That which we call trivial

“Please, let me go. I need to go home.” cried a 17-year-old boy.

 He was dragged in a dark alley by the four policemen, who were not in their uniform in the midst of the night but armed with guns.

“Not until you give us the drugs. C’mon show it, where are you hiding it?” One of the cops said as the others punched and slapped the defenseless guy.

“I swear . . . I never used nor sell any drugs. I’m just a normal student. I still have homework to do.”

The young man begged for the policemen to release him. He claimed that he was innocent as his eyes dripped with tears. The salty drops came from terror, telling of a mind lost in absolute fear.

“Then you should’ve gone home early instead of selling drugs.”

“I’m a student volunteer in our school, l have tasks to do after class. Please, I am innoc--” he didn’t finish his sentence for he was kicked hard on his abdomen.

“And you think we’ll buy that excuse? Try harder, kid.”

Not only did the pain hit him, but also the reality that his begging was all in vain. The armed officials had shut their ears which caused him to settle with the last resort he could think of – escape. He fought back by kicking one of them and then he ran as fast he can.

As he ran for his life, he pondered on the perspective of the chasers, if they can fathom the fear of the chased. However, the night had reached its crescendo when a bullet entered him, blasting a cavity in his back as it spills crimson.

Before he fell into an endless oblivion, his eyes came in contact with a stranger who seemed to have witnessed the merciless execution. He smiled and uttered something that shocked the witness. . .

 And in those fractions of seconds, he was there and then gone.

June 18, 2019 - Tuesday

I blink, close my eyes, and blink again. Streaks of sunlight penetrate the window and blind me. I begin my day with my comfortable routine. I turn on the television for the morning news while eating my breakfast. The news anchor blazes through several headlines. None of them particularly demand my attention. The news mentions the plummeting rice prices. There is also a report on the on-going dispute about “war on drugs’ and the war in the Middle East; nothing much worth noting.

I switched off the television.

           I walk along the sidewalk of Alvarez Street to head for the bus stop towards my campus. It is a typical morning in the city of Manila; typical people, typical noises, typical scenery of an urban city - tall buildings in an exact grid pattern were smudged by the smog-filled sky and a never-ending stream of traffic spewing fumes, honking horns, pedestrians waiting at crosswalks.

I ride on a typical bus and sit on my usual spot; beside a window. As I wait for my destination, my eyes are glued on the TV screen of the bus- they're playing the movie “Us”. The screen focuses on a woman with a quiet and craggy voice like it’s never been used.

“Once upon a time, there was a girl, and the girl had a shadow. The two were connected; tethered together. So whatever happened to the girl happened to the shadow... when the girl ate, her food was given to her, warm and tasty, but when the shadow was hungry, she had to eat rabbits, raw and bloody. On Christmas the girl received wonderful toys, soft and cushy, but the shadow’s toys were so sharp and cold they’d slice through her fingers when she played with them.”

“They already played it yesterday.”

I turn towards the source of the voice and before I knew it, my eyes lock with a spiraling vortex of jet black and specks of light. I was so glued on the movie showing on the screen - even though it’s my third time watching it- that I didn’t realize someone already took a seat beside me. It's a girl who looks around my age.

“The movie, they already played it yesterday.” She repeats, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“I know . . . it’s about a family who were attacked by their spitting images called the tethered.”

“Do you know the meaning behind that tethered connection?” she asks.

“What? Everyone has a dark side?” I ask unsure if we have the same thoughts in mind.

She purses her lips and smiles wryly, “It’s more than that. It’s the darkness we chose to ignore.”

Her gaze shifts from me to the window, “Look outside, it’s a misery. Not every one of those people out there has their home to go into when the sun sets. Some settle under the arch of those old brick railway bridge and at the back of those persisting buildings were streets littered with garbage and the detritus of animals.” she continues.

I don’t know whether to be intimidated or intrigued. To talk to a stranger like some sort of best of friends and begin with such a profound and penetrating phrase is inviting all kinds of strange impressions. So I straighten a bit to create a distance between us- to imply that we aren’t so acquainted. I glance at her only to find her staring at me like she’s trying to read the window of my soul.

“What does it have to do with the movie?” I ask returning my gaze on the screen.

“There’s always the other side of the coin that we always try to ignore. You see, there are those who prosper and those who suffer. I just hate indifference.”

 And with that, the bus stops and she gives me a brief smile. She stands from her seat and without waiting for my reply, she turns around, hair billowing, as I watch her as she leaves the bus.

I guess it's not a typical morning after all.

June 27, 2019 – Thursday

“Do you think that book is trying to call for a revolution?”

It’s been a week since her words washed over me like a cold tide. I never thought I would be sitting next to her again on the bus and have another thought-provoking conversation. I will not say it to her but I am happy to see her again.

“I don't think it’s revolutionary since Rizal killed the character in the novel which symbolizes revolution.”

“Well, I think of it otherwise.” she says while looking at the book atop my palms - it was Rizal's Noli Me Tangere - I am re-reading it for my Rizal course. I realize this girl is interested on the things underneath the surface.

“Revolution doesn't necessarily mean violence. Rizal exposed the wrongdoings of the government and the church and opened the Filipinos’ minds in what is actually happening in our country and for me, that's enough for it to be called revolutionary.” She adds.

I open my mouth to say something in return but I fail to find a response to her words. It’s like my mind had become a new slate.

She lifts her face from the book to my face before she lets out a chuckle and says,

“Words penetrate deeper than bullets.”

“Are you an activist or something?” I ask.

“I want to become a journalist.” she answers.

“In a democratic society, there is a delusion that every voice is heard which is why I like to write. Do you know why journalists are said to be the voice of the masses?”

I can’t seem to have a full grasp of whatever she meant. I’m just an average student. My life orbits around me, my family and my friends. I never concern myself with the strangers I see sleeping on the streets, with the people committing heinous crimes, to the victims, the system of the government - though I’m a little alarmed with the growing inflation rate – other than that, I couldn’t care less to anything that has nothing to do with me.

Those are trivial things to me. Until this girl suddenly showed up, she’s supposed to be a stranger, a typical passenger. But no, she’s not typical. It’s like she has seen this world from every possible angle. And there she goes, asking me about the things that never cross my mind before but somehow, I am enjoying it.

“I’m afraid I don’t have any knowledge about it. I mean I never thought about it before.” I answer.

“It’s for the very reason that literature is the reflection of humanity. But that idea seems quite blurry right now so I want to write in order to bring everyone together again.” she replies. Her eyelids close and her lips stretch into a smile. The sign of bliss on her face lasts for a second.

And just like that, my monotonous life is changing, ever so lightly.

July 15, 2019 - Monday

Call it coincidence, fate, or destiny, in instant, two fleeting blips can collide and change forever. Yet, I do not think chance encounters are necessarily accidental. My second encounter with her is succeeded by one, two, and three meetings.

Before, I'm supposed to go about my daily schedule, take the same route, sit at the same place, and wear my bag over the same shoulder -until she happened. These trivialities are gone and my days are filled with madness - the kind that keeps me sane.

Whenever she talks to me, it’s as though I am sailing on an enormous ocean where there is no visible shoreline, lost in a never-ending canvas of frothing waters and infinite horizons. Sometimes I will sink like a rock. Other times I will remain suspended on some powerful cushion.

“You never told me your name.” I say. I realize every time we see each other on the bus, we always jump into the depths of our conversation. We never get the chance to introduce ourselves to each other.

 “You never asked.”

 “Very well then, I’m Rodel. Rodel Santos”

I reach out to extend a handshake. She examines my hand for a second before shaking it.

“Antoinette Reyes. Toyang will do. ”

“Nice to meet you, Toyang.” There’s an ambiguous smile on her lips now, like hazy fog in the mornings. It’s as though she's been waiting all along for me to say that.

“Nice to meet you too.” She replies.

“So Rodel, starting from this moment, let's talk about the trivial things about ourselves.” she declares.

"That sounds like a very good idea." Her lips form a faint curve. "So, what's your favorite color?" I continue.

"I like Tangerine because I love autumn, although it's not an official season in the Philippines. How 'bout you?"

But autumn is for dead leaves, I thought. I didn't say it out loud for it would be too foul so I just answer her question.

"Black is my favorite color."

"And why is that?"

Because it's the color of your eyes. Once again, I only let silence know of my thought.

"Nothing special, it's just that most of my clothes are black." What I said is partly true, I had a thing for black shirts but it's really not my favorite color . . . not until I met her. I know black is a common eye color among Asian people. Yet, not every person has her eyes. Her eyes are dark but there’s so much light in them.

Suddenly, her face turns blank like she seems to remember something for a moment. Then she looks at me with a perplexed expression.

“Tell me Rodel, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Her sudden question startles me and before I knew it she’s about to leave again.

“Tell me about it the next time we ride again on the same bus. Goodbye, Rodel."

I watch her disembark on the bus. Her last words sit on my mind again like a solid weight, sinking to the bottom of a muddied pool. ‘What do I want to be when I grow up?’ I ponder. Next time we meet, I’ll give her my answer.

However, that next time never came.

July 16, 2019- Tuesday

It’s supposed to be another typical day where I don’t get the chance to see Toyang on the bus. Today, I am planning to go home early. My class ends at 5 in the afternoon.

Unfortunately, when the class ends I had known that our school will conduct a program tomorrow, and being a volunteer student, I have to fulfill my duty and take part in the preparation of tomorrow’s event.

I left the campus at around 7 pm (in Manila, we call it 'rush hour'). When I reach the street near our house, it’s around nine already due to having a hard time riding the bus from having many passengers and heavy traffic. I am walking by myself and the street is cold and quiet; although there are still few people outside.        

It's supposed to be a peaceful night when terror suddenly creeps in. Everything happens so fast -four policemen, a dark alley, false accusation, beating, escape - and before I knew it . . . 

I am lying on the ground, blood dripping out of my beaten body. I want to be saved. I want a rescuing hand to pull me back to life.

Before my vision falls into nothingness, my eyes comes in contact with a stranger, her eyes remind me of Toyang's jet black eyes; though the stranger’s eyes reflect fear from the events that unveils before her.

I smile at her as if to say, everything’s going to be fine from now on.

 As the coolness rushes over my body, I remember 'her' again; I can no longer ride on the bus and have a conversation with her. I'll never get the chance to know her more. And most importantly, I can no longer give my answer to her question.

I want to thank her for making me realize that I want to save, not just the people I know, but also the strangers I do not know of; just like what she did to me.

“When I become an adult, I want to become a police.” I manage to say before darkness embraces me.

Then, then –

That was it.

Is it a tragedy?

October 3, 2026 - Saturday

The office is every shade of grey. On the grey desk sat a desktop computer, a notebook lying open, and a stack of papers sitting under a turtle-shaped paperweight. In a corner, a bookshelf is bursting with books, with yet another stack of papers under a paperweight that is shaped to look like a tuft of grass.

A woman close to forties with bobbed hair and somewhat overweight sits on her desk as she reads the paper on her hand. She already read it last night. She just wants to give it one final scrutiny before consulting the writer standing in front of her.

“If I’m not mistaken, this story is about the incident that happened seven years ago.” The writer gives her a nod. She is around her early twenties, her straight simple hair is well-groomed. Her eyes, not every girl has her eyes, those pitch-black iris that seems to capture the light of the universe.

“What title do you have in mind? There's nothing written in here.”

She put on a smile before saying, “That which we call trivial.”