Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1

by Dean Francis Alfar

  Ruiz has cleaned your room. Everything is swept and dusted, the books arranged on the shelves, the CDs stacked beside your stereo, your clothes folded in your drawers. The loose paper is in a neat pile on one end of your desk, beside your dinner. There are three balikbayan boxes pushed against one wall, taped at the top and labeled “Trash” in Ruiz’s firm handwriting. There is that faint scent of Glade in the air.

  You move towards your desk, weaving unsteadily. Your legs have forgotten how to support your body, let alone walk. The table is empty except for the desk lamp, the Styrofoam box, and the stack of papers weighed down by a ceramic dolphin. The pictures are gone, the shoebox of letters, his ring bound copy of the MLA Handout that you were using for your thesis. The necklace he gave you for your anniversary is not in your jewelry box anymore. His CDs have left gaps in your case. Looking around the room, you realize that everything is gone. Your room looks the way it was ten months ago.

  You sit down in front of your desk before your knees give way. Ruiz has done a thorough job.

  6. Erase everything with your name on it

  “BASA, SUSAN.”

  You stand up. Your blue schoolgirl skirt barely reaches your knees. You may not have been more than ten years old.

  Behind you, your classmates titter. You brush a stray lock of hair away from your face and struggle to understand the question the teacher just asked you. Your eyes start to water. You look down, stare at your dirty fingernails, at your dusty shoes. You can feel a trickle of nervous wetness down your legs.

  “Basa si Susan, o! Tingnan mo! Basa siya!” Joseph Arambulo, the meanest boy in class, stands up and points at the pale yellow puddle around your feet. Your socks are now soaked. The unmistakable smell of piss surrounds you. “Susan Basa, Susan Basa!” he chants, forcing the syllables of your surname to change in meaning, contracting the last syllable as if he was burping it instead of saying it. You can feel your neck redden, heat flaring up from your too-tight collar and moving upwards to your cheeks.

  “Susan!” your teacher yells. “Ang tanda-tanda mo na, ganyan ka pa!”

  You wish that you could just disappear.

  “Susan Basa!”

  “Nakakahiya ka!”

  A welcoming numbness spreads from your fingertips, creeping beneath your skin like a million tiny caterpillars, tickling the underside of your flesh. The feeling of discomfort would come later, when you became older, but now you watch in mute fascination as your fingers lost all color, taking on the transparency of glass. The cold moves upwards, trickling across your elbows, an army of tiny fingers taking over your skin. You smile in relief.

  Puddles of color stain your eyes, and the sound of voices fade, muffled, as if you were underwater. Even the light seems to ripple, distort. You try focusing on individual things in the room: the paper cutout of an apple on one of the side bulletin boards flanking the blackboard, the row of green dictionaries lining the edge of the window, the crucifix above the door. You try and think of a prayer. Our Father who art in heaven…You wonder if you are dying, and realize that it’s actually kind of pleasant.

  “Ma’am Obando, Susan’s turning into glass!”

  The voice of your classmate crashes into your consciousness, and cascading warmth flows through your arms. You remember when you were five years old and you accidentally toppled the pot of steaming molo soup on your lap. The liquid seemed to eat up your skin, melting away your legs as if they were butter. You remember screaming, just screaming, screaming, screaming.

  You blink. Everyone is staring at you, wide-eyed. Your teacher looks frightened. You can still feel the final traces of piss dripping down your legs. You slowly curl your fingers into fists; it feels as though it has fallen asleep. Your nails dig into the flesh of your palms. Everything seems too warm, too humid, too wet.

  “Susan… Miss Basa. Please go to the clinic and ask the nurse to help you wash up,” says Miss Obando carefully.

  You march out of the classroom, your chin level with the floor. You pretend not to hear your name.

  5. Burn your pictures

  RUIZ VISITS YOU the next day. He brings with him a paper bag filled with your things. You wonder if you’ve left that many things at his house. It takes you a few more seconds to realize that he’s seen David, and suddenly all the strength you’ve gathered up the night before seems to desert you.

  “He wanted me to give this to you,” says Ruiz, and you realize that he’s uncomfortable about the entire thing. You peer momentarily into the bag, and a circular package catches your eye. You realize he’s given back the watch that you gave him two weeks ago, the watch that you blew your entire month’s savings on. You feel tears prickling your eyes, and quickly bat them away – but not before Ruiz sees them.

  Dropping to his knees, he grabs your hands and presses them between his. His palms are dry and rough, like fine grains of sand are bundled up beneath the skin. You can feel the warmth emanating from his fingers as they grasp yours tightly, forming a protective cocoon around your smaller, paler palms. “Don’t start,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t you dare, Sue.”

  You clench your teeth together so tightly it’s almost painful. The need to cry ebbs and flows. Ruiz tightens his hold – a prayer with four hands instead of just two. “Save me,” you whisper, your control over your tears slipping away. The familiar cold is back now; the tips of your fingers are starting to change.

  Ruiz starts rubbing his hands around yours, the friction enough to make you feel as though a small fire is being lit between your fingers. The fragile transparency recedes, replaced by the fleshy tips of your fingers, the pink reminding you of raw meat. Ruiz notices that you’re back, and smiles tiredly. He lets go of your hands, and you suddenly miss his touch.

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and stands up. He gestures to the paper bag leaning forlornly against the side of your desk. “So, um, what do you want me to do with these things?” he asks.

  You shrug. Inexplicably, you want something sweet in your mouth.

  “I’ll just… I dunno, take them home, you want that?” Ruiz bends over and picks the bag up again. “I don’t think you want to see them right now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey listen, if you’re up for it – Tin and her band are playing at Shirley’s Temple next week, if you want to come along.”

  Shrugging seems to be the easiest way to answer questions right now. Ruiz interprets that as a yes, and says nothing more. You find your mind wandering again, and –

  “Hey, Ruiz. Where did you put my camera?”

  That night, you sit at your desk. Outside, the fat moon beams benevolently over the corrugated tin rooftops, the occasional tree. Streetlamps flicker, creating strange patterns of shadow across the empty street. Your window faces across the compound, beyond the cement wall, where the occasional tricycle breaks the silence of the neighborhood. It is just past midnight.

  You hold your camera in your palm. The small silver gadget was the last purchase you allowed yourself to make – the rest of your money went to David: to his gifts, to the movies he wanted to watch, the food he wanted to eat, the places he wanted to go. Going through the photographs stored in the camera, you feel as though you’re watching your life pass you by, a life that happened to someone else, someone else with your face, your smile, your hair, your hands, your curse. Such a difficult thing, keeping yourself together, the surety of completeness lost once he walked out the door.

  You flick a switch on the camera. One by one, a blank screen takes over the images. You wait until the hourglass in the middle of the screen finishes turning. It takes a few seconds, a few lifetimes, but finally the camera tells you that everything has been erased.

  You go to the window and aim the lens, fiddling with the zoom, waiting for the perfect moment to capture the curve of moonlight on the glass.

  4. Hide from your friends

  WHEN RUIZ PICKS you up the next day, you are too tired to notice that he is wearing that shirt that you gave him la
st year, a green Deftones shirt that fits well on his lanky body. He takes your arm and guides you outside your compound, ducking slightly as you step out; the gate’s opening is too low for him. You feel as though you want to bolt back to your room, to hide under the blankets. “What if I see him?” you whisper urgently.

  Ruiz pats your hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You know this isn’t his scene.”

  Shirley’s Temple is a small bar and restaurant just off Aurora Boulevard, squashed between Paulette’s Salon and Body Spa and a funeral parlor. You climb the rickety wooden steps that lead to the second floor; the first level is filled with old men playing chess, smelling of cigarette smoke and overcooked sisig. The lampshades in the bar are made of colored capiz that makes it seem as though you are surrounded by small stained-glass domes. You settle in a corner table and fish around your bag for your camera while Ruiz greets the band.

  Tin is a small girl, only reaching your chin when she wears her platform Mary Janes. With her long thin braids reaching down her back, she looks like a small Filipino Alicia Keys. Ruiz puts his arm protectively around her. “We’re so glad you could make it, Susan. We missed you,” she squeaks. She plays the keyboards for the band. The other three members are all girls, and none of them look over eighteen. It must be the matching schoolgirl outfits and the plastic, heart-shaped sunglasses – no wonder they call the band Lolita.

  You hug Tin peremptorily, and then retreat back into your seat. Ruiz gives her a tender kiss, and then ushers her back to the stage where the rest of them are setting up. Then he slips into the seat beside you and grins, brushing a thick lock of hair away from his face. He is growing it long now, zigzag clumps that mingle with his forehead, and curl down to his nape. For some reason, you are tempted to tease the strands, curl them around your fingers. You close your eyes and try to fight back the beginnings of a headache.

  Ruiz orders a beer for the both of you. You toy with your bottle, peeling the sticker tape wrapped around the neck. The band finishes their set; there’s a quick applause, and a customer walks unsteadily towards the men’s room. The girls sit at your table, and Tin leans her head on Ruiz’s shoulder as she introduces the other band members to you: Eva, Bethany, and Dori. They settle into a conversation that seems to involve song choices, missed chords, and Eva forgetting the words to “Silent All These Years.” More beer is ordered, and Bethany asks for gambas and garlic mushrooms from a waiter who may or may not be gay. Ruiz whispers something to Tin, and they both laugh.

  You watch Ruiz and Tin with a strange sort of longing. His arm is draped around her shoulders, and she is leaning on his shoulder, her cheek on the sleeve of his shirt. You know how that feels, that sense of belonging to someone so easily and so completely that it almost resembled a physical joining. You open and close your fists on your lap, and watch the shadows crisscross your palms like superimposed life lines. You suddenly realize how much you’ve actually lost.

  It is only when his name is mentioned that you snap out of your reverie – Tin is talking about him. The sound of his name feels like a frozen blade sliding through your abdomen. It takes a moment before you realize that you are starting to transform again: your hand is becoming translucent, reflecting the mood lights mounted at the corners of the bar. You observe, dispassionate, at the way your skin slowly slips away from you, at the delicate sheen of light coloring the surface of your arm. You tap the inside of your elbow, listening to the dull, hollow sound of your fingernails on your arm.

  You force your mind to return to the present, to refuse the call of nostalgia. Everyone looks at you questioningly; you quickly yank down the sleeve of your jacket, hiding your arm. Ruiz touches your shoulder tentatively, as if in comfort, and pushes another bottle of beer in your direction. You drink, finishing half of the amber liquid in a few seconds. The taste slams into the back of your throat, almost gagging you, but you keep it down, swallowing until you feel the warmth spread across your stomach, a fluid hand rubbing away the memories.

  “Sorry,” Tin mutters, looking guiltily at your fingers. The flesh had faded, and now it was the translucent shape of your fingers against the iron tabletop, the curve of your knuckles reflecting the light. Glass, after all, is only defined by radiance and mirrors.

  You shove your palms underneath the table and smile reassuringly at Tin. “I’ll be fine,” you say without much conviction. You wonder how long it would take before your entire body dissolves into something more fragile, breaking easily, a thousand Susan crystals on the floor of the bar. You haul your mind back to where things were more tangible: the sweat beads on the beer bottle, the way Ruiz strokes the beginnings of a beard on his chin, Tin’s braids swinging whenever she moves her head. Stone Temple Pilots is playing on the loudspeakers, and you sing along in your mind, focusing on each word as you hear it, and forgetting it as soon as you move on to the next line.

  You wish it were this easy to forget him.

  You tighten your jaw, feeling your entire shoulder grow cold underneath the thin fabric of the jacket. It was creeping up now, the chill of glass, reminding you of when you and David –

  No, no, no. Stop.

  You are frightened of shattering.

  Ruiz reaches underneath the table. His hand is warm and reassuring, pressing against your glass palm, carefully twining his fingers around yours and squeezing gently, so that you could almost feel the blood pounding against your fingers. You try to smile at him, a genuine smile, and slowly the pulse of blood returns to your arm. Everyone at the table is staring at you, not quite knowing what to say.

  3. Break all mirrors

  SNIP.

  “This isn’t the smartest idea in the world, Sue.”

  “Shut up.”

  Snip. Snip.

  Curls of your hair drip from your head to the floor, a puddle of strands dark against the pale linoleum. You take another lock between your fore- and middle fingers and set the blade of your scissors to work. Ruiz looks on helplessly. “Can’t we at least go to a salon and have this professionally done?”

  “You didn’t want to do it, so I’ll do it myself. Besides, you know I can’t afford a haircut right now.”

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  Snip. Snip snip snip.

  “I don’t know why you’re doing this,” he says, pacing around the room. You are seated in front of your dresser, your back to the mirror, watching Ruiz move across your room. Sunlight slants across the walls, a shower of golden light, a halcyon afternoon.

  Ruiz pauses. “No, on second thought, I know – it’s still about David, isn’t it? Everything is about David nowadays. Why he left you, why you’re here right now making a mess of yourself. You’ve been changing – ”

  Snip. Snip.

  “ – almost daily now, Sue, do you realize that? Before, it was just once a month, a couple of times a month. You could go on for weeks without transforming. And now – almost every fucking day – ”

  Snip snip snip. Snip snip snip.

  “ – you suddenly morph like some fucking mutant, and do you know how scared that makes me? To watch you go through something like this and know that it’s not your fault, and you’re just making it so fucking hard for yourself!”

  Snap.

  You close your eyes, breathe, open your eyes again. The scissors feel heavy in your hands, the blades cool and smooth and long. You wonder how it would feel if you draw it across the inside of your arm, watch the scarlet blood well up like a fat liquid balloon. You wonder if you would transform in the middle of death, your body unable to take the shock, the pain, your insides turning into a fragile sculpture, frozen in the moment of your last breath. You wonder what would happen if your organs change into glass – your lungs unable to squeeze out your dying breath, your heart stopping in the middle of its last pump.

  Ruiz is staring at you. You lift the last length of your hair and cut it in one smooth motion. The lock flutters to the ground, strands of hair separating like dark moths freed from a glass bottle, floating gen
tly to the ground. You stand up and run your fingers through your newly-shortened hair. It feels strange, the ragged edges ending at your nape, an uneven cut. You turn and stare at yourself in the mirror, and wonder if that’s really you with the too-pale face, the wide eyes, the sunken cheeks, your hair floating around your head like an unsteady halo. Your tank top is flecked with strands, and you absently brush them away.

  Ruiz comes up behind you and wraps his hands around your shoulders, pulling you to him. His hands settle beneath your breasts, skimming your ribcage. “You’re too thin,” he whispers, the hair on his chin tickling the rim of your ear.

  You look at your reflection, at his reflection as he buries his face into the tangled forest of your hair. You feel as though you are empty, a vessel made of sallow skin and bones, blood pulsing weakly beneath your flesh. You wonder if he realizes his arms are around a ghost.

  The next day, your mirror accidentally breaks as you totter towards the bathroom, your arm swiping it from your dresser. Ruiz didn’t hear it shatter; he is still asleep in your bed, one arm covering his eyes from the sunlight. You didn’t bother buying a new one.

  2. Destroy all clocks

  OVER THE NEXT few weeks, you realize that the easiest thing to do is to pretend that nothing happened. You slowly return to your routine, and wonder why, at the end of the day, you still feel hollow and empty. Your hand constantly searches for something to fill it up – another hand, the feel of someone’s fingers between your own, a possessive grip.

  You have yet to see Ruiz these days; your eyes constantly search for him in the hallways, at class, during breaks. He tells you that he’s busy, that Tin’s band is playing almost every night, that he’s studying for the midterms. You let his words slide through your body, exhale his memory between your lips. You tuck the events of that evening into a secret corner of your mind, and attempt to forget.

  Days trickle into weeks, and you glance at your calendar one day and realize that it’s been more than a couple of months already and you’re still alive. Your room is now clean – the boxes that Ruiz packed in the past are now gone, removed from your room, as are the shards of glass from your broken mirror. You’ve burned all of David’s letters, and the gifts that he’s given has long been taken away by the weekly garbage collectors. What he returned, you kept: the books are now on the shelves, your clothes laundered and folded in your closet, the ceramic dolphin is perched on your desk. You wear the watch he returned; the metal band looks awkward on your wrist, the face too large for your arm. But you persist on wearing it to school – it was too expensive to throw away, and nobody else wanted it.