It sucks that there was no article about HOW Mahid Mutilan, a peace development advocate in Mindanao, ACTUALLY died. The news articles only stated the words of Jesus Dureza, Presidential Adviser on the Peace Process: Mutilan died in a vehicular accident en route to Cagayan de Oro from Marawi City. And, that’s it. The exact moment and what CAUSED the accident wasn’t stated.
But, that’s a subject for another day. I’m only here to present a fiction derived from that “news”, if you could CALL it one, article. Note that I used the term “derive”, hence, this is GROSSLY inaccurate to the actual article.
Sleep: Waking Up on Christmas Eve as Murderers
“Ladislawa…”
He sat on the passenger seat of the taxi and slammed the door. He laid his head on the headrest and didn’t bother looking at the cab driver. It was about half past two o’clock in the morning and the streets were empty — save for the plastic wrappers of take-out food and cigarette butts lying on the cold asphalt road. The taxi began to chug down the avenue.
The yellow street lamps were warm amidst the cool December air sweeping across is face. He became nauseous and goose bumps crawled down his arms. He took out is cell phone and began texting the people he was with minutes ago. Focus — he thought, trying to key in the hazy letters upon the phone’s backlight screen — there’s no telling if the driver’s a crook of some sort.
He was afraid of falling asleep, imagining that he’d wake up in an abandoned warehouse, naked, limbs tied, mouth gagged, the driver calculating how much his victim’s ransom would be. He had every reason to be afraid. He wore branded garments — from the Nikes, to Levi’s, to Lacoste — a bracelet on his right hand, and a silver necklace. His face was the embodiment of generations of pure Spanish breeding. He was going to a high-end subdivision. Most importantly, he was drunk.
Upon reaching an intersection, the car slowed down. The car stopped meters away from the intersection. The streets were empty — no cars, no traffic officers, no cigarette vendors, no prostitutes. His phone trembled upon his sweaty hands. His muscles clenched as a cold feeling swelled from underneath. His eyes, only his eyes, slowly turned to the direction of the driver. He saw an old, balding man with eyes swollen and half open.
The boy’s eyes widened as his fear took on a very different form. They weren’t even a quarter away from the destination. He started to whistle.
The car started chugging once again. The driver turned on the car’s radio. The boy let out a silent sigh. The noise would keep both of us awake, he thought. He looked at his cell phone and started texting once again.
The moon was high and full as thin, grey clouds passed across its pale yellow face. There was a large circle around it that night. It would seem as if the moon was the center of a large circle drawn with a rainbow pencil upon a dark blue paper. It was a very silent night, until they reached a shortcut to their destination — the national highway.
Large trucks sprung forth from all directions and it took a while before the cab could submerge itself in the flow of ten-wheeled monsters. The boy was too busy texting to notice that time pass.
The boy could feel his veins pump alcohol in his tonsils, his eye lids were growing heavy, his grip on the phone weakening. He closed his eyes then shook his head to keep awake. He opened them to the sight of his own reflection staring back on the side mirror. The fingers on his right hand traced the curves of his numb cheek — it was cold from the breeze outside. He closed his eyes again as his index finger and thumb pressed the flesh between his eyes. I need to smoke, he thought.
As the boy reached for his pack of cigarettes, he turned to see that the car was veering off course — approaching the center of the road, a truck was heading towards them on the other side. He turned to the driver whose head was bobbing like the plastic Beagle in the dashboard. The boy cleared his throat to grab the attention of the driver. The old man automatically straightened his posture, the taxi recovered from its disorientation.
The old man just kept quiet, as if nothing happened. The boy thought about the possibilities if he chose to accept his friend’s invitation to sleep in his apartment; if he chose to go home earlier; if he chose to deny the temptation of the last bottle or the last glass of gin; if he chose not to come to the Christmas party at all, for that matter. He asked the driver if he could smoke inside the car, the driver allowed him.
The boy placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He inhaled, savoring the smoke, praying that it would drive him away from the caress of sleep. He exhaled, the smoke jumped out his lips, dancing in all the corners of the cab: the array of mute robot figurines and head-bobbing Beagles, the driver’s only companions on silent nights; the rosary and sweet-smelling sampaguita strings hanging on the rear view mirror; the windshield, stained with rainy nights and dusty roads; the leather-covered backseats which smelled rather off; the speakers on the back singing songs of long ago; he boy’s phone, resting on its owner’s hand, which hasn’t received any messages for three minutes.
Halfway from their destination, the driver nearly ran over a man. To this, the boy forced himself to talk to the driver.
“Hapit na ang Christmas.”
“Ah, lagi, dong. Hapit na gyud.”
“Daghan kaayo’g mga tawo ganiha sa mga mol, no?”
“Daghan-daghan sad.”
Silence. The boy thought hard, what would keep the conversation alive? For a long time, the boy hasn’t faced this problem. For too long has he been the center of attention in his clique. For too long has he forgotten how to communicate with the everyday tao.
“Kapoya sige’g shopping, oi.” blurted the boy.
“Lagi, dong. Kapoy kaayo mangita og barato nga mga cellphone. Ganiha buntag gani, gilibot nako ang downtown nangitag pinakabarato nga, unsa ba to? Nokia N, ambot.”
“Haha. N series, nong? Astig nga na mga cell phone. Palit ug inga-na. Di jud ka musisi.”
“Lagi, dong. Nangita lagi ko. Mahal japon ang pinakabarato na nakit-an nako…”
The boy gazed upon the features of the driver: each strand of hair, discolored by days long gone and nights spent awake; his wrinkled face, witness all the emotions of a lifetime; his lips, deep from the packs of cigarettes he placed on the dashboard; his eyes, darkened by shadows.
“…mao pagkahapon ganiha, nangita kog mautangan.”
“Haha. Grabe, koy. Ginaapas na jud nimo ang Christmas para sa ana?”
“O, dong. Para man gud sa anak nako…”
The boy remained silent.
“Buotan siya nga anak. Siya tig-alaga sa mga igsuon niya ug sa balay atong namatay ang iyang mama. Tahimik nga bata, usahay lang mangayo ug masking unsa. Hehe. Malas lang nako kay mahal kaayo ang gusto niya.”
“Usahay lang bitaw mangayo, koy. Hahaha.”
“Hehe. Dili gani siya nangayo. Nadunggan lang nako siya gastorya sa mga amigo niya. Ana siya, gwapo daw kaayo nang Nokia na na.”
“Haha.” The boy inserted his phone in his pocket. He did that not because he feared that the driver might snatch it from him, rather he feared that he himself had become an ingrate.
“Buotan kaayo na bata, buotan kaayo. Siya tig-alaga sad sa ako kung naa koy lanat. Di na jud ko magpalagnat, di ko ganahan na naa siya’y lain isipon, gasto pa jud kaayo.”
There was silence. Alcohol slowly took over the boy’s body. Amidst the cool December air, the full moon, the passing street lamps, the old love songs, the scent of sampaguita, the taste of alcohol and nicotine — the boy fell asleep.
Shortly after, fatigue took over the driver…
