Spoiler
Dear Sis,
I know it would be inconsiderate of me to withdraw my entry for you have extended the contest's deadline for me; but I have a speech to finish this week, and I just cannot edit this anymore to follow up. I've given up. You may ridicule this.
Love,
Bro.
P.S. As you may already know, this is quite disturbing.
---------------
"You look beautiful,” Patricia said dispassionately, her glassy eyes stared at me from head to toe. I couldn't tell if she was being sincere. After all, she always had given me her utmost repugnance; I was just an ordinary girl to her, she had told many times before, I had had neither brains nor beauty. Now she was telling me that I was beautiful? That was certainly something new.
I sincerely smiled at her—a good, wide smirk must have done the trick. Maybe she had accepted her utter defeat after all. Her son would be mine within a matter of hours.
She smirked back. “The make-up artist is good,” she said as my smile faded into a humiliated gaze. Sneering her way out of the room, she walked past me with her back straight and an aura of a 'proud' and 'prideful' mother. You’ll never change will you, Patricia.
After hearing the door close, I collapsed on my chair, trying to keep my forced posture while the long, white, stocking-like banner on my head puffed away swiftly. A thread might have been caught in a sharp edge, ruining the stupid head cloth; but it wasn't time for those trivial things--I was getting married and my almost mother-in-law still seemed spiteful towards me.
I raised my eyes and looked at the mirror before me. My eyebrows were knitted in a pitiful manner. Why, yes, I did believe I had worn a good application of make-up--just to make myself prettier. It was not the artist; all he did was to define my features more. I was beautiful, with or without make-up.
Yes, that's how you should think.
I sat up straight and point my chin towards the glass, but my shoulders slouched over again as I heavily sighed.
When I was a kid, I had burnt my color tone to a tan as I worked in the fields under the glaring rays of the sun; but the arduous job also had made me strongly built, and it structured these soft curves of mine—deceivingly enticing, just like how men like a woman’s body to be.
I stood up and stepped to the right. I didn't see anything wrong: my brown, round eyes were standing out with the peach rose I had put in my hair; my lips were blooming pink; and my cheeks were slightly blushing.
Why do I have to internalize Patricia's hurtful statements anyway? I don’t have to listen to her. I had worked hard, even went beyond than what my doubting parents every planned for me. I left the province and moved to a city with my uncle. It was quite a frightful journey, but I managed to start and study college. So, how could Patricia degrade me now? She should have been proud of what a fine woman her son had found.
I looked back at the door and sighed. I was composing myself to be conceited. But I just did not understand. It was more than the equation of her, her son’s and my names.
When I met Alfred and entered this stoic relationship, I didn’t get the chance to visit Ilocos, see my parents, and rub in their faces of what I had achieved. I didn’t hate them. It was just--they never had believed in me. All that they saw in me was a girl running in the fields, tending the flowers, feeding the chickens and milking the cows, forever innocent. And I was happy they couldn’t keep me in the uncivilized. I was happy my Uncle Harold saw my potential and helped me go settle in this city, saving my hands from being gnarled.
But I also said that it wasn't easy. Uncle Harold could only let me study for the first year. He had warned be beforehand, and I had promised I would find a job. But unfortunately, I didn't. Then I thought I'd just stay with him until I found one and save up for my own tuition fees, but he disagreed for some reason he wouldn't tell. It was something I couldn't figure out. He was single, he was rich, and still, he wouldn't keep me, telling me that if I don't figure out something soon, he would bring me back to Ilocos.
I didn't want that! I wanted to finish college and settle in this particular city. This is what I wanted. I looked at myself and see my eyes flutter. Wasn’t it?
Sure, I missed lying on the grass and watching the windmill rotate in the dry seasons, the white sand on the beaches where I'd muse and wonder about what living in the city was like and how I would have been living with technology.
My eyes strayed away from my reflection. Instead of foolishly indulging myself in nostalgia, I wore my silver earrings and patted my gown. I was done watching Father inhale his tobacco in the morning as Mother prepared fresh goat milk. I had started to enjoy computers, cell phones, iPods and the Internet, and I most certainly would not go back, just like keyboards would not go back being typewriters.
Uncle Harold must have spoiled me. And I never thought he'd try to get. He gave me one option: marry. Marry a rich man. How may uncles would adopt you and tell you he couldn't keep you anymore so he'd be forced to bring you back to your parents unless you marry a rich man? Uncle Harold was indeed eccentric. And he just didn't tell me to rich a random rich man I meet, he offered me a particular man: Alfred Panganiban, his franchisor's son.
He introduced Alfred to me when Alfred had visited the franchise. They sat side by side while I sat in front of them. Alfred had black hair and eyes, but I didn't mind that he looked a typical Filipino. At least he wasn't ugly.
"My niece here is a very fine woman, Al," Uncle had started. Alfred had looked at me, a plastered smile on his face. Uncle had nudged him. I looked away and pretended to watch the cars passing by. I knew matchmaking was a seriously bad idea. "You need to find a suitable wife soon."
I looked back, throwing Uncle Harold a bored look, implying that I wanted to go home. Alfred whispered something to Uncle Harold. Uncle Harold gave out a loud laugh, while Alfred smiled discreetly. It was an odd scene--watching two men whisper to each other. I didn't even know how to react, let alone the fact that they were talking about me. What could be so funny?
Uncle Harold stopped laughing as Alfred spoke. I never thought his voice would be deep. "Then we should know about each other..."
I was dumbed--muted. Not a smile, not a word, I just bowed my head and nodded to conceal a flush in my cheeks.
Alfred took me out frequently. It felt odd. It was like he was playing with me or something. I didn't know why he had to find a wife, all I did was to play his game so I could have a better future. The game went on till it reached the time he took me to his mother's house.
I could never forget the time I met Patricia. I was nervous and my neck sweated that when you touch it, it would feel like the surface of a cold drink set under the sun. I was sixteen, Alfred was twenty-six. I honestly thought his mother would figure out my real intentions with her son. But what was I to worry about? Alfred had something to do with me, too.
We had drunk iced tea in Patricia's suite. Chandeliers dangled down from her ears to her shoulders. What I had learned from that soundless encounter was cherry lipsticks could really make any lady look like a snob—for a fifty-four-year-old-woman.
She impassively stared at me for minutes that seemed like an eternity—till she looked at Alfred and broke the silence.
“Is she your new maid?”
Maid? The nervousness inside me stirred into anger. She had exposed her inner motives: she didn’t want me as her son’s wife.
Alfred mocked a laugh. “Oh, Mama. You have such a sense of humour.” I looked at him, his ebony eyes were filled with hesitation. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Patricia didn’t look at me. After a few moments she left for the stairs.
I had wondered then if I should just go back Ilocos.
My fake dates with Alfred continued. I guess I was beginning to fall for him anyway. The age gap provided a sense of security when I was with him. Though there was something that bothered me much. It wasn’t something that he did—it was something that he didn’t do. He never held me by the waist or kissed me.
Day after day I wondered if I was doing the right thing.
But one night, he took me by the bay. There, he kissed me on the cheek, showed me a small box, and knelt on one knee. I blushed as my heart thumped faster.
Opening the box and disclosing the ring within it, Alfred asked me, “Alicia, will you marry me?” His voice still lingers in my ears. That was the only thing I needed to be sure he was the one.
“Yes.” I smiled as he stood up and pulled me in for a hug.
I thought, so his mother approved me? As soon as pulled out, I asked him, “Does your mother know? Did you tell her you were proposing to me?”
I hoped that he had, but he shook his head. “I want you to tell her.”
“But w--why me?” I stuttered. “You’re the son.”
“It will be a good thing for you.”
“Why is it so?” I asked, baffled. But he didn’t answer me.
That night, I tossed and turned on my bed, wondering in the dark how I would tell Patricia. Should I show up in her place? Should I call? Or should I just send her a letter? I stood up, finally sticking with the latter option which was also the safest, and turned on the light. As the night hours passed, I wrote a postcard for Patricia.
Dear future Mother-in-be, Your son and I have planned to get married. I'm sorry I'm confirming your worst fear. P.S. This is the dress!
I sneered to myself. It would have been the perfect letter. But it sounded too disgraceful, so I wrote another one which was probably more acceptable—I hoped.
Dear Mom, Alfred and I are soon to be married, so I hope you don’t mind my calling you ‘mom’. He just proposed to me yesterday, which will be the 'other day' if you receive this letter at once. Love, Alicia. P.S. This is a picture of the dress. Simple, isn’t it? Just like me.
When I got up the next morning, I went to the mailing office in haste. After a couple of days, I received a letter, and as predicted, it was from Patricia. Breathing deeply, I opened the red envelope in my hands.
I whispered the words to myself. “Alicia, this might be my worst fear now, but soon it will be yours. Patricia.”
My heart quavered at the note. I ran into my room and reached on my desk. Fumbling through the clutter of paper, my eyes widened at the postcard left on my table. I had inserted in the envelope the impetuous note, making her furious, I supposed.
I panicked, thinking she might do something stupid to stop the wedding. But to my surprise, she never bothered Alfred and me the following days. I went through the wedding preparations peacefully with my fiancé. I didn’t even hear about her from Alfred.
But each day, there was something that pushed me into thinking that that Alfredo’s weariness from the preparations had soon evolved to fear. I suspected then that there was something I hadn’t known about. And I was positive that whatever it was, Patricia was the one behind it.
“What color do you think is better?” I raised my hands and showed Alfred two cloths, one cream and one pink. We were at the tailor’s and I was trying to pick a good color for my gown. “I think I should stick with white, Alfred?” I stared at him for about two minutes before he realized I was talking to him.
“Ah—you…” he stammered.
I put back the cloths on the tailor's sewing machine and excused myself. Pushing Alfred to a corner, I worryingly asked him, “What is wrong?”
He forcefully smiled. “Nothing’s wrong,” Alfredo declared, striking my hair with his hand.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. But seeing that his words and actions didn’t in the least give me comfort, he for the first time kissed me on the lips. It turned out to be intoxicating, and I finally verified my heart that I was in love with him. I am still, I guess; and not for long, I can be as intimate as I want with him.
I remember his kiss, but Patricia’s words rudely enter and torture my mind: "You look beautiful, Alicia. The make-up artist did a good job." I wish she could have just said what she really meant to say directly, whatever it was.
I stand up and tap my hair—brown and up in a bun. The wedding will be starting. No time for those awful thoughts.
I saunter for the door, and outside the car has been already waiting. Uncle Harold has taken the time to be my escort in place of father.
“Patty’s gone.” He winks. I laugh. “Now, you look beautiful. Your parents are sure missing a lot.”
I’m almost about to cry. And tears have always been my ultimate enemy. I just strive to take a hold of myself and look pleasing.
I sit in the white car designed with peach ribbons in front (no, it’s not a limousine). I know it won’t be a long trip, so I try to relax as much as my mind can. Getting Patricia off of my mind will be the perfect relaxation, I joke to myself.
I close my eyes, feeling the long, fake lashes poking my eye bugs. This is me now. The dumb, province-girl is long gone.
After a few moments, I find myself entering the church at last, one of my hands hanging onto Uncle Harold’s arm, the other holding the fresh peach roses tied up in pink lace. The building’s two huge doors are open for the best day of my life, next to having kids, I think. Eyes roam about as that tiresomely traditional wedding melody is being played by the melancholic tune of the pipe organ. My heart is light. I do not in the least feel nervous.
Looking straight ahead, I cherished the picture: petals randomly design the carpet, people in their formal suits surrounded me, the priest beside Alfred, who at this moment is gazing at me.
I look to the right so I can throw a smile of thanksgiving to all who’s here today. Patricia is there fanning herself arrogantly. But her lips curves up, she grins at me. I smile back and look to my left—my eyes are caught by the two people at the second row: the woman with gray curls sadly smiles at me, the stick man beside her does the same. My heart tenderly melts at what I've seen.
“Inay, Itay...” I whisper to myself. My parents are here. I glance at Uncle Harold. He winks at me again.
I don’t know how my soul can contain the joy it holds right now. Can anything go wrong? It feels impossible. I smile, the tears edging in my eyes. I look back at Alfred. He tensely smiles back. Uncle Harold let go of me as Alfred takes my arm. I squeeze his hands in return.
“Are you nervous?” I whisper.
“Kind of,” he says.
“Don’t be,” I plead. “Please.”
Alfred’s nervousness makes me nervous, too. I try to relax, simply listening to the priest’s deep voice as he speaks. His speech goes on. I can’t catch most of the words, I’m worried for Alfred. I only catch up when the priest faces me.
“Do you, Alicia Halcedo, take this man as your husband and closest friend, and do you agree to be fully committed to the sanctity of this marriage for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.” My voice is loud, my answer is clear, my mind is made up.
The priest turns to Alfred. “Do you, Alfred Panganiban, take this woman as your wife and closest friend, and do you agree to be fully committed to the sanctity of this marriage for as long as you both shall live?”
“I—I,” Alfred stammers. I see a sweat break down his forehead.
“Alfred?” I softly speak. “Are you okay, dear?” Our eyes meet—black against brown. He looks like he’s about to throw up. “Al--?”
My words are cut by Alfred. “I can’t do this.”
“What?” My voice is almost yelling at him.
The crowd gasps simultaneously. I’m shocked myself. I must have heard it wrong; we all must have. I look at the audience. All of them are surprised—except Patricia. Why, she smirks at me and mouths, “Told you.”
I look back at Alfred. “What did she tell you?” I angrily ask.
“She who?” he asks back.
“What did your mother tell you?”
“She has nothing to do with this,” Alfred answers, silencing my tongue from accusing Patricia the more.
“Alfred, please don’t do this,” I plead, I’m about to cry, and I can never fight tears.
“I’m so sorry, Alicia,” he says. “I’m sorry for taking away so much time from you.”
“You know better than this!” I scream. Everything was so perfect.
“I’m so sorry for having to lie to you. I—I thought I could change.” His voice calms down as he shakes his head.
“If it’s not your mother then what is it?” I hold him by the arm, but he slowly takes it away. I gasp. “There’s another one, isn’t there?” My voice quivers, my heart shatters.
“No…” He sadly looks at his mother, then at me. After bowing down and squeezing my hands, he finally spoke. “I can’t do this because,” he tells me as tears flow down my cheeks, ruining my light make-up. I start to blame everyone that enter my mind: father, mother, Uncle Harold, Alfred, Patricia--myself. And just when I'm starting to breathe again, Alfred's words strike my head as if it were a gong. “I’m gay.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is my entry for Yuriiko’s Contest. Please don’t expect anything, well ‘cause, just like Skins, I’m a novelist, and so I don’t think I’m not good with short stories. O_o And I was nervous posting this, ‘cause I’ll be up against epic YWSers like Skins, Tiger and Shubs…*deeply breathes* But I still gave a shot! So, yay for me. LOL The deadline was 20, so this was rushed…that’s why I hate it.
P.S. the lack of descriptions, I think, was caused by this being a short story and my SUPER RUSHED attempt. Gah! LOL
P.S.S. Sis is awesome because she extended the deadline for me. =P So not only can I post my entry on time, I'll have enough reviews, I think. =))
I know it would be inconsiderate of me to withdraw my entry for you have extended the contest's deadline for me; but I have a speech to finish this week, and I just cannot edit this anymore to follow up. I've given up. You may ridicule this.
Love,
Bro.
P.S. As you may already know, this is quite disturbing.
---------------
"You look beautiful,” Patricia said dispassionately, her glassy eyes stared at me from head to toe. I couldn't tell if she was being sincere. After all, she always had given me her utmost repugnance; I was just an ordinary girl to her, she had told many times before, I had had neither brains nor beauty. Now she was telling me that I was beautiful? That was certainly something new.
I sincerely smiled at her—a good, wide smirk must have done the trick. Maybe she had accepted her utter defeat after all. Her son would be mine within a matter of hours.
She smirked back. “The make-up artist is good,” she said as my smile faded into a humiliated gaze. Sneering her way out of the room, she walked past me with her back straight and an aura of a 'proud' and 'prideful' mother. You’ll never change will you, Patricia.
After hearing the door close, I collapsed on my chair, trying to keep my forced posture while the long, white, stocking-like banner on my head puffed away swiftly. A thread might have been caught in a sharp edge, ruining the stupid head cloth; but it wasn't time for those trivial things--I was getting married and my almost mother-in-law still seemed spiteful towards me.
I raised my eyes and looked at the mirror before me. My eyebrows were knitted in a pitiful manner. Why, yes, I did believe I had worn a good application of make-up--just to make myself prettier. It was not the artist; all he did was to define my features more. I was beautiful, with or without make-up.
Yes, that's how you should think.
I sat up straight and point my chin towards the glass, but my shoulders slouched over again as I heavily sighed.
When I was a kid, I had burnt my color tone to a tan as I worked in the fields under the glaring rays of the sun; but the arduous job also had made me strongly built, and it structured these soft curves of mine—deceivingly enticing, just like how men like a woman’s body to be.
I stood up and stepped to the right. I didn't see anything wrong: my brown, round eyes were standing out with the peach rose I had put in my hair; my lips were blooming pink; and my cheeks were slightly blushing.
Why do I have to internalize Patricia's hurtful statements anyway? I don’t have to listen to her. I had worked hard, even went beyond than what my doubting parents every planned for me. I left the province and moved to a city with my uncle. It was quite a frightful journey, but I managed to start and study college. So, how could Patricia degrade me now? She should have been proud of what a fine woman her son had found.
I looked back at the door and sighed. I was composing myself to be conceited. But I just did not understand. It was more than the equation of her, her son’s and my names.
When I met Alfred and entered this stoic relationship, I didn’t get the chance to visit Ilocos, see my parents, and rub in their faces of what I had achieved. I didn’t hate them. It was just--they never had believed in me. All that they saw in me was a girl running in the fields, tending the flowers, feeding the chickens and milking the cows, forever innocent. And I was happy they couldn’t keep me in the uncivilized. I was happy my Uncle Harold saw my potential and helped me go settle in this city, saving my hands from being gnarled.
But I also said that it wasn't easy. Uncle Harold could only let me study for the first year. He had warned be beforehand, and I had promised I would find a job. But unfortunately, I didn't. Then I thought I'd just stay with him until I found one and save up for my own tuition fees, but he disagreed for some reason he wouldn't tell. It was something I couldn't figure out. He was single, he was rich, and still, he wouldn't keep me, telling me that if I don't figure out something soon, he would bring me back to Ilocos.
I didn't want that! I wanted to finish college and settle in this particular city. This is what I wanted. I looked at myself and see my eyes flutter. Wasn’t it?
Sure, I missed lying on the grass and watching the windmill rotate in the dry seasons, the white sand on the beaches where I'd muse and wonder about what living in the city was like and how I would have been living with technology.
My eyes strayed away from my reflection. Instead of foolishly indulging myself in nostalgia, I wore my silver earrings and patted my gown. I was done watching Father inhale his tobacco in the morning as Mother prepared fresh goat milk. I had started to enjoy computers, cell phones, iPods and the Internet, and I most certainly would not go back, just like keyboards would not go back being typewriters.
Uncle Harold must have spoiled me. And I never thought he'd try to get. He gave me one option: marry. Marry a rich man. How may uncles would adopt you and tell you he couldn't keep you anymore so he'd be forced to bring you back to your parents unless you marry a rich man? Uncle Harold was indeed eccentric. And he just didn't tell me to rich a random rich man I meet, he offered me a particular man: Alfred Panganiban, his franchisor's son.
He introduced Alfred to me when Alfred had visited the franchise. They sat side by side while I sat in front of them. Alfred had black hair and eyes, but I didn't mind that he looked a typical Filipino. At least he wasn't ugly.
"My niece here is a very fine woman, Al," Uncle had started. Alfred had looked at me, a plastered smile on his face. Uncle had nudged him. I looked away and pretended to watch the cars passing by. I knew matchmaking was a seriously bad idea. "You need to find a suitable wife soon."
I looked back, throwing Uncle Harold a bored look, implying that I wanted to go home. Alfred whispered something to Uncle Harold. Uncle Harold gave out a loud laugh, while Alfred smiled discreetly. It was an odd scene--watching two men whisper to each other. I didn't even know how to react, let alone the fact that they were talking about me. What could be so funny?
Uncle Harold stopped laughing as Alfred spoke. I never thought his voice would be deep. "Then we should know about each other..."
I was dumbed--muted. Not a smile, not a word, I just bowed my head and nodded to conceal a flush in my cheeks.
Alfred took me out frequently. It felt odd. It was like he was playing with me or something. I didn't know why he had to find a wife, all I did was to play his game so I could have a better future. The game went on till it reached the time he took me to his mother's house.
I could never forget the time I met Patricia. I was nervous and my neck sweated that when you touch it, it would feel like the surface of a cold drink set under the sun. I was sixteen, Alfred was twenty-six. I honestly thought his mother would figure out my real intentions with her son. But what was I to worry about? Alfred had something to do with me, too.
We had drunk iced tea in Patricia's suite. Chandeliers dangled down from her ears to her shoulders. What I had learned from that soundless encounter was cherry lipsticks could really make any lady look like a snob—for a fifty-four-year-old-woman.
She impassively stared at me for minutes that seemed like an eternity—till she looked at Alfred and broke the silence.
“Is she your new maid?”
Maid? The nervousness inside me stirred into anger. She had exposed her inner motives: she didn’t want me as her son’s wife.
Alfred mocked a laugh. “Oh, Mama. You have such a sense of humour.” I looked at him, his ebony eyes were filled with hesitation. “She’s my girlfriend.”
Patricia didn’t look at me. After a few moments she left for the stairs.
I had wondered then if I should just go back Ilocos.
My fake dates with Alfred continued. I guess I was beginning to fall for him anyway. The age gap provided a sense of security when I was with him. Though there was something that bothered me much. It wasn’t something that he did—it was something that he didn’t do. He never held me by the waist or kissed me.
Day after day I wondered if I was doing the right thing.
But one night, he took me by the bay. There, he kissed me on the cheek, showed me a small box, and knelt on one knee. I blushed as my heart thumped faster.
Opening the box and disclosing the ring within it, Alfred asked me, “Alicia, will you marry me?” His voice still lingers in my ears. That was the only thing I needed to be sure he was the one.
“Yes.” I smiled as he stood up and pulled me in for a hug.
I thought, so his mother approved me? As soon as pulled out, I asked him, “Does your mother know? Did you tell her you were proposing to me?”
I hoped that he had, but he shook his head. “I want you to tell her.”
“But w--why me?” I stuttered. “You’re the son.”
“It will be a good thing for you.”
“Why is it so?” I asked, baffled. But he didn’t answer me.
That night, I tossed and turned on my bed, wondering in the dark how I would tell Patricia. Should I show up in her place? Should I call? Or should I just send her a letter? I stood up, finally sticking with the latter option which was also the safest, and turned on the light. As the night hours passed, I wrote a postcard for Patricia.
Dear future Mother-in-be, Your son and I have planned to get married. I'm sorry I'm confirming your worst fear. P.S. This is the dress!
I sneered to myself. It would have been the perfect letter. But it sounded too disgraceful, so I wrote another one which was probably more acceptable—I hoped.
Dear Mom, Alfred and I are soon to be married, so I hope you don’t mind my calling you ‘mom’. He just proposed to me yesterday, which will be the 'other day' if you receive this letter at once. Love, Alicia. P.S. This is a picture of the dress. Simple, isn’t it? Just like me.
When I got up the next morning, I went to the mailing office in haste. After a couple of days, I received a letter, and as predicted, it was from Patricia. Breathing deeply, I opened the red envelope in my hands.
I whispered the words to myself. “Alicia, this might be my worst fear now, but soon it will be yours. Patricia.”
My heart quavered at the note. I ran into my room and reached on my desk. Fumbling through the clutter of paper, my eyes widened at the postcard left on my table. I had inserted in the envelope the impetuous note, making her furious, I supposed.
I panicked, thinking she might do something stupid to stop the wedding. But to my surprise, she never bothered Alfred and me the following days. I went through the wedding preparations peacefully with my fiancé. I didn’t even hear about her from Alfred.
But each day, there was something that pushed me into thinking that that Alfredo’s weariness from the preparations had soon evolved to fear. I suspected then that there was something I hadn’t known about. And I was positive that whatever it was, Patricia was the one behind it.
“What color do you think is better?” I raised my hands and showed Alfred two cloths, one cream and one pink. We were at the tailor’s and I was trying to pick a good color for my gown. “I think I should stick with white, Alfred?” I stared at him for about two minutes before he realized I was talking to him.
“Ah—you…” he stammered.
I put back the cloths on the tailor's sewing machine and excused myself. Pushing Alfred to a corner, I worryingly asked him, “What is wrong?”
He forcefully smiled. “Nothing’s wrong,” Alfredo declared, striking my hair with his hand.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. But seeing that his words and actions didn’t in the least give me comfort, he for the first time kissed me on the lips. It turned out to be intoxicating, and I finally verified my heart that I was in love with him. I am still, I guess; and not for long, I can be as intimate as I want with him.
I remember his kiss, but Patricia’s words rudely enter and torture my mind: "You look beautiful, Alicia. The make-up artist did a good job." I wish she could have just said what she really meant to say directly, whatever it was.
I stand up and tap my hair—brown and up in a bun. The wedding will be starting. No time for those awful thoughts.
I saunter for the door, and outside the car has been already waiting. Uncle Harold has taken the time to be my escort in place of father.
“Patty’s gone.” He winks. I laugh. “Now, you look beautiful. Your parents are sure missing a lot.”
I’m almost about to cry. And tears have always been my ultimate enemy. I just strive to take a hold of myself and look pleasing.
I sit in the white car designed with peach ribbons in front (no, it’s not a limousine). I know it won’t be a long trip, so I try to relax as much as my mind can. Getting Patricia off of my mind will be the perfect relaxation, I joke to myself.
I close my eyes, feeling the long, fake lashes poking my eye bugs. This is me now. The dumb, province-girl is long gone.
After a few moments, I find myself entering the church at last, one of my hands hanging onto Uncle Harold’s arm, the other holding the fresh peach roses tied up in pink lace. The building’s two huge doors are open for the best day of my life, next to having kids, I think. Eyes roam about as that tiresomely traditional wedding melody is being played by the melancholic tune of the pipe organ. My heart is light. I do not in the least feel nervous.
Looking straight ahead, I cherished the picture: petals randomly design the carpet, people in their formal suits surrounded me, the priest beside Alfred, who at this moment is gazing at me.
I look to the right so I can throw a smile of thanksgiving to all who’s here today. Patricia is there fanning herself arrogantly. But her lips curves up, she grins at me. I smile back and look to my left—my eyes are caught by the two people at the second row: the woman with gray curls sadly smiles at me, the stick man beside her does the same. My heart tenderly melts at what I've seen.
“Inay, Itay...” I whisper to myself. My parents are here. I glance at Uncle Harold. He winks at me again.
I don’t know how my soul can contain the joy it holds right now. Can anything go wrong? It feels impossible. I smile, the tears edging in my eyes. I look back at Alfred. He tensely smiles back. Uncle Harold let go of me as Alfred takes my arm. I squeeze his hands in return.
“Are you nervous?” I whisper.
“Kind of,” he says.
“Don’t be,” I plead. “Please.”
Alfred’s nervousness makes me nervous, too. I try to relax, simply listening to the priest’s deep voice as he speaks. His speech goes on. I can’t catch most of the words, I’m worried for Alfred. I only catch up when the priest faces me.
“Do you, Alicia Halcedo, take this man as your husband and closest friend, and do you agree to be fully committed to the sanctity of this marriage for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.” My voice is loud, my answer is clear, my mind is made up.
The priest turns to Alfred. “Do you, Alfred Panganiban, take this woman as your wife and closest friend, and do you agree to be fully committed to the sanctity of this marriage for as long as you both shall live?”
“I—I,” Alfred stammers. I see a sweat break down his forehead.
“Alfred?” I softly speak. “Are you okay, dear?” Our eyes meet—black against brown. He looks like he’s about to throw up. “Al--?”
My words are cut by Alfred. “I can’t do this.”
“What?” My voice is almost yelling at him.
The crowd gasps simultaneously. I’m shocked myself. I must have heard it wrong; we all must have. I look at the audience. All of them are surprised—except Patricia. Why, she smirks at me and mouths, “Told you.”
I look back at Alfred. “What did she tell you?” I angrily ask.
“She who?” he asks back.
“What did your mother tell you?”
“She has nothing to do with this,” Alfred answers, silencing my tongue from accusing Patricia the more.
“Alfred, please don’t do this,” I plead, I’m about to cry, and I can never fight tears.
“I’m so sorry, Alicia,” he says. “I’m sorry for taking away so much time from you.”
“You know better than this!” I scream. Everything was so perfect.
“I’m so sorry for having to lie to you. I—I thought I could change.” His voice calms down as he shakes his head.
“If it’s not your mother then what is it?” I hold him by the arm, but he slowly takes it away. I gasp. “There’s another one, isn’t there?” My voice quivers, my heart shatters.
“No…” He sadly looks at his mother, then at me. After bowing down and squeezing my hands, he finally spoke. “I can’t do this because,” he tells me as tears flow down my cheeks, ruining my light make-up. I start to blame everyone that enter my mind: father, mother, Uncle Harold, Alfred, Patricia--myself. And just when I'm starting to breathe again, Alfred's words strike my head as if it were a gong. “I’m gay.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is my entry for Yuriiko’s Contest. Please don’t expect anything, well ‘cause, just like Skins, I’m a novelist, and so I don’t think I’m not good with short stories. O_o And I was nervous posting this, ‘cause I’ll be up against epic YWSers like Skins, Tiger and Shubs…*deeply breathes* But I still gave a shot! So, yay for me. LOL The deadline was 20, so this was rushed…that’s why I hate it.
P.S. the lack of descriptions, I think, was caused by this being a short story and my SUPER RUSHED attempt. Gah! LOL
P.S.S. Sis is awesome because she extended the deadline for me. =P So not only can I post my entry on time, I'll have enough reviews, I think. =))
You got it the idea and I love you for that.LOL
