakaraan ay nakakapagbiro pa siya, ngunit ngayon ay halos hindi na nito maigalaw ang kanyang buong katawan. Masakit raw ang kanyang dibdib. Turo nang turo sa parte ng katawan niya na masakit. Hindi ako umiiyak. Bawal. Sabi ni Mama kailangang magpakatatag at pagbutihin ang pagdarasal para gumaling si Papa. Pag mahirap ka at kumakaharap sa isang malaking problema, pananampalataya lang ang tanging pinagkukunan mo ng lakas. Tibayan mo lang daw ang paniniwalang gagaling pa ang ating mahal sa buhay.

Ngunit hindi kalaunan, dumating din ang gabing kinatatakutan namin. Hindi na makahinga si Papa. Humihikbi ito at naririnig ko ang maiksing paghigop nito ng hangin na para bang may sumasakal sa kanya. Nakapikit, at naninigas ang mga kamay nito nang makita namin.

Tawag dito, tawag doon. Katabi ni Mama ang kanyang telepono at sinusubukang tumawag sa mga malalapit na ospital. Hihikbi ng kaunti ngunit hindi pwedeng tumulo ang luha, kailangang maging malakas para kay Papa. Puno na raw ang mga kwarto, siksikan ang mga kwarto at walang mapwestuhan. Parang mga dyip sa normal na araw na ala-sardinas ang mga pasahero para lamang makauwi na ang lahat. Wala kaming magawa kung hindi subukang tawagan ang iba pang ospital na maaaring may bakante pa. Nang hindi na makatiis dahil nawawalan na ng malay si Papa, tinawagan namin si Kapitana at nakiusap na lang na kung pwede ay hiramin namin ang kanilang traysikel. Ngayon lang talaga. Salamat sa Diyos at pumayag naman ito at isinakay agad si papa upang dalhin sa ospital. Hindi na ako

pinasama dahil iisa lang daw ang maaaring kasama ng pasyente.

Tine-text ako ni Mama kung ano na ang nangyayari, tinanggihan sila ng mga ospital na tinawagan niya. Wala raw kama at ‘yong isa naman ay dalawang oras pa ang hihintayin bago ilagay sa waiting list. Sabi ko kay Mama ay magpakatatag siya. Maghahanap daw ulit sila ng ospital. Ngunit, nang bumalik sila ng bandang alas-otso dito sa bahay, nanghihina na si Papa. Kitang-kita sa kanyang pangangatawan ang kahirapan nito sa paghinga, naninigas na ang kanyang mga kamay at namumutlang labi. Pinahiga siya sa dating higaan at inilagay ang oxygen tank. Hinawakan ko lang ang kamay niya at bumubulong ng dasal para bigyan siya ng lakas sa paghinga. Sana mawala na ang sakit ni Papa, hindi ko kayang nakikita siyang nagkakaganito.

“Papa, ‘pag nagpagaling ka, hinding hindi na ako magpapasaway. Pangako ‘yon,” sabi ko sa kanya habang hinahaplos ko ang kanyang ulo.

Mag-aalas dose na ng umaga nang tinawagan kami ng ospital, mayroon na raw magagamit na kama. Dali-dali namang nag-asikaso si Mama upang madala agad si Papa sa ospital. Pagdating doon, pinahiga si Papa sa kama. Sa labas ng emergency room. May dalawang pasyente pa raw kasing nauna kaysa sa kanya kaya pinapila muna sina Papa sa labas. Wala raw talagang espasyo doon sa loob. Ang ibang pasyente na hindi naman nadapuan ng virus ay nakapwesto sa mga daanan ng ospital, kumot ang tanging sapin sa lapag. Buti na lang may kama silang pinuwesto sa labas dahil nakatawag kami. Nakahinga nang maluwag-luwag si Mama. Akala namin tapos na ang kalbaryo.

Hindi pa pala.

Bandang alas-tres habang naghihintay si Papa na makapasok sa ospital, hindi na ito gumagalaw. Kausap ko sa cellphone si Mama noong nangyari ito. Humihikbi siya sa kabilang telepono habang ako naman ay sumisigaw. Ramdam ko ang pagbagsak sa akin ng langit at lupa. Hindi ako makahinga habang pinapaliwanag sa akin ni Mama ang nangyari.

“Hindi na humihinga si Papa mo.” Ito ang mga katagang dumurog sa aking pagkatao. Kumuha ako ng unan at kinagat ko ito para doon sumigaw. Ang sakit-sakit. Hindi ko inakala sa buong buhay ko na ganito lang mawawala si Papa. “May pag-asa pa” ang bulong niya sa akin kanina bago sila umalis patungong ospital. Matapos lamang ang ilang oras ay

wala na siya. Hindi ko alam ang aking gagawin, napaluhod ako hawakhawak ang unan at humagulgol. Wala na si Papa. Paulit-ulit kong sambit. Wala na siya.

Matapos ang tatlong araw ay napa-cremate na si Papa at naiuwi na rin siya ni Mama. Kailangan pa kasi naming maghanap ng pera para sa crematorium. Pagdating ni Mama, pinaligo ko muna siya at inasikaso. Hinainan ng pagkain at sinuklayan ko ang kanyang buhok. Wala ni isa sa amin ang may ganang magsasalita. Pagkatapos ay umupo kaming magkatabi at umiyak nang sabay. Hindi namin kaya ang mag-isang dalhin ang sakit sa dibdib.

Isang buwan na ang nakalipas nang mawala si Papa. Habang sinisindihan ko ang kandila para sa kanyang altar, narinig ko sa telebisyon ang balita.

“Rodolfo Dimagiba is diagnosed with COVID-19”—isang pulitiko. Ayon sa report, naghihingalo na raw ito ngunit naitakbo pa sa pampublikong ospital, kung saan namin dinala si Papa. Iyon kasi ang pinakamalapit at pinakamalaki sa lungsod. Pinakita sa TV ang isang larawan nito na mayroong aparato sa paghinga at naka thumbs-up pa. Ayon sa anak niya, okay naman daw ang pakiramdam ng senador sa kasalukuyan.

Naiyak ako. Tumatakbo sa aking isip ang napakaraming tanong, noong kami ang nangangailangan ng ospital, bakit wala kaming makuha? Bakit parang ang bilis para sa mga may kaya na makakuha ng kwarto sa ospital? Buwan na ang nakalipas mula nang namatay si Papa. Dala-dala ko pa rin ang sakit ng kanyang pagkawala. Namatay ang aking ama sa tabi at labas ng ospital sa ilalim ng malamig na gabi. Dahil walang kwartong mailaan para sa kanya. Tapos sa isang pitik ng kanilang mga daliri, itong mga trapo ay nakakuha agad ng espasyo sa loob ng punuang ospital? Gulong-gulo ang aking isipan at galit na galit naman ang aking dibdib.

Ngayon, kitang-kita ko na ang sinasabi nilang pagkakaiba ng may kaya at mahirap. Malayong malayo sa pinakita nila noong nangangampanya pa sila. Langit daw ang matatamasa, impyerno pala sa piling nila.

Henry

Jacinth Banite

A door made of steel was slammed in an isolated abyss, loud enough to startle the dust floating around the narrow and dark chamber.

“Well, well, well. Someone’s having a bad day,” said the naked boy sitting in the muggy corner of the room, as he noticed the sharp expression on my face the moment I entered his ruined space.

But for me, the first thing that hit was the smell: a rancid odor emanating from his frail physique, blending with the whiff of rusting chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles. The noxious scent was highly irresistible—so addictive that I kept coming back for more, relishing in the nausea that flooded my system.

“Shut up,” I hissed, walking toward the makeshift couch near a table. It creaked as I placed the bag of canned soft drinks along with his favorite double-decker cheese sandwich. I always despised this boy’s sarcasm—not a trace of gratefulness toward the man who had been providing him solace, keeping him accompanied with daily visits and elusive conversations.

“Let me guess, the police are starting to ask questions about me again, aren’t they?” he asked while his face remained down, emulating the voice of an evil spirit.

However, as he turned his head up and looked at me, a slow chuckle filled the room, mocking and disdainful. The boy was right, authorities were indeed looking for him again, hunting for secrets lurking within this dreadful cradle.

From my peripherals, I caught him staring idly, which my instinct suggested I should return with an equal kind of glare. When our gazes met, it was not his eyes I saw but a bare face covered with sludge, a pair of lips that were pale and perfectly chapped, and scrawny shoulders trembling amid the skin-peeling humidity. Blended with his pernicious shape were fresh bruises carved on his keen phases. Those finger marks on his neck were almost like the finishing touches of a dreadful art piece.

The more I examined this boy’s ravaging advent, the more I grew fascinated with the blatant vigor in his eyes and words, despite his dwindling strength. I wondered how long it would take for the twiddling paint to completely turn him into a mere shadow in the corner.

“They won’t find you here,” I said as I loosened my tie, keeping my eyes on him.

“Oh, I know.” His grin became wider. There goes that look as sharp as daggers that could easily pluck my eyeballs out. “That’s why I have to escape,” he said, with a pause between each word. That statement alone was too hopeful for someone who had been kept here for decades.

“What are you trying to say?” I cocked my head in confusion.

“I said, I need to escape.”

“And how on earth are you going to do that, with those…. chains?”

Instead of replying, he threw a gaping stare at the bundle of keys hanging from my belt, not even bothering to hide his interest. I never saw him crave for something that much, until this moment. Still, I clasped the key with my bare hand, already refusing his suggestion. “No, no. Setting you free is the last thing I want to do. Especially now. It won’t be good for the business.”

He responded with a cold grin, chilling like the haunting noises at midnight. Then he stopped, looking into my eyes with an evil glint, the look reminiscent of a possessed porcelain doll.

“I like seeing you this way. You’re looking more like your father.”

Damn that word!

“Don’t!” The word slipped out of my mouth almost instinctively. Then, realizing what I’ve just done, I clasped my lips tightly together, trying my hardest not to break down at that instant. I looked down on his figure threateningly, with my nails digging through my palm.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I pushed a soft spot, didn’t I? Silly me!” The sarcasm in his gaze melted into mere pretension.

“Why do you always do that?! Why do you keep mentioning him despite us having the deal not to?!” I clenched my fists even harder as grinding teeth weighed out the tone of anger in my voice.

He mocked me with an empty stare, with that observing look in his eyes that told me he was simply waiting for the building tension to explode. I refused to give into his words, though, and let a few seconds pass. The boy was the first to break the silence.

“Well, I just wanted to know. How’s Emmanuel doing? Haven’t seen that man in ages.” He placed his right palm under his chin, where I could see the iron collar eating away the bone in his wrist. It rattled heavily because of his movements. His position shed light to his serrated jaw, sharp like a skeleton. “If he had the guts to put me in here, he should at least have the decency to visit.” I almost thought I recognized a tone of begging in his voice until he hid it under a shallow chuckle.

“Well, if not because of your stupid curiosity, you wouldn’t be here.”

“It’s not my fault I accidentally saw that tape in his room that night,” he insisted.

“Well, if you could’ve been more careful, then…” I stopped as the alarm on my wristwatch went off.

“I need to go,” I reminded myself then started fixing my tie back. “Here, suit yourself.” I placed the plastic back I brought on his side.

A few steps away from the door, the chained person called my name, this time in the voice of a 17-year-old.

“Henry,” he muttered, almost like a plea.

I stopped in my tracks, waiting for the rest of his words without turning my head to look at him.

“You have to let me go, you can’t go back here over and over again.”

There’s a subtle hint of desperation in his voice, indicating his sincerity in pleading me to not come back in this filthy chamber. To unsee his bare appearance would be quite satisfying, but it would be dejecting to no longer feel the strength his eyes and words yield. I wanted to utter a response, but my tongue could only carve out empty words. I had no reply save for taking the remaining steps toward that same metallic door and shutting it close, loud enough for the dusted walls to quiver.

I woke up at the desk filled with paper and pens. Sweat moisted my entire body while I trembled like a sheep. I was distracted by the noise coming from my wristwatch. I turned it off and caught a glimpse of blinking numbers, then realized that I fell asleep for almost an hour. I looked around to check if I was still in the right phase of my reality. The familiar vibrance of my own office consoled my doubts. I almost jumped from my chair when the telephone rang beside me, giving me barely enough time to compose myself before picking it up.

“Sir?” said the woman on the other line. It’s Nikki, my secretary.

“Yes?”

“The police are here again, they want to see you.” As she uttered her response, I found myself filling the remainder of her sentence in my mind, having heard it many times before. That was not the first time provoking strangers reached out to me.

Last week, I received an email from a non-native lawyer asking for a casual conversation regarding the family he’s defending. The other day, a journalist from a local publication called my office requesting for an interview, assuring me a set of clean-cut questions about my background. Funny how his voice reminded me of a moment from 20 years ago when I was being blinded by flashes of cameras, punched with countless microphones bigger than my face as I drowned with questions I barely understood.

Those previous attempts have been met with stone cold rejection and varying degrees of telling them I know nothing and I’m busy. This time, however...

“Let them in.” I sighed deeply on my end, covering my face with my palm.

Three gentlemen walked into my office, the badges on the right side of their chests reminding me of my faded aspirations of becoming a policeman when I was a kid.

“Sir.” One of the officers extended his right arm for a hand shake.

I received it without much pleasure. I partially stood from my chair and gave a plain bump against his palm, with my lips folded together. The officer must have felt my lack of enthusiasm, as he cut to the chase and proceeded to tell me the sole purpose of their visit right then and there

“The supreme court is reopening your father’s case, Sir.” It was an uncanny greeting for someone who just woke up from an afternoon nap.

“So I’ve heard,” I responded, trying to sound uninterested.

“The court is asking you to take a stand against him.” His tone made it clear that he wasn’t asking, but rather insisting.

“What for?” The words I let out were as dull as the rim of papers on my desks. Hopefully they didn’t notice me swallow a lump in my throat.

“They believe that you are a potential witness of his child exploitation and pornography dealings almost 20 years ago. And that would be enough evidence to lead him to his conviction.”

I struggled softly, gasping for breath. A sick feeling built up in the base of my gut. Not sure if it was the guilt that lingered within or it was just me feeling sorry for my transient silence throughout these years.

I bet the police noticed my sudden discomfort, for they didn’t comment further. Instead, he took something from his wallet, carefully placing it on my desk. “You can call us here anytime, let us know if we can expect you in the hearing tomorrow.”

Without waiting for a response, they started walking toward the door, eager to give me back my lone space.

For every foot step they took, I heard the chains of the boy locked in that chamber I often visited. The moment I heard the sound of a twisted doorknob, I heard the tone of desperation from that boy living somewhere in my dream, pleading for me not to see him anymore.

“Wait!” I yelled, but it sounded like a whisper.

The officer turned to me. I raised my head and looked him in the eye. Right there, I was met with relief. The next thing I knew, I was nodding my head toward him... slow but certain.