Countdown

written by Mikaela Tormon visual by Jason Lee J. Pamati-an

The trembling began to grow as beads of sweat slowly dripped from my shaky hands. As I gawk at the clock, the thoughts in my mind race faster and faster, as if they’re horses galloping at a stadium. What will the hours make me face? Nine .

The clock’s ticking arm continues to mock me and my slowly decaying body. Maniacal laughter comes from each clack, reminding my soul of wasted seconds, wasted opportunities, and wasted breaths. Eight .

Body. This cycle is inevitable, right? By the time the long black streaks that crown my head fade to gray and my porcelain skin forms loose wrinkles, will I still be able to run towards freedom, or will my legs wobble as I try to outrun the ticking clock? Seven .

The races have not yet stopped—and this time they have picked up their pace. These worries run off into the farthest corners my mind possesses. As they bolt, lighting courses through them, surging new anxieties to be unlocked. The shell of comfort that embraces me cracks. Six.

Then there was a sudden ring. The shrilling noise drills through my ears, its piercing sound gets louder and louder every millisecond. Boom! goes the rapid beating of my eardrums, each bang building towards a crescendo. The noises never stopped as I awaited what was to come. Five.

Only five more counts, only five more breaths. Can my fickle body bear this crushing pain—or will the pillar of ivory bones collapse as I bear the weight of the unknown on my shoulders? Four.

I try to brace myself for what is to come. New shoes my swollen feet have to fill. At that thought, hot liquid pools in my swelling eyes. These tears threaten to spill, yet I never permit them. This is what I’m supposed to do, right? Three .

It’s getting closer, and I can feel every organ, every muscle, every bone aging gradually. The little tea party is over, it’s time to leave my raggedy dolls behind. Yet I find myself stuck, fearing to kiss my life goodbye. Two .

Quicksand. It feels like quicksand. I find myself slowly drowning at the thought of the horrors time is about to bring. This is it. Two more counts, two more breaths. One more, I am closer to death. One. “Happy Birthday!”

How To Say Goodbye by Lou Marcial M. Cuesta

Step one: You don’t.

As much as we’ve learned the language of farewells, we simply cannot let go. Of tarnished epitaphs. Of interrupted time. Of the persistence in two, interlocked pinky fingers. In all of its tangency, nothing was built for departures, only arrivals. Because even when the ground breaks in planes and shards, I will be your genesis. I shall plant brand-new seeds, and plow shiny fields in the aftermath of an exit. Your exit.

But the next step in saying a proper goodbye is an irony, unraveling at the seams of this piece. Perhaps it does not make sense now, but I pray that it will soon.

Should the road divide in-between

the living and the dead, the missed chances and the replayed ecstasy, of you and me. I have no choice but to continue to step two. We often ask how one says goodbye, but the better wonder is when.

Step two: You do. (Long after your knuckles bruise from the grip, the blood dries out by the tip of your fingernails, and the tears lose their salt and alkaline). Eventually.