Ghosts Don't Cry

I always write in third person when the floodgates open. Sigh. One of those times when I get cosmically sentimental.

--

It was a little over 2 AM when Alex decided to give up hanging around the phone to call Michael. He knew there were no more doors left open, or even slightly ajar for him to go into. Like the hush after a long war, everything was left desolate, gray, harried, and painfully silent.

He went to the kitchen and poured for himself half a glass of vodka. The flow of the liquid was slow and deliberate; its scent wafted through the room like a ghost.

A ghost.

That was what he was. Always have been, always will be. He almost always never knew where he was supposed to go. Almost always never knew what he was supposed to do. The furthest in the future he could think of was no more than a few minutes ahead. And right now, the only thing he could think of doing in the next few minutes is downing his vodka.

All the other space in his mind is occupied by Michael – who, as of that moment, is no longer part of his future. Not in the next few minutes, not in the next few days, not even a voice, or a breath, or a wistful look. Shut the door, throw away the key.

He was left out in the dark. He was hoping for rain, but not even the clouds would agree with him. It was awfully quiet. The night was windless but really, really cold. What can the warmth of a single tear do?

His hand mechanically touches the wetness on his cheeks to brush it away, but he realizes it isn’t his. He hadn’t shed a tear at all. It was Michael’s. The only thing Michael left him with. There were no words to remember; there was no look to embed itself in his heart; only the cooling wetness on his cheeks, burning like fire on a cold, silent, and windless night when all doors were shut, and there is no future to look forward to. Not even a few minutes to spare. Even the smell of the vodka is gone. But the ghost is still here, burning silently.

He puts down the empty glass on the counter, picks up the phone, and dials. The machine answers. “Hey Michael… I just wanted to say good night properly. Take care…”

Turn Around. Walk Away. Keep Silent.

I missed you. Never mind the fact that I'm lousy when it comes to keeping in touch. You used to at least call me every three days or so, even if you know I'll just end up bitching to you. Now you don't even txt me. Not even a lousy forwarded message.

Funny what reminded me about you -- my haircut. I was taking a bath and then all it took was a split second glance at the bathroom mirror to make me remember how I used to say I didn't like your hair. I thought it was too boring. I guess karma made a high-tech leap now because, well, surprise surprise, I now have the same hair as you do.

Did.

I don't know how your hair looks like now. The last time we saw each other was when you needed company one Saturday afternoon because you were three hours early at an appointment with your friends at Glorietta. I remember telling you you had really ugly hair then. As usual you just laughed it off and smacked me lightly with the Lord of The Rings 2003 Calendar which you gave me before I said I had to go. I remember telling you you had the lamest taste in gifts, but I thanked you anyway.

You knew I was just kidding. I do that to you all the time. It was you who even said, "Ang lambing mo naman." It was you who put up with my... eccentricities because you said you loved that about me. You saw right through me and you never gave up on me, no, not like the others before. You were the little prince, and I was the fox you had to tame. Heh... and ironically, you're straight.

You would never admit this, but I remember you telling me you love me. Though I was deprived of the chance to reply because right after you said the last syllable, you hung up. I thought of calling you up, but I guess both of us needed that time to think. And then it was never brought up again.

There was this one time I thought of mentioning it, but I guess being in the middle of a long FX ride is neither the time nor place to bring it up. Funny, that FX ride was on the way home. My home. I don't know what came over you but just after I closed the door and said see you soon, you opened it again and jumped right beside me. You said you thought maybe I could use the company. I was supposed to argue with you then, to tell you in case you forgot, you had some... Iglesia service whatever in 30 minutes, and the ride from Cainta to Ayala isn't exactly a stroll. But I didn't want you to leave. What I did want was to hold your hand. But again, I didn't want you to leave.

Now, I don't know what I did that Saturday, but after that day, I heard no more from you. I gobbled down huge amounts of pride to cover for lunch and dinner and txted you, "what's up?" with a smiley every week or so, but always, I don't get any replies.

I missed you. I would never admit this to anyone, but I do. And I'm biting my lower lip as I'm typing this, but I guess I... love you. You're the little prince and you made me the fox. You tamed me. You left. And I miss you.

(for jm)

Anti-Climactic Dream

All I could remember was that there was a wooden chair in front of me, and that I grabbed it with both hands by its legs, and smashed it on the wall. I was really angry. I turned my gaze and saw my father and I was really angry. The blood in me was thick with rage, and the dismantled legs of the chair were alive, whispering, "Smash me more, smash me more..."

He saw me. He saw me and he was still shouting. I was really angry and he was still shouting. He was taunting me I couldn't do it. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't stand it anymore. There was one thing in my mind I know I could really do right now, smashed chair and all. Unerringly, pure, bloody, perfect. I know there was one thing I could really do.

I was walking, chair legs in front of me, sweat on my brow, anger in my heart. I could hear him shouting at me, taunting me. I was so angry because I know he was right and he was wrong at the same time. I couldn't do it, I could do it. I couldn't, I could. Couldn't. Could.

And then I didn't want to think anymore. The broken chair legs suddenly found themselves smeared with blood from my father's cheeks. Blood from my father's neck. Blood from my father's forehead. I was shouting, I was breathing heavily. I can't tell anymore if I were laughing or crying or both. I did it. I did it. He was wrong. I was breathing heavily and I did it.

And I was breathing, I was breathing, sweating, and I was breathing... I couldn't hear anything other than the repeated dull thuds of wood against flesh... It was intoxicating.

Then I woke up. But I was still breathing. It was hard to believe. It was hard to believe it didn't actually happen, but the cheerful sun knocking on my window and the happy shrill of the 6AM birds didn't help. A blink. My eyes were caked with the thickness of sleep. Only my subsiding gasps were the link I have with the dream I just had, and it was fading with every second, until after a few more, it was gone.

I sat up and looked at the clock on my phone. 6:49 AM. Weird. I slept through the whole night. More weird. I feel good. I unplugged my phone from the charger and opened the window. A chuckle let itself out from my lips. I wanted to kill the feeling, but it's hard when the crisp morning breeze smells so sweet. It's too ironic, I wanted to close the window and kick the bed, but if I do so, I might just end up laughing my ass off.

So I figured there's nothing much to do but exhale the last of the dream off. Mornings like these don't come everyday, and I don't want to waste it with thoughts of my father. Said to myself that it was just a dream, and what matters is I'm awake and out of that dream. With that thought I had a beautiful day.

Until now that is. Now the fear is creeping. I'm afraid that the dream is already not far from being real.

It shouldn't have come to this...