Only then explained Margery. Close behind, first she switched the music from the Beatles to Haydn and Schubert's compositions, all found in one vinyl; compiled along with Beethoven's.
It was before one of the hottest summers, 2017. Back in early January; four months prior to the month when Maya had decided to take the leap, before jumping from top of one of the highest buildings in the mainland. Back then, like myself, Margery said she used to be an employee under a certain company. And again, exactly just like me, Margery had forgotten the company's name she served already. Equal. Said she couldn't even remember its mission and vision (of which, in times of past, present, and perhaps future, is required for every company).
Margery used to be a middle-aged lady. She also said, truly out of nowhere, that she fully pledged to herself that she'd never marry a man. "Never," she admitted. "Men are awful."
Aside from her dim description, I asked of further why.
But instead of her answering, the old lady said it didn't have to concern me; that, in all of her honesty, it didn't belong to my business to know about the said matter. Of her decision not to marry anyone.
The point of her telling all these to me, merely, is because she thought I'd at least needed to know how her life intertwined with the siblings— how their points met: Margery, and Maya, and the little brother. How the three of them used to live altogether, right here, in the house that used to be so vibrant-looking. And that she had always been aware of the house's fading gold.
"But still," I commented, "it still looks and feels vibrant here."
"No, no," she retorted. "Not much from the outside."
The old lady went on with her story. From this way forward 'till the end of her account, Margery took the narrative from me. Literally. This time, she had started telling. Of what happened within the months of January and April, year 2017.
I now have a problem with memory, I'm completely aware of it. But in those months, I recall everything.
I was out of this house, said Margery. Most perhaps having a day in the work, like many men and women with corporate jobs. You know, during business hours I had a schedule. Everyone did. Everyone does. Maya was in her twenties; her little brother, in teenage years. Giving the fact their parents died early, only when they were kids, at their given ages Maya and her brother could get by a day without parental accompany. The way I know both of them, they were independent.
Besides, that time Maya had been working already, too. She had her own income, yes. She had money for herself, and for her little brother too, who was studying for junior high school. All three of us—as if kind of always—already had either responsibilities or role to play in the society. We were busy. We were working and studying, without even asking of how we were feeling. Immersed in our own worlds, that is more likely to put it. Each minute of passing clock we'd receive seemed occupied, like storage rooms, where none of us could breathe because of intense density. As if we were selfish.
And then we—as in Maya and I—knew something was off about her little brother. His attitude, his behavior changed into something aberrant; a change of heart. It started mid-January.
He had began returning home, right here, quite late at night. Yes, yes, Maya owned an apartment for herself, but still as big sister to her little brother, she used to visit here often. In this same house. That if I recall clear could be four to five times of visiting per week. Maya never let the weekends passed by without visiting here— that caring friend of yours, she always made sure of buying us groceries, giving her sibling too a fine amount of allowance. To us, Maya had always been open-handed. Too generous.
But at that mid-January, there came a night when she took a visit while her little brother was off the grid. She asked me, "Where is he?" of which I got no answer to tell her back then. Even I myself did not know. At that time, no, I had been stressed at work that I seemed to find little time in knowing every corner of this house. Kind of disregard. Overlooked.
So we waited.
Maya and I waited 'till twelve; only in that moment we heard the door opened. It was him, her little brother. His eyes were deep reddened; his face a mess, with one big black eye on the right, and another smaller one on the left. Wounded. He was wounded. A little splashed of blood could also be seen on his face, until now I recall. As if he just got out of one of the most dangerous prisons in the whole world; one located here in the Philippines.
Maya asked him, "Hey, what happened to you?"
"I got into a fight," he replied. By then he went straight upstairs along with his bag— a big piece of luggage, by its vile and green around the gills appearance, looking like it had been cut almost into half by a certain type of knife or dagger.
Maya and I had exchanged long glances. Aunt to niece; niece to aunt.
"What's going on?" she asked.
And I said, "I don't know..."
And so, in order for us to know more, we went upstairs and asked her brother once again. Upstairs, about the doorway to his room, we both stood stall. I asked him first, Maya asked the second. And yet, we both did not get a response.
He was lying on his futon bed with his eyes closed shut, arms and feet opened wide, although we knew he wasn't asleep; still we couldn't get any answer to the question 'What happened?' He had his mouth full-zipped. But behind his eyelids, we knew his eyes were gorged-moving; he was conscious.
"You have to at least tell us what happened," his sister demanded. She sounded different than she was down on the first floor, right here where we were found. The tonality in all her words could pierce metal shields; I still remember it, as if her words had been sharpened into harpoons.
"Didn't I tell already?" He said, "That's it. I got into a fight."
"Were you alone?"
"I was," he answered, "but I took them all alone, I'm okay. I'm by myself. I'm strong. There's nothing to worry about. I can take them all, yes. I made sure they'll leave me alone."
"Look... we can't let you do this to yourself..."
I agreed. "Your sister's right. You need to listen."
"For Christ's sake, please avoid petty fights," Maya said; uncontrolled now. "Still acting like a kid? Really? Why? You're in high school! At least you act accordingly... I'm sorry, we can't tolerate that behavior. No one tolerates it. You have to listen to us, please."
"I'm sorry, okay?" Her little brother decided to sit. He couldn't contain his subtle quietness no more. He faced us; remaining, he had these red eyes seemingly bloodshot. Like real blood. Like a tint of scarlet ink had been spilled directly to his eyes. "I won't do it again. I promise."
"Don't make me laugh now," said Maya.
"What?"
"You never deemed your promises. Don't bullshit me."
"Excuse me?"
"You always break them, you," she continued, "you're still a boy, not a man of your words."
"Stop now, I mean it."
"You're not a man at all."
"How dare you!!" He stood up; walked towards us, and then slammed the door, so right to our faces. We almost got caught by the impact. But thank God, we did not. To me and Maya it was disrespect, but that was it: the end of the night.
At certain point we hoped it wouldn't repeat, hoped it wouldn't happen once again; clearly, I remember these hopes of us way in the past. This beating of his face, so hard it's cold; his vicious behavior— Maya and I wished it would be the last time it happens. No more days, no nights to come when her brother's face will get damaged like a broken toy. We hoped for no more violence.
However, days passed and so did months, yet the aberrant behavior of his remained. In fact, he even got redder eyes than before as I saw him going back home, going back here. Frequent. And whenever I tried talking to him, whenever our eyes would both meet, I could definitely say he was avoiding. Me.
I'm your aunt! I wanted to shout at him but I didn't. We're living below the same roof— aside from your sister, I feed you; I sometimes cook for you. Can't you see me?
At least, tell me what is going on in your life.
What's your problem?
One night, I recall, around February to March, I heard him and his big sister Maya talking inside his room. They sounded so highly serious, so I didn't interrupt them— I stood kind of far from the room's doorway; I eavesdropped them right by the stairs, and I listened with an eager intent.
By then, Maya spoke. "What's going on with you..."
"I don't know..."
"This isn't... it's not how we were raised... just... think about Aunt Marge..."
"I know..." said the brother. "I'm aware."
"Then why'd you still do it?"
"Because I can't... I can't help myself..." the brother admitted. "I'm... I'm telling you now, I feel trapped in a room so dark if I don't use it. As if I can't find a glint of light. I'm alone. I'm alone, and devoured by myself... I'm addicted..."
"To drugs," the sister alleged, trying not to shout it so loud. "Listen, like it or not, you're gonna need some help. I'll search for a center, a rehab, I—"
"No, fuck no!!" he replied. "Really, I've been trying to wanna go there. Believe me. I do wanna get healed. But I can't go there, no... I can't..."
"Please..."
"No, no, I don't wanna leave the things I have here. I'm good. These things... I don't wanna leave what's got a hold on me, no. It's not as simple as you think, I'm not leaving. I can't— I just, I can't."
"I don't wanna make this a favor," she insisted. "I know it's hard not to use them... but you're gonna have to, you will fight it. As your sister, I'm asking you. Commanding you, even. You need to get help, please. I plead for you. If you don't accept this favor, fine. I'll make it an order. Whatever the difference is between the two, please, as family, do it for me. Let me get you some help. Allow me to help. Aunt Marge knows some reha—"
"No!"
At first I could not believe what was I hearing. Two siblings. One trying to help; the other one, couldn't help himself. Truly, I felt the need to intervene— as I heard them talking, as their aunt, at the very least I had to persuade him to get admitted in a rehabilitation center. For the addicts. I had connections, yes. I knew center places before; I knew where and who could help my nephew. But, back then, I decided to step back. I did not know why.
But I did.
As they were done talking, I heard Maya stood and was about to leave his room now. I went downstairs, as if I hadn't heard anything.
I wanted to ask, to inquire.
Deep within, I would like to know more of their filial talk, of their brother and sister talk. Because if it was that too serious, I, Margery, as one of their relatives who took care of both of them when they were young, at least had to know more about the addiction. His addiction, his substance abuse; and of him needing help— I knew I had to help.
And yet I didn't.
I didn't initiate another talk with them. I let it go. And perhaps, this was—and still is—my biggest flaw as a human being. My ignorance. Which, I think, could also be considered as full extent of human fatality. Even more, in particular, perhaps to the point of hamartia; a fatal flaw of my existence here as a person, and especially as their aunt.
I had failed as their aunt.
Later in the same year, I heard about the startling news.
Maya's little brother, a mere junior high school student, as someone with drug problems listed on the nationwide's watchlist of addicts, got gunned down and killed amidst the active months of Oplan Tokhang. Death clicked. Caught in the former President's national law project—a thrash on human rights—that launched over the country in specializing of taking down junkies.
Sun was still up. Five bullets of .45 Caliber pinned straight within his head. The bullets were found in the autopsy, later given to me. The culpable perpetrators remained as unknown men. Injustice— it was all there is. The date was April 21, 2017. At a young age of 16, apparently, one Grade 11 student got arrested by masked men; three of them, all of them wearing black, at the beginning of the day. Before the boy got dragged, many witnessed him first still wearing his white uniform. Later tainted by red, the color of human blood.
And unfortunately, another bad break came, April 21 turned out as the same death day of his sister. Only three hours prior.
Around 12 o'clock noon, in knowing about the assault, immediately I dialed Maya.
Way back then, I didn't know what else to do. That time I knew I had to let Maya know about this; a terrible, heartbreaking news— in view of the fact that he's her brother, after all. Drawn. She had to know. But for years of thinking about it until now, when this memory resurfaces in front of my mind, I guess I didn't really know the right words to say, to her. And yet, I said it anyway— I had told her the news; as I cried, I said the words needed (or most unlikely needed then) to be said. And she heard, "He's dead."
She listened.
———
END OF PART TWO
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