No Dichotomy Between Half-Full & Half-Empty

CHAPTER 12: Jaime

The church as their haven wasn't because of the building's holy nature or safe-haven status. It was more in the realm of muscle memory; what he was used to.

His mother, Maya, was a huge fan of the man upstairs. She'd trained Jaime to pray dusk and dawn; before and after meals. If he needed guidance for something even her wisdom wouldn't be enough to fulfil, she would encourage him to kneel before the altar and be reverent.

It was this exact thing he'd done with Ada at the ungodly hour of three in the morning. They were both at the ripe age of sixteen. Their love for each other had long been confessed, their first kisses had long been given, and their promises had long been made. They'd kneeled just as Maya had taught them and asked for God's blessing and help. Ada's body shook uncontrollably as she muttered the chorus of prayers while crossing herself. Jaime's heel pressed hard against his behind and his throat hurt from saying the prayers of the rosary repeatedly. The heat from the candles on the altar blew his way and poisoned his eyes with salty perspire. Something else was on Jaime's mind while he spoke the repetitive prayer.

Next to his slightly reddened knees was a scrap of paper, peeled tangerines and paint. Not too long ago, his mother was here crossed-legged and dug her thumb into the top of the tangerine. She peeled the skin off with concentration etched into her face and then dipped the skin into the paint. Then she transferred the coloured peel to the paper and pressed hard. "This is one of the many ways you can make texture," she said.

"Where did ya learn this technique?" asked Ada.

Maya glanced at her son, then back at his muse with a smile. "The brothel."

Jaime flinched.

Without notice, Ada stretched over to get an untouched piece of tangerine peel and copied the act Maya had done. Jaime stayed still and watched her soft hands manoeuvre over the paper as the candlelight from the altar illuminated her skin and gave it a glow.

"Won't you try?" his mother asked.

He spent a moment looking at Ada's skill before turning to his mother. With an open palm, he gestured to their art class. "You know we're not supposed to have these things. Where did you get them?"

"Tangerines? Why would they prohibit us from getting such a delicious treat?"

"Ma."

He held her gaze like the stubborn teenager he was, but she wasn't the type to portray the strict, father-like figure. She sighed in surrender. "Tell me something. Do you know why we're not allowed to own paper or write or draw?"

Jaime straightened. "Yeah. There are a few trees left. The mayor wants to conserve the resources."

"Then the walls of paintings that block us from the outside world," she said and picked up her tangerine peel. "What's those about?"

"I don't know. Aesthetic? To make life prettier? I hear that outside of those picture frames is a world of darkness and monsters."

"So why take it away from us? The people with colour?"

"I mean, we already have so many paintings around us. Why try to create more?" Jaime leaned back on his palms. "If we leave it to the higher-ups as we've always had, there's no need for us to intervene, right?"

The conversation went lull as if his mother was contemplating an answer, but she changed subjects. "You don't like the fact that your mami is sleeping with men, right?"

He flinched. "It's not-" He took a breath in. "They call you names behind your back, Ma."

"They call you names too," Ada added, as she took a bite from a piece of tangerine. Juice spilt innocently from her lips.

"What do they call him?" Maya asked Ada.

"You don't need to answer that." Jaime interrupted.

"The hoe's child. The bitch's child. The-"

"Stop it, Ada."

She stopped.

Maya scooted closer to her son. "How do you feel about that, Jaime?"

He didn't answer.

"I wish to paint to express a message that people like us might never tell," she told him. "I understand that because you're going to school you want to keep a certain image, but Mami has to do certain things because of her colour to keep you attending that school." He said nothing. "I pray to God that you never have to do atrocious things to be successful, but I hope that one day you'll understand where I'm coming from."

Jaime finally met his mother's eyes. They looked quite similar. The only major difference might've been that puberty made Jaime more square and tall compared to his tiny mother, who had more curved edges. He opened his mouth to finally reply to her. Maybe it would be his regularly said apologies or another rebuttal, but he never learnt what would come out of his lips that unfaithful night. Jamaal had interrupted them.

"A man wanna speak to you," he said. Like always, he was an ill-mannered child with the urge of spilling his unstable hormones from his step from toddlerhood. He still smelt like cigarettes and gunpowder, a smell that never seemed to leave him.

Maya narrowed her eyes. "White or black?"

Jamaal shrugged. "It's too dark out. But he spoke like a white man."

Without a second word to the children she'd been babysitting not too long ago, she pushed herself to her feet and headed out of the cathedral.

When she disappeared, Jamaal threw his frail body to the floor with broken huffs of breath and eyes that threatened to pop out of their sockets.

Ada rushed to him and gripped his shoulders. "Hey, what's the matter? Sick? Hurt?"

Jamaal was crying. He looked at his side. It had the colour of red.

"Who was that man you sent my mother to?" Jaime asked and gripped the boy's arm so tight that he nearly fell off his fours.

"Ion know. Ion know," Jamaal said over and over like a chorus. "He put a knife to me and said that if I didn't lure her out, he would kill me."

Jaime shoved the boy from the path between the benches of the cathedral and marched out. He saw the sight of paper scattered across the damp dirt of the cathedral's garden with liquid too thick to be blood. He-

BANG!

With Khadija strapped to him, he whipped around to where the sound of the gunshot had come from. Shit. The riots flocked inside of the church. He should've known they would do that. He'd learnt fifteen years ago that church was long stripped of its haven status. Yet, like an incurable bad habit, he'd always run straight to a church. And somehow he knew he would make the same mistake over again.