Nine Days

I’m drained, exhausted, utterly spent, empty. The flight from LA, the bus ride to the wharf, and the ferry trip to this remote island I once called home sapped the life out of my already capitalism-battered body.

Air, land, and sea! I should be in dreamland right now, but my mind just won’t let me be…

I sank my fatigued body into the aging mattress which had lost its once-soft cushioning, now resembling a lumpy, uneven terrain. Beyond the discomfort of my sleeping arrangement, lethargy had so far eluded me as my mind kept insisting that coming back was an obvious mistake.

***

Nine days. That’s the tradition. That’s how long I had to endure my mother’s post-burial vigil. The Filipino pasiyam.

My eyes gazed straight upward towards the dilapidated ceiling. My mind became Netflix on October, offering clips of the horrors I had to live through under her “care”. Once she realized I wasn’t the normal boy the Bible prescribed me to be, she had made it her mission to exorcise what she perceived as the "devil" within me.

She had made me kneel on mung beans every night until I completed reciting the prayers she had prepared for me. She had hit my back with cheap leather and plastic clothes hanger every time I showed the slightest hint of resistance. She had even tied me on a make-shift wooden crucifix in front of our house for our neighbours to see. “You are a child of God”, she said, “and by Jesus Christ you shall be.”

I despised my mother. Period. I ran away for a reason. That was simply not the life I aspired to live. My sexual preference was not my choice. I was born to love, lust for, and desire the company of fellow men.

***

Nine days. That’s how long the soul of the departed supposedly takes to transition into the eternal spiritual realm.

I returned to this wretched place, I guess, solely for the gratifying realization that she was now gone... for good… forever.

My eyes wandered away from the ceiling and on to a familiar sight. Across the room stood mother’s altar with a crucified dark man, almost looking burnt, surrounded by deformed wooden angels blowing a kiss toward their spectator. These cheap-looking idols were her most prized possessions (her God above all). She would read them biblical verses aloud night and day and even caress and kiss them occasionally. I could vividly remember that this was also where the mung beans, like Jesus’s crown of thorns, pierced through the flesh of my knees.

***

Nine days. That’s how long I had to actually and sincerely pray to God, or perhaps to the reapers of the underworld. My mother is all yours!

BANG!

The grandfather clock chimed. 9 PM. Within this dim and joyless room, time seemed to drag on at an excruciatingly slow pace.

My gaze now fixated on the clock that used to trigger my first taste of panic attacks. The jarring sound signalled that it was time to hurry over and kneel beside my mother to join her in her fervent worship. Each error, every stumble and awkward pause, she interpreted as mockery against her revered figure. And each act of perceived disrespect resulted in a harsh, stinging slap across my face.

***

Nine days. That's the time left until I hopefully banish the darkness that had resided within me for decades. I shall be back to sunny LA in no time.

My eyes now shifted to the aparador. The closet stood intact, appearing unchanged from the time when I packed my belongings and fled years ago. Once a cherished hide-and-seek haven, it morphed into a suffocating tomb of traumatic memories. Mother had locked me in for hours over several days in the hope of witnessing a miraculous transformation, a rebirth. The only miraculous outcome she had unintentionally conjured was the inner fire that strengthened my resolve to break free from the torment of my existence.

***

Nine days. My final duel with the monster. One last punishment. One concluding nightmare. Closure.

I shut my eyes, seeking to distance myself from my current predicament, allowing my imagination to wander into a life where my father had emerged victorious in the battle for my custody against my mother. However, his ailing heart and kidney condition had destined me to fall into the hands of the one whom I wished never birthed me.

Suddenly, I experienced a surge coursing through my veins. My heart started to pound with fury. I became overwhelmed by a seething and intense anger. I released a loud exasperated groan of frustration.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.

Blessed art thou among women, blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”

The words flowed freely from my lips.

“I believe in God, the Father almighty,

Creator of heaven and earth…”

My voice was steadily and uncontrollably amplifying, as though my tongue and vocal chords had disengaged from my brain's control.

“I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic Church,

the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins…”

The sacred mysteries of the holy rosary poured forth from my mouth without restraint. It seemed as if I began to scream the words, then transitioned into roaring, and finally erupted into explosive cries, all while I lay immobilized in bed, with my arms outstretched, until I spoke the final words:

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

Then there she was, clad in her death dress, kneeling at the base of my bed, her gaze fixed upon my unmoving body. She slowly climbed up to the bed, her resentful stare still unwaveringly aimed on mine, then crawled upward until her head hovered over mine.

She caressed my face, probably reminiscing the thrill of repeatedly hearing the cracking sound of her palm hitting the flash of my cheeks. I felt my heart forcefully bang against my chest one last time, and my senses started to fade. She then bent down further towards my right ear, to deliver her final blow, her declaration of victory. She whispered with a wicked breathy voice:

“Amen.”