When I heard the news of his passing, I felt as though worms were wriggling in my brain. A shiver went down my spine. To kill someone who was one of the figureheads of hope, of an honorable fight, was, in simple terms, dumb. Desperate.
For two decades, our morale was slowly picked apart– the process dragging. It started off with a big bang though. I mean it quite literally. Every time I imagine the bombing in Plaza Miranda, everything turns red.
I still miss my mama. I think I forever will. She was wearing a white t-shirt and her faded denim jeans. Her grey tsinelas were worn out from walking long distances to sell her puto bumbong. It hurts to think that even if I can finally afford to buy her a proper pair of tsinelas, she would not be around to wear them.
Sometimes I harbor dark thoughts. "Why couldn't it have been someone else in her place?"
I know it's wrong. Maybe it was fate, but I think that might be worse. Why then was I destined to lose a mother at 12 years-old?
If my mother had not gone to that rally that day, I might have grown up as a different person. We might be living a different life right now. I would not bleed words into paper. I probably would not have met Stella.
How is she now? A few weeks ago her memoir was released. My friend Badong secured a copy and was nice enough to lend it to me.
She writes well. It makes sense because she was educated in some of the best schools in the capital. She could afford all the resources she needed. Most of all, her family's story is interesting. All the feelings of envy, anger, and guilt have faded. I worry for her safety now, pity her even.
Just as I was about to throw up from processing about a thousand thoughts per minute, someone knocked on the mahogany door of the office.
"Have you heard?" asked Tita Marit, the head chismosa of our press.
I point to the radio to indicate that I have. Conjuring up words seems like such a chore. Anyone with a sound mind feels indignant right now. Even though I'm not a big fan of the man, his brutal murder angers me to the core. Exactly 12 years ago today, I had lost my mother from the Plaza Miranda bombing.
"Well, if you need someone to talk to…"
"Thanks, Tita Marit."
She leaves and I am left with my own thoughts again. I close my eyes and see her. Those chestnut brown eyes, so full of light. Her belly laughs echo in every room, so full of hope.
Do I call her? But I don't know their telephone number. Even if I do, what do I tell her? It's been a whole year since I saw her last. Both of us were drenched from the rain, as if we were starring in a movie just like her mother. That explains her love for the dramatics. And this is the very reason why I worry for her.
YOU ARE READING
ultraviolence
Historical Fictionstella tiamson discovers her family's secrets and her own sexuality during a time when people are being repressed. maricris dizon lives a subversive life after she finds out her mother was killed by the oppressive regime. both women find each other...
