And there he was, with cold sweat rolling down his ash white face, with his hands trembling as if a block of cold ice was forcefully tied between his palms, talking to the invisible figures that dictates morality. He thought of a prayer, begging to clear the cloud of doubts that seem to be fogging his innocent mind. He was new to this. He was brought here by the demons that defined right as wrong and wrong as right. He slowly reached out his hand, glory! Glory and bounty more than he could ever imagine. Finally, he thought, his family will no longer suffer the wrath of poverty. Poverty that crushed people's faith and fidelity to Him, to them. Come to think of it, THEM, who he-we- thought that would call progress upon each open hands of the people have rather let the spotlight shine over their artificial halos. Too late he said.
He pulled the trigger and one of THEM fell to the ground. He deliberately watch the flow of the crimson blood flooding the ocean blue floor. The sight would make one puke, vomit over but he, who was tied by strings of the puppet master, simply grimaced. Poor soul, pity indeed! Driven by greed and insanity, he shoot the man again and again and again until his face was unrecognizable. He stared at his blood filled hands 'what have I done?' he finally snapped. Behind him a man's voice echoed 'You just did what I think is right.' he turned his back to him, but before leaving he said 'Welcome to hell, my precious monster.'
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Sigaw ni Seven
Short StoryThe following essays and articles contains rhetoric and realistic reflections of the status quo. Read them with heart as they were written with passion.
