He was sweating profusely. Mumbling words almost unintelligible to a human ear. He was saying something about angels and elves – the result of the illegal pharmaceuticals he downed an hour ago. Sometimes he would ask questions and I’d pretend to scramble for answers, as I prefer not to ponder on the self-indulgences I know he’d rant of. Mostly I nod to whatever he needed my approval on because I do not care. But I sit there. All night fighting eyelids so I could keep him company for the last time.
Out of nothing he nudged me at the side. I retaliated, harder. Then he chuckled until his flushed face matched the color of his heavy eyes.
Then he cried. Or I think the better verb here is bawl. Yet again for a reason he would not share to me, as in most occasions. He bawled unlike men on movies. They use cigarettes to puff airs of smoke to cloud their tears from uninvited observers. That’s not like him.
I wrapped the boy in human warmth, hesitantly at first. Then I embraced whatever part of him that I could. My arms enveloped the upper of his torso, over the cotton fabric he had on completely soaked with perspiration and other kinds of impurity.
As tight as I could, no matter how my body was sore after falling ten flights of the staircase last night when he accidentally pushed me, after promising to never beat me again.
I realized our awkward position and let go, embarrassed of how I acted. When he was busy wetting his chapped lips I stared at his thirtied face, untouched by razor for the past three days. I tried to focus on something else. From his bleeding knuckles, to the ring on his finger, to fingernails unevenly bitten each, back to the ring.
We were unfaithful partners at length, jealous lovers at large.
He got up and went for the kitchen; limping at his left foot but determined. He rummaged through silverwares placed atop the kitchen table as evidenced by the clanking chorus of the containers. Leftover food boxes were deliberately opened exposing stink. Potty words spewed from his potty mouth while he cautiously slammed his head on concrete.
Finally, I asked him what it was he’s searching for. “Keys!” he bellowed.
“You always keep them at the hook at the end of your clothing rack…” he scampered to his room. “…there’s a hat that hides it so you would not notice them at first.”
These words flowed like fluid from my mouth, as if I memorized and practiced them but as if I’m uttering each syllable phonetically for a first trial.
Only for him to cut through mid-sentence as he exclaimed that he’s found the keys.
The next that I heard were the screeching hinges of the un-oiled door, followed by the rumbling of the car.
There was something wrong with the car. I know because I’ve talked to my mechanic friend about this and that was the exact whirring sound I was asked to anticipate if I have successfully manipulated the correct gaskets.
Having difficulty jumpstarting the engine, he cussed and cussed. And cuss he did at the neighbor’s dog when it wouldn’t stop barking due to his cussing that instigated it.
I imagined him grabbing the largest stone from the ground and aiming it at the animal three yards away from our apartment. The trajectory was not missed, I theorized, because the barking was replaced by incessant whimpering. He cussed some more because that is what the boy does when he can’t control his situations.
After several tries, he made the machine work. Drove off with the car that would dispatch him.
The whimpers stopped. My knees began to waver. I knew ambivalence was going to happen and I readied for it. Upon closing my eyes, I reshuffled memories in my head and played the compendium of pleasant things I have prepared.
Then there were pops of champagne bottles being uncorked. Finches sang in the background humming tunes in a round while they swooped in for nuts in their quirky cute manners only birds can do. The aroma of baked pecan pie infiltrated my smell paths while complimenting zests of citrus diffused alongside unpolluted air. Moths emerged from their cocoons. They fluttered their wings towards me, around me, gyrated waves with autumnal leaves grazing my skin only enough to awaken stimuli for tingling sensations. I felt the urge to celebrate, attempted on a sadistic laugh. I laughed sadistically. And then somebody laughed sadistically with me.
I faced the source of the voice and saw him standing there. Limping on the side but alive. I know that this was real life in real time because he wasn’t on my compendium of pleasant things.
He proceeded to explain. How the car broke down. How he managed to get out (because the car broke down), how he limped from where he was approximately a kilometer south of the turnpike and how he witnessed the explosion of the car he initially thought was another case of forest arson. How he thought the flickers of the fire were stunningly beautiful because of how he lucked out of it.
His lips were still moving when I turned my back on him and started walking. Despite his shouts that once again awoken the neighbor’s dog, I ambled for the sidewalk and re-imagined my compendium of pleasant things.
This time it was lengthier with the image of the limping man who once baked pecan pie for me being shredded to pieces by a Doberman.
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How shall I end thee?
