Esklabo sang Misteryo

“Has anything noteworthy happened to him lately?” Whether or not I should have asked, I chose to press further.

“I’m a wizard, not an oracle,” he retorted, and rolled over to face the dingy prison wall.

I gave Wuund a curt thanks and went for the stairs. Before starting my ascent, I steeled myself and asked one final question to the wizard.

“And what if you’re wrong?”

“Could be. After all, I’m just a feeble old man sitting in a dark cell.” Son of a b*tch...

Following the wizard’s lead, I had myself hidden between some fresh cargo on the docks the next night. There’s no one here and I wondered if I was misled by that old man. Before I lost myself in thought, a young woman passed by my hiding spot, running away as a figure of a man gave chase.

Cold sweat chilled my body as I bide my time, drawing my own blade—a dagger—in anticipation.

Suddenly, there was a sound of blade plunging into flesh and a shriek. Springing from the cargo, I dashed towards the two, dagger gripped in hand. The man didn’t seem to know I was near-at-hand (or he didn’t care). I grabbed a hold of his shoulder as I felt his head snapping to face me. I felt a foreign object enter my lower abdomen— cold steel.

At the height of my focus, all that was left to do was to thrust.

In a second, it was all over. I turned the body over, expecting to find an unfamiliar face, but was greeted by the lifeless eyes of the apothecary that Wuund had mentioned.

Steadying my breath, I began to remove the blade lodged into me as my hands quaked in fear. Dropping the bloody knife, I clutched my wound while the metal clanged against stone.

Picking up a journal from Cal’s bag, I fell onto the snowy stone floor, and began sifting through the pages. To confirm that this really was the end or to heed my curiosity—I didn’t know. Flipping to the most recent entry, I scanned through:

“Modeia of the Third Season, 5 more bones, a left lung, and the foot tendon. Sister, I’ve almost done it.

How long has it been? 3 years? 3 years since I’ve heard your voice, Lilia. That’s why I studied all of this, my dear sister, this foul art of corpses and curses. But no matter, because once I complete your new body, we’ll be together again, and all will be well. I feel bad for those women I’ve killed, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me once you see how pretty you look in their skin.

You’ll come back to me soon.

Right?”

Pag-ikot ng Tsubibo DREXEL JOHN AMIT

“Hay,” aking buntong-hininga habang nakatungo’t pinagsakluban ng langit at lupa ang mukha.

Mag-iisang oras na rin siguro akong nakaupo sa matigas na bangko malapit sa bangketa ng cotton candy ngunit hindi ko magawang tumindig. Kasabay ng aligagang pagtalbog ng aking mga binti ay ang panaka-nakang pagsulyap sa kumpol ng mga tao sa paligid. Umaasa akong mahahagilap ng aking paningin ang kaniyang matangkad at maskuladong tindig na tinambalan ng undercut. Bigong makita ang pamilyar na pigura, ako’y napayuko; marahang isinara ang mga talukap.

“Ano ako? Uto-uto? Bakit naman ako pipikit at magbibilang?” angil ko sa paandar niyang pampakalma raw.

“Syempre para matuklasan mo kung gaano kadilim ang mundo ko sa bawat segundong hindi kita nakikita,” saad niya na may kasamang ngisi.

Tiim-bagang na pinipigilan ang pagtawa sa kanyang kakorniha’y sinunod ko ang kanyang utos.

“Sayang! Doble sa asul pero walang tumaya.”

Napamulat ako. Unti-unting inangat ang aking paningin sabay marahang bumaling sa kaliwa. Nagtitilian ang mga mananaya ng color game sa tuwing nakiki-ayon ang swerte sa kanila. Sa mangha’t galak ng mga parokyano sa perya’y muli na naman siyang sumayad sa aking kamalayan.

“Tignan mo oh! Tatlong pula yung lumabas! Ayos!” baling ko sa kaniya nang makitang triple ang magiging kahig namin matapos tumaya sa pula.

“Ang swerte—”

“Ako pa ba?” pagmamayabang ko bago pa niya matapos ang sasabihin.

“—ko talaga sa’yo,” sambit niya na sabay kindat. Tila wala atang panama ang kasabikan ko sa taun-taon naming pagsakay sa tsubibo sa mga kiliting kasalukuyan niyang ipinadarama sa aking dibdib.

“Oh! Sa mga gusto pang humabol diyan!” hiyaw ng konduktor ng tsubibo na siyang muling nagpabalik sa aking ulirat.

“Huling larga na ng tsubibo ngayong huling gabi ng perya!”

Daig ko pa ang tulin ng kidlat sa pagkaripas tungo sa kinaroroonan nito nang umalingawngaw ang anyaya ng konduktor. Gayunpaman, nakikipagtunggalian sa aking isip ang pagpapatuloy at paghihintay.

“Nangako siya sa’king darating siya,” munti kong usal sa sarili.

Napahinto ako ilang metro mula sa kinaroroonan ng tsubibo. Muli akong luminga pakaliwa’t pakanan, tila sinusuyod ang bawat sulok ng perya. Nakakunot ang noo’t panay libot ang mata, pilit sumasagi ang konduktor sa’king paningin.

“Bahala na.”

Napailing ako’t inihakbang ang kanang paa—

“ATONG!”

Hinay-hinay kong nilingon ang pinanggalingan ng tinig.

“Baste?”

Hindi mapigilan ng aking mga labing ngumisi habang tanaw ang kanyang bawat hakbang na pinupunan ang tila bagang milya naming pagitan.

“Pasensya na talaga, Atong. Kanina ka pa ba?” humahangos niyang pahayag.

Walang imik kong inalok ang aking hulas na palad. Dali-dali ko siyang hinigit at hinila sa mabato-batong daan tungo sa tsubibo.

Hindi na nagawa pang kumawala ng mga daing mula sa kanyang nakaawang na bibig nang tumigil kami sa harap ng nasabing sakayan. Mabuti na lang at naabutan namin bago pa ito maipihit paandar ng konduktor.

“Tulad ng dati?”

“Tulad ng dati.”

Mataman kong pinagmasdan ang iba’t ibang palaro at pakulo ng perya habang unti-unti silang nagiging tuldok sa aking paningin nang magsalita si Baste.

“Anim na taon na rin pala tayo, Atong, ‘no? Sana ‘di ka magsawang samahan ako sa pag-ikot ng tsubibo.”

Isang kuntentong ngiti ang sumagi sa aking mga labi.

NON-FICTION

ART BY ANGEL TARUBALLES

Hip-hop in the Time of Appendicitis HEZRON PIOS

what you don’t know can hurt you what you don’t know can turn your body against you

—Brian Russell

Blessed are those with low pain tolerance: The world drops you midair then asks, Are you alright? In 2014, my name got crossed out of a line-up consisted of 12 members for an interschool dance competition I dreamt of joining since sophomore year. If I had the guts back then, I could have been expelled from school at 16. If I had the guts back then, I would not be talking about this, and that, this, that, this, that, this, that, and this, though I’m getting ahead of myself. The narrative begins in the part where I was in the parking lot, practicing. Post-lunch, our crew leader turned on the music from his portable speaker. I walked towards the stage. I warmed up and up. Then, collapse.

My heart did not halt its beating when the pediatrician prescribed me to take a physical hiatus. My heart did not halt its beating when Doc said an inflammation consumed my appendix. My heart halted its beating when our choreographer yelled at me in his studio. His voice booming like the portable speaker. There’s nothing I can do, he said. I begged him to continue my training, but my crewmates pulled me from the scene. We went downstairs and someone suggested that we should meet our contest coordinator; to commute back to school and secure an explanation. I broke down in public and the only consolation I got was the impolite buzzing of Central Market jeepneys driven to reach their daily quota. I wished for invisibility. But no one was able to pacify the spectacle, if one could call it a spectacle. No one. Not even my dumb best friend.

In a dream, I was submerged. The pool tasted like my prescribed antibiotics. Despite running out of breath, I stayed below the surface for a long, long while. I couldn’t make it past the blues, into the light of day. Hurting had no logic.

My P.E. teacher was the culprit who submitted the lineup, my name excluded. This is the part where we were seated on the floor of an