These hands are not the hands that once held mine. I feel your grip tighten around my arm as we walk through the dim corridor. Glancing at the cigarette burns and syringe marks on your skin, I stop myself from imagining what you had to endure after you left town.
Your other hand clutching a pistol, you tell me to walk faster.
That voice is not the voice that used to whisper in my ear. Now it echoes off these rust-covered walls, like a bird whose sky was taken away. It still rings in my memory, that tone of excitement when you revealed your intention to enlist in the army, your lips polished by the coconut curds from the rice cakes we had eaten. I doubt you still remember how I protested, saying that the plan would increase not only the distance between us but also our differences. I, with my fondness for the sweat-soaked farmers under the sun, and you, with your uncompromising notion of patriotism—we’ve always been different, as what the adults back home had confirmed. Now as you lead me through this pathway of many locked doors, the disparity has never been so evident.
Those ears are not the ears to which I used to confess all my secrets. Outside, we hear the megaphones blast the honeyed, singsong voice of the dictator. You only perk up when you hear him, the way they had programmed your kind to do. He greets the citizens good morning before announcing new policies that will be effective immediately. I try to listen, but as we turn at the end of the hallway, the tormented cries behind the walls are able to mask the words coming from your leader.
I already called out your name while your unit was arresting my faction in the caves. Again I whisper, “Abian, Abian,” and of course, there isn’t a response. If there was one, human rights organizations would be a step closer to finding the loophole that can eradicate the government’s militia. The drug they gave you was indeed the best of its kind.
You bring out some keys and open a door. One push and I stumble inside, welcomed by the sight of skin-and-bone prisoners in grey. Quickly I turn and plant a kiss on your cheek before you can close the door. You only stop and stare with what looks like a pair of black marbles. As if the dark pigment had long consumed everything we’d dreamed of. Those eyes are not the eyes that caught my attention during the summer of ’65.
You nod your head before closing the door shut. I listen to your footsteps trail off.
I’d like to think that you felt something. That even for a second, you remembered me, remembered back when we were only busy exchanging dreams and promises.
But that man is not the man I used to know. Not anymore.
Wilfred Cabrera is a video game enthusiast who works full-time as a copy editor. He graduated with a degree in Literature from De La Salle University where he is currently an MFA Creative Writing student. He lives in Metro Manila.
–Foreground Art by Helen Norcott
–Background Art by So-Ghislaine
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