A week ago on my way home from work, I got colored pens, a small illustration board, and a cutter. I didn't need the first two.
I got home, undressed, got on the bed, bared the blade as far as it would go, and--as casually as one would initiate a suicide attempt--I let the sharp edge touch my left wrist. Everything was still, and silent, and burning. I was maestro, and bow, and string, all at the same time. I was flesh. I was metaphor. I never moved.
Exhaling--I didn't notice until then I was holding my breath--I let the blade drop and I got one of the colored pens and the illustration board. On one corner of the board I wrote, 'Thank you. I'm sorry.' I put it aside.
I picked the blade up and let myself relax. A single note, soft and distant, floated somewhere in my head. Pressing the point against my left wrist, I pushed. Slowly. I angled it down. Slowly.
A symphony, gaining volume in my mind. A bullet train, approaching. Clouds, parting. Sunlight. Lightning. Water. Rain. And then--pain. Singing, stinging pain. No metaphors here. I was sweating, and I was terribly, terribly frustrated. I cursed, and hurled the cutter to the wall.
Why must that stop me? One last dam bursting, one last door to go through! Anger. Yes, that should be enough to dull steel on flesh, flesh breaking. I picked up the blade, sat on the bed, held my breath, and pushed--sharp edge on soft flesh. I pushed, and I let it glide. A symphony, getting louder. Strings, breaking. Someone, screaming. The blade made a weak, hollow clatter on the old wooden floor. I sobbed into my pillow.
'Bakit hindi mo ako masagot?' I asked him. 'Why can't you give me an answer?' It was Christmas, I think. Or it could have been New Year's. Anyway, it was the holiday season, and we were having dinner at this fancy Korean restaurant in Eastwood. I told him I didn't eat seafood because I didn't like having to put too much effort breaking a crab's shell apart just to get meat barely enough for a few nibbles, or picking my way through fish bones, or spending time removing a shrimp's head and tail. He did all of that, unceremoniously tossing the respective meat onto my plate, looking plainly content--or smug. I nibbled everything anyway. 'Isn't it easy being with me? Didn't you say you're happy spending time with me? We've been seeing each other for a year, what's stopping you from deciding--finally--THIS is the guy I want to spend the rest of my life with?' I gestured grandly, hoping it would come off as a joke, but we both knew it was a serious question.
His attention was on the crab. 'Lahat na siguro ng pwede kong magustuhan sa karelasyon, nasa'yo,' he said. 'Everything I could have wanted in a relationship.' Something cracked. I winced. 'But there is something about you... I can't understand.'
The pause was quite noticeable, but I considered his words. I considered his words were stupid. 'Alright,' I said, nodding. 'Alright. That's fair.' Spectacularly stupid. 'More crab, please.' It would be months before I realize what he said was spot on. There is something not easily understood here.
My plane just landed on Manila. I spent three days in Iloilo, reading and doing little else. I met someone nice--beautiful and smart. I was big enough to admit it wouldn't go farther than dinner and coffee and the smallest of small talks, yet still I allowed myself to be affected in the deepest, most profound ways. Needless to say my spirit was shaken--as it has been similarly shaken many, many times before. For an evening, I thought maybe if a person as beautiful would like someone like me, then maybe I could be beautiful too. Until a familiar, irrevocable force slams into my chest, hurling me back into my place. There is nothing beautiful about me, nor the world I am living in.
I was at work. I was taking calls. I was digging my fingernails into my palms, hoping the minutes would go faster, hoping the phones would cease their infernal beeping. 'Follow your dreams,' the voices in my head kept singing, 'Follow your heart.' I have none. I have none. Beep. Beep. I looked out the window and imagined what it would be like hitting the pavement if I jumped off from the top of the building. I laughed, and the person on the other line laughed with me.
I was sobbing into my pillow. My room was humid. I could hear birds in the distance and nothing else. Steam, maybe, from the wall of the house opposite my room, white-hot and grime-thick with the Third World afternoon sunlight. I managed to lift my left wrist enough to see what I was able to do. A couple of weak scratches, a few shallow, hesitant gashes. I sobbed even harder. 'There is something about you I can't understand,' said a voice in my head, planets away. 'I can't understand it either!' I shouted back. 'Where are you?! What do you want from me?! Why am I here?!' I was beating at my pillow over and over again. Why is dying painlessly too much to ask? What am I doing all this for? Why does the burning never stop?
