Of Puppets and Flames

Blood.

There was blood flowing from his back to the palms of his hands as he felt another strike. It sent jolts to his body, tearing his flesh as the tip ran through his wounds. The guard was skilled in handling the whip, he noted, feeling the sharp lash on his shoulder, missing his left ear by a few centimeters. The sound resonated and he hissed in pain, biting his lips until he could taste agony and metal all mixed in one.

"Who sent you?" a voice boomed, repeating the same words over and over again. He received another whip for his silence, slicing his flesh open as the sharp lashes stung his skin, pain seeping through him. He was scourged for the past few days, stopping every now and then if he was lucky enough.

He hasn't told them anything. He swore he wouldn't.

Coughing as he clutched his chest, he writhed in pain as he withheld his cries for help. If not for his heavy breathing, he could be mistaken for a corpse lying on the ground, begging to be hauled away and buried. The guards halted for a while before resuming their torture, fishing out information from him as they struck him mercilessly.

According to their commanding general, he was to be beaten until he confessed. From his position, he could overhear the ongoing conversation of the sentries. They spoke a language he could not decipher. However, he caught on words familiar to himㅡ words like hours, and execution. Based on what he concluded, if what he deduced was correct, he only had a few hours more before he would be publicly executed, which explains the amount of torture he was receiving in order for him to speak.

He was no different from the bodies of those like him who perished days, weeks, months, and even centuries ago, and, just like them, he will be nothing but a nameless corpse who once fought for his nation's sovereignty.

Another whip, and he fell on the floor. The guards continued the torture, shouting words in a foreign language before swiftly switching to a tongue he could comprehend. He took a few more blows as the guards yanked him back up, forcing him to stand. When he could not take it any more, he collapsed on the ground, unable to move.

He could hear the cracking of the whip and braced himself for more. It wasn't over, and he had already lost count of how many he took.

Silence. Nothing came.

He heard footsteps. One of the guards roughly pushed him back up, allowing him to face his swollen face. It was bruised, and heavily beaten, making the guard scoff in what seemed to be disgust, shaking his head.

"He's going to die at this rate," the guard's companion muttered, holding the whip firmly by his sides. He could hear the unlocking of the cell door and the sound of footsteps walking away.

Once again, he was left alone.

As he lay on the floor with a bare and beaten back, he glanced at the empty cells in front of him. They were built centuries ago and were now dirty and rusty, with a stench that was too strong to handle. It smelled of tortureㅡ a slow, painful death that drove most prisoners insane.

From where he was seated, he could see the blood stains left by former prisoners and the chains that were still on the wall, waiting for the next convict to be cuffed to it. Some of the former prisoners would arrive covered in bandages or blood. Some returned with broken bones while the unfortunate ones never came back. Weeks ago, there used to be prisoners inside but, now, they were nothing more than hollow cages.

Hollow cages with tragic stories.

They say walls see tales, those of the forgotten souls whose lives were taken from them within the four corners of this prison. With no one else to lean on to, these walls served both as a sanctuary and a torture chambure. Cries of help were muffled within, secluded from the outside world. They held stories of murderers, thieves, robbers, and victimsㅡ of those who were accused, and pleaded innocent but where not acquitted because of the evil game politics.

He was a rebel, one of the unfortunate ones to have been caught on the way to deliver news to the head of who sparked the revolution. Ever since the arrival of foreign invaders centuries ago, the country they once had power over was forcefully taken away from them, denouncing its inhabitants as nothing more than slaves and low-lives. Many were forced into slavery, while those who resisted were killed. After the death of a noble man, their eyes have been opened to the tyranny and abuse the officials brought to the land. Their sons and fathers were forced into labor to adjust to the evolving encomienda system, only being able to avoid it by paying a large sum of money. What was it called again? Ah, yes. The falla.

Their land did not remain in their possession for long, as the foreigners began to take what they had left. The flame of hope for freedom ignited in the people. It is what drove them to fight back and claim what was theirs to begin with. It first began in secret, as many started working against the government. The news of rebellion instilled fear and panic, thus, for years, the regime hunted down rebels.

Many perished, some survived to tell the tale.

Months ago, he stood amomgst those who seeked justice and declared opposition to the laws and ideals of their conquerors.

He was not alone in his fight. Surrounding him were people crying for their freedomㅡ for their rights that had been stripped off them. From where he stood, he could hear restless demands for justice. The people had enough, he could see it with the way anger and defiance danced before their eyes. It mirrored the transition from night to dawn, as if they had finally awoken from the injustice and social hierarchy that has torn their fellowmen apart.

For centuries, they had been oppressed. Ever since the invasion of a foreign land and the building of a new policy, they had been considered even less than cattle in their own nation. Every bit of identity had been stripped off them, branding them as no less than mindless human beingsㅡ indiosㅡ who knew nothing of trade and education. Those of high birth, or maharlikas, were priviledged enough to rule their fellowmen and stand above them. Some were compassionate while others were no different than the thieves who took their land and claimed it as theirs.

It had been the norm: the deprivation of education and freedom for those who were of low birth. Their parents' debts were theirs to pay, and their master's wishes were theirs to oblige. They were puppets expected to bow down to their lord's aspirations.

But not anymore.

They endured the oppression for so long. If they would not fight now, they would forever be under unjust ruling.

He glanced around, watching the people whose faces screamed betrayal, and eyes that burned with so much abhorrence and will to fight for their rights.

A man stood before them, urging them to speak up and fear no more.

"Brothers, we have decided to revolt! Do you swear opposition to our oppressors?"

The defeaning roar of agreement was heard. He, too, was one of them, shouting in agreement as he raised his fist. He had already lost a lot, and wouldn't sit still while his country was being abused.

The man shouted, "Rip the cedulas!"

He raised his identification card above his head, ripping it in half as he declared his defiance to the colony.

For months, he served the brotherhood by delivering messages. He used to work for the gobernadorcillo, and was their eyes and ears. He dreamed of revolutionㅡ of sovereignty and freedom but, like all rebels who were caught before him, he was hanged before the sun rose the following day with no information forced out of him.

Nothing.