His Way To Sainthood

Ang Pagtatapos ng Taon

dedicated to Jaja Fulgar,
cruellanutella on Twitter,
mother cruella de vil,
biggest stockholder in my
company of cruelty. x

//

  "When Richard makes his plans, he writes them down."
- Faulkerson, R. (2016)

i. 

"Hi, I'm Maine!"

I step out into the the cold air and into complete nothingness, because I have decided to let go of my ways. To live like an ordinary person. I am nothing but surprised that I am actually writing while I am sitting on my couch, here in my living room, and not on my desk in my room. I am starting to lose grip of my old self; I envision myself as another person, far from the kind I was a year ago, a newborn trying to learn how to cry to get attention in the most natural way. 

I go to the office. Ian says I could meet normal people today. I didn't know how to properly define the word, though. I smile and nod at them. I receive compliments. I am undeniably handsome, and I look trustworthy. They look forward to accomplishing great work with me, even if I am a temporary worker. I laugh inwardly. Ian never said normal people are this weird. They say unnecessary things. They exchange pleasantries like they mean it. This is not even different from the world I came from. 

I could see right through their lies, and it starts to irk me. Kei, a woman who sits four desks away from me, sends an unidentified look towards Ray who is in the desk across hers. Ray does not look back, focuses on his paper works, and the ignored gesture makes Kei's face twist into something I cannot comprehend. Only irritation is evident. I decide I do not like Kei. She easily turns impatient, as I have observed for a few hours. The supposed 'boss' decides not to give me a heavy load of work; even Ian cannot work normally around me.

"Sir -" 

His tongue slips during break time, and my lips try to curve upward to form a small smile. I fail, because my eyes are dead and blank. He is still not used to this uncle-nephew relationship; Ian closes his eyes, hangs his head low, and whispers his apologies. He quietly hands me another batch of papers to read and summarize. I do it in minutes; why do normal people have the easiest work?

I find an interesting hobby as I walk around this small office. AIB, the company my mother immediately bought the moment I told her I am coming home, has their whole office in a single floor. If these workers are normal people, I only categorize them into two: they are only amusing, or annoying. Or cold, if they don't fall under the said categories. Jen, a mother of two, types in a haste as if the clock's hands are chasing her. Mari, a guy in his late twenties, sips his coffee and pretends that his work is finished. I pretend to walk towards the photocopying machine near his desk and I take the chance to glance at his screen; not even half of his load is finished. I know; I do Ian's job when I get bored.

There's nothing surprising in the normal world. I can simply remove the guns, the bombs, the threats, and the extravagance - and I am back at my usual surroundings. People still don't say what they really mean and I have to trust my eyes and taste as I interact with them. All of them are pretty much jaded; we all have this huge wall between us, harder to cross and to destroy than thin walls of our own cubicles. Mostly, they are struggling with their own selves and dealing with self-inflicted torment, rather than contending with other people.

Most of the times, they struggle with their own ideas and beliefs. A huge percentage of this normal world is competing against the kind of society where they were raised in, and I didn't know how to react. Does this mean I am already normal to start with?