Young Writers Society

jashbagabaldo wrote:Brilliant.

My arms stopped shaking. “Are you gonna kill me after this?”

I heard you chuckle. You chuckled Don't think you need this. Sounds odd. . I didn't expect that, but I understood: You had been only mocking me.

Tears blurred my vision and fell down my cheeks. You were winning – all of you were winning. Huh?

I gathered up courage to face you, and asked, “Why do you have to do this?” Rework this.

You blinked at me once, and stared at the floor.

“If you really have to do this,” I started to plead, “just kill me first – please.” The last word came out as a mumble.

I watched you closely – till you started taking off your shirt. I turned around to face the darkness, thinking, This is it. Heavens, why? I don't want this to happen. Please just let me die now. Take my soul. I began to have a hard time breathing because of the frustration and terror choking me.

The weight on the bed lifted.

"Don't cry,” a voice said.

My ears pricked up at what I’d heard. I asked, “What?” stopping my sniffs. "Stopping your sniffs?" How about "ceasing my sniffling?"

Your voice was gentle, almost a whisper, devoid of any derision. “I said – don’t cry.”

I felt a piece of cotton cloth tenderly mop my eyes. It smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. It was your shirt. You had taken off your shirt to wipe away my tears? Did you really think that a sweet act could diminish my fears? Well it didn’t…

…just a tad.

When you were done, I opened my eyes and took a good look at you. The light from the lamp was faint, but I could trace your features. Your face was so simple, yet you were handsome. Yes, you. You had a long, childish grin on you face; your eyes were very dark, yet fascinatingly bright – and frightened. For once in a very long time, I became conscious of what I looked like. What did I look like? I had cried, I had been scared. Did I look beautiful? As pretty as what others had told me Rework this. ? Or did I look foolish as I faintly smiled back at you?

I got back to my senses, and I frowned. I realized how charming you were and how stupid I was.

“Why do you have to do this?” I asked again.

“I don’t have to do this,” you whispered. Your tone was amiable. “And if I don’t want to do this, I won’t do it.”

“Do you want to do this?” I asked.

You looked at me, eyes glimmering, your grin still there Find another way to say "still there." . You slowly shook your head. “I don’t . . . so I won’t.”

Everything spun in my mind. Could it really be? You wouldn’t do it to me? Were you actually . . . different? What you just said – it could have been the truth, or it could have been a lie. Did you think I had believed you? Was it the truth?Or was it a lie? Maybe you were on drugs, or under the influence of alcohol – just like those maniacs outside. Or maybe you were acting. Not that it mattered now – because I had believed you.

And how foolish I was...

You turned around, and stared at the camera. Closing an eye, you raised the gun, and turned off the lamp so that I couldn’t see anything.

“What are you doing?” I screamed. I groped for the footboard, but your hand stopped me.

You whispered, “Just relax. Don’t worry.”

“Stop! Please!” I pleaded. I attempted to stand up, but then I felt your arm wrap around me. When I wriggled your grip became stronger. “Stop!” My arms were locked behind me, and I lay prostrate on the bed. I tried to grapple you, but you were too strong.

“Relax,” you whispered directly into my ears.

My face was pushed down in the pillow so that it was buried. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to shout, but none of my words came out clear. I even doubted that my squeals Dunno about "squeals." could be heard.

Then I heard a gunshot...

“List – listen – hey,” a hushed voice said.

I struggled to be free.

“I’ll release you if you please stop screaming,” the voice whispered.

I stopped my squirming and succumbed to the request. The heaviness on my body immediately disappeared. I rolled over, gasping for a breath. Panting, I lay on the bed. The light had been turned on.

“I’m sorry for that,” you whispered. “Now we have to hurry. They might check up on us soon. I don’t think they’ll eat up that much.”

“Eat...what?” I weakly asked; I lost a lot of power from the wrestle and lack of air.

“You see that.” You pointed at a corner – at the camera. I squinted at it. The lens was cracked. “That’s a lucky shot.” You smirked. I was impressed.

“Come one,” you said as you knelt on the bed and supported my neck. “They might figure out that everything was an act.”

“I didn’t even figure it out myself.” I stood up.

You softly chuckled as you pulled the blanket. You forcibly Careful with the adverbs. Don't think you need this one. ripped it apart, quietly raced for the door, and carefully slipped the cloth between (?) the two door handles, twisting it together and tying it as hard as you could.

“Now help me move the bed. Be as quiet as possible.”

“What are you doing?” I whispered. I still had to guess the obvious.

“I’m helping you escape.” You smiled at me. I felt warm blood rush up my body – to my cheeks. It was because of my excitement and superfluous fondness of you.

Not a moment was to be lost. So quickly yet inaudibly, we heaved up and carried the bedRework this. , then pushed it against the doors. No one was getting out; no one was getting in either.

“Come.” You walked to the corner of the room, and I kept on wondering if there was an invisible door somewhere.

You squatted and rested your elbows on your thighs. “Climb and reach the camera . . . fast.”

I swiftly climbed on your back and reached for the broken device, tugging it thrice to separate it from the wire. I climbed down and gave it to you.

You raced back and knelt on the floor. The part of the carpet where the bed had been had a huge, square mark on it; it looked like it was stitched around "Stitched around?" . With a sharp edge of the camera, you slowly cut out the stitches, one by one.

“Andy!” a voice echoed outside. “Yoo-hoo!” The voice was teasing. “Why did you disconnect the camera?” I heard loud, menacing laughs.

I glanced at the door, hoping the cloth and the bed would hold them out as we escaped.

“Darn it!” you said. The cutting was taking so long, so you angrily tore the camera apart. While taking out a screw, a part of your skin on your thumb was incised. It bled, and I knew it was hurt. But you didn’t seem to mind it. You pressed your bleeding thumb on your shirt, and took the screw in your other hand.

“What you doin’, Andy?” the voice started again.

I shifted my eyes back to the door. I heard that the locks outside werebeing opened.

“It’s opened,” you whispered.

I was scared/frightened, and looked back at you. “The locks are being opened, too.”

A hole now lay on the floor. You had successfully taken out the piece of square wood. I peeked into the pit. It was dark, and foul smell issued from it. You took my hand as you started to climb down. But you noticed that I wouldn’t even budge.

“Come on,” you said.

Chairs are pretty

The strangest strange stranger

“Andy!” The voice that came from outside became furious. “Open this!” Someone thumped on the door, attempting to force it open.

I looked at the door, then back at you.

“Come on,” you repeated.

Bullets penetrated through the doors. You pulled me down and made me duck.

“Come on!” you hissed.

Pinching my nose and closing my eyes, I had no other choice but to crawl down with you.

Below it was pure darkness. Nothing could be seen – except when you look back and get a glimpse of the faint light in the room. I couldn’t feel any wall aroundso I held on to your arm. The ground was cold and sticky, which made it hard to walk on "Hard to walk on" sounds a bit dull. . It was soft as flesh, but somewhat hard and pointy as bones. It was what I thought – it was never meant to be a guess. How do you suddenly know?

“What are we stepping on?” I asked.

“We have to move faster,” you replied, not answering my question. “When they realize they can’t force the doors in the room, they would wait for us outside. We have to beat ‘em out.”

I tried my best to scamper alongside you, till you suddenly stopped.

“Could you let go of my arm for awhile?” Your voice sounded thin.

“Don’t leave me,” I begged.

“I won’t.”

I let you go of your arm, and then I heard thumps on the ceiling, like books falling off a shelf andonto a wooden floor. Debris fell on my head. Soon, light descended from the cracks. You kept on punching anduntil you had torn out a hole as big as the hole back in the room.

When enough light shone around us, I looked at the floor. What we were stepping on were bodies – dead bodies.

“Andy!” I clutched your arm, alarmed.

You held me as I reached out. I hauled myself up.

The first thing I noticed was the sky; all stars were twinkling in view Rework this latter part. . Finally, fresh air. Liberty. I looked back and saw a wall standing great and tall. It's the back of the house, I thought. Around us were plants, trees, and bushes. On the horizon, I could distinguish the mountains from the sky.

You climbed out, panting as you spoke. “Now, you run straight there—” You pointed behind me, away from the house. “Run through the bushes so they wouldn’t be able to follow you in a vehicle. It’s kind of a shortcut, too. You’ll beat them to a street.” You fell to your knees. “And when you do, turn right. Just follow the path and you will see a police station.”

“Come with me,” I said, tugging at your arm. But you yanked it back.

You shook your head. “I want you to run now. Find the police. Tell them to get here as soon as possib—”

“We can tell the authorities together.”

“I’ve tried before, you know...”

“Try it again with me—”

“Are you scared?”

“For you.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“I’m already nineteen, so you don’t have to worry about me, okay?” Then you smiled your childish smile. “I’ll be alright.”

I smiled too, bent over, and kissed your forehead. Silver I wouldn't call tears "silver." lined your eyes; tears struggled to break free. But you were good at keeping them in, just hanging in there.

“Andy, are you there?” a faint voice hollered.

You pulled yourself out of the hole (You stood) and held up the gun, pointing it toward where the voice came from. “Run,” you hissed.

“But—”

“Dang it! Just run!”

I ran as fast as I could, and I didn’t look back. Just like you had ordered, I darted through the trees and bushes, twigs poking at my legs and feet. I didn’t expect my feet to move that fast, especially in my condition, but they did. And, hearing gunshots pierce through the night, I continued to run with you on my mind. As I went further away from the horrid place, the gunfire ceased. I wanted to turn back. I wanted to know: Did you kill them? – Or did they kill you?

At last, I found the street, took a right turn, and ran some more till I arrived at a police station. There, I was informed where I was: Sapang Palay, Bulacan. I was in a province – very, very far from home.

I won’t forget that place as well. It was part of the insanity I had to go through. Amidst the cops and cuffed suspects about to be brought to another town, I stood, terribly shaking, pleading for the police to rescue you. But they didn’t take any action even when I showed them my scars and grazes. They thought that I was a mad girl – concluded, to be precise.

“Aren’t these enough proofs for you?” I shouted, banging the desk.

Annoyed, the head officer of the station threatened me to stop. “I will cuff you if you conti—”

His words were cut by another police officer who came charging in. “Sir, a tanod reported that there was a gunfire a few minutes ago. I’m not so sure of the location, but they say it may be just a few miles away.”

“That’s it!” I shouted like a three-year-old, relieved. “I told you.”

The man on the desk rolled his eyes. “Call Dan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m coming!” I butted in.

“You can’t come with us, miss.”

“But I know the place—”

“Stay.”

The officer pushed me aside, and I collapsed on a chair. Most of the police marched out with him.

After minutes of pure apprehension, a police requested formy parents’ number so he could call them. I declined the offer when he asked if I wanted to talk to my parents. After speaking on the phone, he walked up to me.

“Your parents said they’re on their way,” he said. “They might get here before the sun rises.”

“Thank you,” I said weakly. (In the case of describing dialog, the adverb should always follow the verb.)

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

The officer chucked me. “Say, you’re a pretty girl.”

I slapped his hand away. “Even if you’re wearing that uniform,” I furiously said, hugging myself as I remembered how awful my attire was, “you remind me exactly of them.” He backed up and never stepped any closer to me until my parents arrived.

A reunion with my family was what I needed to feel comforted. I privately told my parents everything that had happened in the car. They believed me, it seemed; but they forbade me to tell anybody else.

Before we left, the police told my parents that they still needed to file against anyone who might have been arrested. My parents refused to. They told the authorities that were happy I was safe. Period.

So I sat in the backseat of the car, watching the sun rise over the horizon. I couldn’t enjoy the scene, because I kept on thinking about what happened to you. I hoped and prayed you were alright – just like you had promised.

Going from Sapang Palay to Manila City was a four-hour trip – a long time for my mother to rant at me. My parents made two things clear: first, I was never to go out at night again till I turned sixteen, plus there would be certain rules; second, I was to keep my mouth shut about what had happened to me – they greatly detested the possibility of my meddling with the investigations.

Deep inside, I believed that they were simply being selfish. I suspected that they were only afraid people would think I was actually mad. I was most certainly concerned with what had occurred. I could even charge those men who had been arrested; they acted violently against me. Figuring out everything that might happen, I swore to myself: If I were needed for the investigation (say subpoenaed), I would do anything I could to help find justice. I was confident that soon the truth would have to be disclosed, and my parents wouldn’t be able to stop it.

Days passed. I realized how Philippine current and public affairs could sustain an issue to keep the mass intrigued. I didn’t have to beg my parents to call the police and ask what had happened to the operation because the incident flooded the news headlines. There were so many newspaper and online articles and news slots regarding it that...(?). I read and watched them all – again and again. I even started to memorize some lines, like what one police had said: “As of now, we still don’t know what caused the gunfire, and we are not to conclude...” I remembered the statement merely for wry amusement though.

After one and a half weeks, investigators confirmed that the women were raped before killed, and the police had given out a list of suspects who hadn’t been yet arrested (as if they'd been serious about getting those hoodlums arrested). Channel 7 promptly aired a special episode about this certain case, which was called the Sapang Palay Case:

“December 21, 2007,” the host started. “At Sapang Palay, Bulacan...” The screen showed a picture of the house. No matter how huge and beautiful the house could appear to the eyes of men, to me it was hunting; it had held secrets which had acted as hell for those women who had been there before me.

A man appeared on the screen. It was one of the news clips previously shown at the nightly news broadcast. He was one of the six suspects arrested that night. (Sadly, none of them was either the bald man, or the tattoo-covered man; and of course, none of them was you.) This man was badly wounded because he tried to fight; he ended up with a bullet in his left arm, another one in his right thigh.

“You were found hiding in the base of a house where nine female bodies were found,” the reporter’s voice said.

The wounded suspect lay in a hospital bed, covering his face with his arm.

“What were you doing there?” the reporter asked.

“I can’t remember, sir,” the man reasoned.

The reporter tried a different question. “Do you know what happened to these bodies?”

The man paused. “It was all part of the initiation, sir.”

“What was part of the initiation?” The reporter was quick to ask.

The man remained silent, so the reporter asked his question again. Finally, the man answered: “To rape a woman...”

A woman appeared on the screen; she was an attorney. “Sexual assault is an inhumane act, no?” she explained. “The law – our law – strictly prohibits it. We have what we call the Anti-Rape Law of 1997… As stated in Article 266-A, rape is committed by a man who shall have carnal knowledge of a woman under certain circumstances, no? Like through force, or intimidation. For example, the man threatened the woman that he would kill her, no? – if she refuses to concede....”

The suspect was shown again on the screen.

“Then after that...?” the reporter asked.

“They were killed, Sir.”

“Did you do it?”

“I don’t know anything about the killings, sir.”

“How about the initiation? Did you have to be initiated?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why?”

“I was only threatened, sir.” His voice cracked, seemingly crying.

“Threatened by whom and for what?”

“They were going to kill me if I didn’t join their gang.”

“So you really had to do it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I roamed my eyes around Odd phrase. A bit more effective and idiomatic would be "My eyes roamed around..." while lying Going on my other suggestion, you should change this to "as I lay." back slowly until my head touched the pillow. A lamppost, which partially lightens Why the random tense change? up the room with a faint orange glow, stood in a corner to my right. Next to it were two wooden doors – like wardrobe doors because of their flowery designs. The wall to my left was blank, so I looked down at the large plywood nailed on the wall across the bed. I supposed that behind it was a window. Maybe Styrofoam was laid between the sheet of wood and the glass to make the room soundproof. That was what I thought, because I believed they were brilliant. They wouldn’t want anyone to hear me if I shouted, would they? Still, my assumption could be wrong. Had there been a window behind the wood, and Styrofoam between the wood and the glass, I didn’t dare to find out. I think you wouldn’t, too, if you knew that a bullet might rush through your skull the very next moment you strove to make a move to escape – in this case: screaming desperately (or pathetically) for a rescuer.

I took a deep breath, and looked straight at the ceiling. Even though it was grey and bleak, I succeeded in imagining that it was the open sky, all stars twinkling in view – just like back at home on dry season nights when I would stay at the terrace with my parents. We would converse with each other – sometimes laugh at something funny my father had said. Then when my parents would feel the sleepiness that people in their fifties would experience at nine thirty in the evening, they each would kiss me on the forehead, tell me to rest too, and leave me on my own. But I would stay a bit more, and indulge myself in the dark blue of the sky, thinking if my life (which had been pretty boring) could be as beautiful as its aura.

Oh, those gorgeous stars...

For now, I loved having a good memory – I moved my head to the left and saw the pillow beside me – but later, I knew that I wouldn’t appreciate it at all.

I hugged myself as I sunk in the soft bed, thinking about what my parents could be doing at that very moment. Were they missing me? Were they looking for me? Of course they would be. I was their only child, their “little angel”. Losing me must have been the worst thing that had ever happened to their entire married life. Well, at least that was how I reflected to comfort myself. So even if I was in this dark place where care didn’t seem to The "seem to" here detracts from the emotion of the sentence. Try deleting it---doesn't it sound much more charged? And it doesn't imply that there might be care somewhere, which, as far as I can tell, your MC doesn't believe there is anything resembling caring. exist, I would remember that somewhere out there, beyond these dreary walls, there was a couple who I knew loved me.

I felt warm tears flow from my eyes. Could my parents have guessed what had happened to me? I remembered – on the night that I had been taken away – I had been out on the streets to buy onions at the nearest sari-sari store. I had been walking for only a minute and about to round a corner, when the next thing I’d known, I had received a powerful blow on the back of my neck. Had anyone seen what had happened? Had anyone even tried to save me? It wasn’t an accident . . . someone had deliberately knocked me out.

I couldn’t understand how it could have turned out like this. I had been gone out almost nightly to buy at that store – garlic, onions, sachets of toothpaste or shampoo, and sometimes even needles. It had seemed like an ordinary night. My father had been sitting by the dinner table, reading one of his philosophical books, when my mother, who had been cooking a viand, softly cursed to herself, telling my father and me that she had forgotten to buy onions. I hadn’t been doing anything but to stare at the green and red checker design of the table cloth, so I, with my unsuppressed jollity, had volunteered to buy them: the onions. <--This part is emphasizing the "buying onions" aspect of this situation. Which seems really random. Unless there's some hidden meaning?

Please don’t assume that I had been such a pathetic little girl. How could have I known what had awaited me at the corner of Rubi St.? The name itself doesn’t seem to imply wickedness. And how could have I known that after being slammed out of and gaining back my consciousness I would find myself in the dark with duct tape on my mouth and ropes coiled around my body? That I would be trapped in the filthy hands of these heinous men?

I sat up to touch my grazed cheeks and forehead, then my mouth. I could still feel the sting on my lips, and the pain in my back and stomach. I could remember: When I’d woken up, finding myself lying in a sinister, It's not enough to tell the reader it's sinister and dungeon like. I know you were probably struggling to find words to describe such a place. But you have to really try to give us the creeps about this place.dungeon-like place, Without some sort of conjunction after the comma, this is grammatically incorrect. I had been vainly squirming around to get to my feet; but every time I’d managed to stand up, a male voice would curse me, and I would feel a harsh kick on my back (at times in my guts), excruciating enough to send me back on the abrasive floor. When I’d had enough, a male voice had ordered me to sit up. I hadn’t complied at once, and the result had been harsh: The man had kicked me again at the back. Howling in pain, I’d supported myself by pushing my head on the wall. I had tried, I really had tried, but I was already too weak to sit.

I held my jaw and moved them from side to side. I could remember how mad the man was when his order could not have been done, and how painful it had been when he’d unsympathetically clutched my cheeks to pull off the tape from my mouth. I had screamed. Then he’d grabbed my hair and made me face him. “Drink!” His voice still echoed in my ears. How I had tried opening my eyes but they stopped halfway. In the dark, I had seen a shadowy figure approach my mouth, then liquid had been poured through my lips. The drink had been salty like seawater. I’d whined and refused to drink, then spat it – sprinkled it on the man’s face.

The bed bounced as I lay on my stomach. I clutched my ears. How many times had that man cursed me? – growling the foul words? How many times had he banged my head on the wall, and when I’d collapsed on the ground, he’d cursed again and laughed? I tried to be calm, but more tears fell from my eyes. They kept on coming till the pillow was damp. The truth was I didn’t even know how many days had passed since I’d been gone from home. All I knew was when I was brought here, lack of food and sleep (one can never naturally sleep when one knows that one’s life is at stake) had caused me to feel as if I’d been here for an eternity. I’d felt like going insane – like an animal caged in darkness to be driven out mad.

Things had momentarily felt light when I’d lost my consciousness again. When I’d woken, I was already here in this beautiful room, laid on this soft bed. I wasn’t in my clothes; I wore a silk, black night dress, far above my knees, too thin that my breasts embossed. The wording in this is odd. I think maybe something like, "the fabric so thin that my breasts seemed to emboss it." Or something to that effect, since my example is also a little off. Thinking of how I could have been so clean had only tortured my mind. They'd turned me into a doll – a dumb doll ready to be played with.

To deflect my thoughts from those hidden horrors, I’d started looking about, cherishing the last moments of my artlessness. That was when I’d noticed everything around me: the plywood (with my worthless theories), the elegant lamp, the wardrobe-like doors, the brown carpet that entirely covered the floor, and the soft sheets and cushions; even the camera on the ceiling – which guaranteed that my movements were numbered, not only by God, but also by those men.

I was tired of crying, so I stopped. Whatever would happen within these four gray walls, I hadn't really wanted to know. Too bad I had guessed, and was sure of it. I suppose I wasn’t that dumb and naïve for a thirteen-year-old girl. I’d figured out that my parents weren’t well-known or rich for me to be kidnapped. I was here for only one obvious reason: for this evil deed I’d heard of a million times before. It was a horrible crime, and the horror it’d had on me had no chance of overcoming the horror I had of it now.

One of the doors opened. A line of white light stretched on the carpeted floor. I jerked up as a man entered. Holding a tray with both of his hands, he pushed the door behind him with the sole of his foot. The man set the tray on the bed. “Eat,” he said, his voice deep and hoarse. It was familiar. If I wasn’t mistaken, he was the man who had kicked me constantly back in the previous room I’d been. This was the first time I saw him clearly. He wore no shirt, which didn’t matter much because his body was covered with tattoos.

“You’re not gonna eat, eh?” he shouted. I realized that I hadn’t moved an inch. He drew out a gun from his behind and directed it on my head. “Eat...” he repeated.

I slowly moved forward. The smell of the soup tormented my stomach. I stared at the bowl of noodles in front of me, thinking if it was poisoned, and then shifted my eyes to the man. “I’m not hungry,” I lied.

A roaring laugh throbbed in my ears. The man laughed and laughed, slapping his thigh at times, till his eyes got teary. Then, chuckling, he slowly pushed the gun muzzle against my forehead. I tightly closed my eyes and waited for the blast. But it didn’t come. Instead, the man laughed again.

The doors flung wide open. White light spread on the walls of the room, and I had to squint to see who was entering. A taller man appeared. This man wore a dark, red shirt. He was bald, and his bushy brows were knitted together while he approached me.
.
He looked down at me, I looked up at him. He snickered. “This is her?” he asked the man beside him, more of a statement of unbelief though than a question. He knelt on one knee and rested his arm on his thigh. “Say,” he told me, moving his face closer to mine so that I could smell his breath, which smelled of smoke and alcoholic drink, “are you OK?”

I spat at him.

I had never been so impulsive in my life before. I guess it was the unknown anger I was inadvertently nourishing inside that urged me to act so rashly. This is awkwardly written. Perhaps change it to, "Maybe it was the buried anger festering within that made me act that way." Generally, the best way to say something is also the shortest.

The bald man backed up, wiping his face with the neck of his shirt. He guffawed. “Andy will love this joke,” he said. He stood up. Hands in his pockets, he cocked his brow at the sight of the untouched bowl of noodles. “Aren’t you hungry, little girl?”

I slowly shook my head. He sneered, bent over gradually, and spat in the bowl. I winced at the bubbly, white foam that swam in the soup.

“Eat,” he said sarcastically. “Eat, or Dong here” — he pointed at the man behind him, who in turn childishly waved the handgun above him — “will make the gun go ‘bang!’”

I winced again. Slowly, I took the fork . . . But the bald man snatched it away from me.

He shook his head. “Wait, wait, wait...” He stirred the soup, and handed the fork back to me.

I regretted what I had done. Knowing better than testing the man’s patience again, I dipped the fork into the soup, pulled out two strands of noodles, and swirled it around to put into my mouth. But the bald man grabbed my hand and made me get more strands than I’d intended to.

“There you go!” he exclaimed derisively. He knelt again, his eyes wide and mocking. He waited till the forkful of noodles was in my mouth and I’d swallowed it.

“Good girl!” he exclaimed, patting my head. He stood up and bent over. “Now you wait here as I fetch Andy. I’m gonna live you two alone so you can play.” He clapped once, and laughed. The other man laughed with him, and the room was filled with manly roars.

I found someone else more pathetic than I: them.

Another man entered the room. He closed one of the doors, and leaned on it, arms crossed. I couldn’t see him well because he stood sideways, as if he was disgusted of and couldn’t look at me. He was thin – not bony-thin though, but strangely fit.

The bald man turned around to greet the newcomer. “Oh, hi, Andy! Guess I didn’t have to call you. Lookie here . . . we got you a playmate…”

Andy sighed and cleared his throat. Odd thing though – Andy was you . . . and there, you appeared for the first time and the last, by that door – and in my life.

The bald man sneered, and walked up to you. "Since this is your first,” he said, “I'll give you all night – and some privacy.” He patted your shoulder, and whispered. “And she’s untouched.”

The tattoo-covered man whistled and threw you his gun. You deftly caught it.

The bald man continued, "If she fights, kill her...”

“A dead body isn’t as warm as a living one,” the tattoo-covered man said, “but it’ll still do."

They laughed again. But you – you seemed like a rock. Or maybe your humour was simply different from theirs.

The other two men went out of the room. Playing with the gun in your hand, you stood straight as the doors closed behind you and the strong white light faded. I heard locks and chains chink. They had locked us in – alone.

You stared at me – with the stare of an introvert. I froze. You didn't take off your gaze on me, so I shifted my eyes on the floor, watching your shadow creep towards me. Weight pressed down on the bed; you now sat beside me. Close enough to make my heart pound as if it was obliged to pump out a ton of blood. Your presence gave me a headache.

For awhile you didn't do anything, neither spoke nor moved. Silence prevailed around us. But in my mind a hundred words were being screamed by different voices all at the same, and I couldn’t decipher anything. I felt as if I was going to faint. My breaths began to shorten, and my body began to shake weakly, but uncontrollably. I hugged myself to refrain from retching.

“Are you okay?” you asked, breaking my thoughts.

The way you said it was soft. And your voice – it wasn't deep or hoarse, like the men who had been gone; it was a smooth, nasal tune that ran in my ears pleasantly. It was young. It identified you…

Brilliant.

My arms stopped shaking. “Are you gonna kill me after this?”

I heard you chuckle. You chuckled. I didn't expect that, but I understood: You had been only mocking me.

Tears blurred my vision and fell down my cheeks. You were winning – all of you were winning.

I gathered up courage to face you, and asked, “Why do you have to do this?”

You blinked at me once, and stared on the floor.

“If you really have to do this,” I started to plead, “just kill me first – please.” The last word came out as a mumble.

I watched you closely – till you started taking off your shirt. I turned around to face the darkness, thinking, This is it. Heavens, why? I don't want this to happen. Please just let me die now. Take my soul. I began to have a hard time breathing because of (the) frustration and terror which choked me.

The weight on the bed lifted.

"Don't cry,” a voice said.

My ears pricked up at what I’d heard. I asked, “What?” I stopped(ing) my sniffs.

Your voice was gentle, almost a whisper, devoid of any derision. “I said – Don’t cry.”

I felt a piece of cotton cloth tenderly mop my eyes. It smelled of cigarette smoke and beer. It was your shirt. You had taken off your shirt to wipe away my tears? Did you really think that a sweet act could diminish my fears? Well it didn’t…

…just a tad.

When you were done, I opened my eyes and took a good look at you. The light from the lamp was faint, but I could trace your features. Your face was so simple, yet you were handsome. Yes, you. You had a long, childish grin on you face; your eyes were very dark, yet fascinatingly bright – and frightened. For once in a very long time, I became conscious of what I looked like. What did I look like? I had cried, I had been scared. Did I look beautiful? As pretty as what others had told me? Or did I look foolish as I faintly smiled back at you?

I got back to my senses, and frowned. I realized how charming you were and how stupid I was.

“Why do you have to do this?” I asked again.

“I don’t have to do this,” you whispered. Your tone was amiable. “And if I don’t want to do this, I won’t do it.”

“Do you want to do this?” I asked.

You looked at me, eyes glimmering, your grin still there. You slowly shook your head. “I don’t . . . so I won’t.”

Everything spun in my mind. Could it really be? You wouldn’t do it to me? Were you actually . . . different? What you just said – it could have been the truth, or it could have been a lie. Did you think I had believed you? Was it the truth? Or was it a lie? Maybe you were under drugs, or under the influence of alcohol – just like those maniacs outside. Or maybe you were good in acting. Not that it mattered now – because I had believed you.

And how foolish I was...

You turned around, and stared at the camera. Closing an eye, you raised the gun, and turned off the lamp so that I couldn’t see anything.

“What are you doing?” I screamed. I groped for the footboard, but your hand stopped me.

You whispered, “Just relax. Don’t worry.”

“Stop! Please!” I pleaded. I strove to stand up, but then I felt your arm wrap around me. When I wriggled you gripped stronger. “Stop!” My arms were locked behind me, and I lay prostrate on the bed. I tried to grapple you, but you were too strong.

“Relax,” you whispered directly into my ears.

My face was pushed down in the pillow so that it was buried. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to shout, but none of my words came out clear. I even doubted that my squeals could be heard.

Then I heard a gunshot...

“List – listen – hey,” a hushed voice said.

I struggled to be free.

“I’ll release you if you please stop screaming,” the voice whispered.

I stopped my squirming and succumbed to the request. The heaviness on my body immediately disappeared. I rolled over, gasping for a breath. Panting, I lay on the bed. The light had been turned on.

“I’m sorry for that,” you whispered. “Now we have to hurry. They might check up on us soon. I don’t think they’ll eat up that much.”

“Eat...what?” I weakly asked; I lost a lot of power from the wrestle and lack of air.

“You see that.” You pointed at a corner – at the camera. I squinted at it. The lens was cracked. “That’s a lucky shot.” You smirked. I was impressed.

“Come one,” you said as you knelt on the bed and supported my neck. “They might figure out that everything was an act.”

“I didn’t even figure it out myself.” I stood up on my own.

You softly chuckled as you pulled the blanket. You forcibly ripped it apart, quietly raced for the door, and carefully slipped the cloth between (?) the two door handles, twisting it together and tying it as hard as you could.

“Now help me move the bed. Be as quiet as possible.”

“What are you doing?” I whispered. I still had to guess the obvious.

“I’m helping you escape.” You smiled at me. I felt warm blood rush up my body – to my cheeks. It was because of my excitement and superfluous fondness of you. You don't have to explicitly state that; the reader can infer why she blushed.

Not a moment was to be lost. So quickly yet inaudibly, we heaved up and carried the bed, then pushed it against the doors. No one was getting out; no one was getting in either.

“Come.” You walked to the corner of the room, and I kept on wondering if there was an invisible door somewhere.

You squatted and rested your elbows on your thighs. “Climb and reach the camera . . . fast.”

I swiftly climbed on your back and reached for the broken device, tugging it thrice to separate it from the wire. I climbed down and gave it to you.

You raced back and knelt on the floor. The part of the carpet – where the bed had been – had a huge, square mark on it; it looked like it was stitched around. With a sharp edge of the camera, you slowly cut out the stitches, one by one.

“Andy!” a voice echoed outside. “Yoo-hoo!” The voice was teasing. “Why did you disconnect the camera?” I heard loud, menacing laughs.

I glanced at the door, hoping the cloth and the bed would hold them out as we escaped.

“Darn it!” you said. The cutting was taking so long, so you angrily tore the camera apart. While taking out a screw, a part of your skin on your thumb was incised. It bled, and I knew it hurt. But you didn’t seem to mind it. You pressed your bleeding thumb on your shirt, and took the screw with you other hand.

“Wachu doin’, Andy?” the voice started again.

I shifted my eyes back at the door. I heard that the locks outside were being opened.

“It’s opened,” you whispered.

I was terrorized, and looked back at you. “The locks are being opened, too.”

A hole now lay on the floor. You had successfully taken out the piece of square wood. I peeked in the pit. It was dark, and foul smell came from it. You took my hand as you started to climb down. But you noticed that I wouldn’t even budge.

“Come on,” you said.

“Andy!” The voice that came from outside turned furious. “Open this!” Someone thumped on the door, forcing it to open.

I looked at the door, then back at you.

“Come on,” you repeated.

Bullets penetrated through the doors. You pulled me down and made me duck.

“Come on!” you hissed.

Pinching my nose and closing my eyes, I had no other choice but to crawl down with you.

Below was pure darkness. Nothing could be seen – except when you look back and get a glimpse of the faint light in the room. I couldn’t feel any wall around so I held on to your arm. The ground was cold and sticky which made it hard to walk on. It was soft as flesh, but somewhat hard and pointy as bones. Personally, I think you're giving too much away here. It was what I thought – it was never meant to be a guess.

“What are we stepping on?” I asked.

“We have to move faster,” you said, not answering my question. “When they realize they can’t force the doors in the room, they would wait for us outside. We have to beat ‘em out.”

I tried my best to scamper till you stopped.

“Could you let go of my arm for awhile?” Your voice sounded thin.

“Don’t leave me,” I begged.

“I won’t.”

I let you go of your arm, and then I heard thumps on the ceiling, like books falling off a shelf and onto a wooden floor. Debris fell on my head. Soon, light descended from the cracks. You kept on punching and until you had torn out a hole as big as the hole back in the room.

When enough light shone around us, I looked on the floor. What we were stepping on were bodies – dead bodies.

“Andy!” I clutched your arm, alarmed.

You carried me as I reached out. I hauled myself up.

The first thing I noticed was the sky; all stars were twinkling in view. Finally, fresh air. Liberty. I looked back and saw a wall standing great and tall; it was the back of the house I thought. Around us were plants, trees, and bushes. By the horizon, I could distinguish the mountains from the sky.

You climbed out, panting as you spoke. “Now, you run straight there—” You pointed behind me, away from the house. “Run through the bushes so they wouldn’t be able to follow you in a vehicle. It’s kind of a shortcut, too. You’ll beat them to a street.” You fell to your knees. “And when you do, turn right. Just follow the path and you will see a police station.”

“Come with me,” I said, tugging at your arm. But you yanked it back.

You shook your head. “I want you to run now. Find the police. Tell them to get here as soon as possib—”

“We can tell the authorities together.”

“I’ve tried before, you know...”

“Try it again with me—”

“Are you scared?”

“For you.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“I’m already nineteen, so you don’t have to worry about me, OK?” Then you smiled your childish smile. “I’ll be alright.”

I smiled too, bent over, and kissed your forehead. Silver lined your eyes; tears struggled to break free. But you were good at keeping them in, just hanging in there.

“Andy, are you there?” a faint voice hollered.

You pulled yourself out of the hole (You stood) and held up the gun, pointing it toward where the voice came from. “Run,” you hissed.

“But—”

“Dang it! Just run!”

I ran as fast as I could, and I didn’t look back. Just like you had ordered, I darted through the trees and bushes, twigs poking at my legs and feet. I didn’t expect my feet to move that fast, especially in my condition; but they did. And, hearing gunshots pierce through the night, I continued to run with you on my mind. As I went further away from the horrid place, the gunfire ceased. I wanted to come back. I wanted to know: Did you kill them? – Or did they kill you?

At last, I found the street, took a right turn, and ran some more till I arrived at a police station. There, I was informed where I was: Sapang Palay, Bulacan. I was in a province – very, very far from home.

I won’t forget that place as well. It was part of the insanity I had to go through. Amidst the cops and cuffed suspects about to be brought to another town, I stood, terribly shaking, pleading the police to rescue you. But they didn’t take any action even when I showed them my scars and grazes. They took me as a mad girl – concluded, to be precise.

“Aren’t these enough proofs for you?” I shouted, banging the desk.

Annoyed, the head officer of the station threatened me to stop. “I will cuff you if you conti—”

His words were cut by another police officer who came charging in. “Sir, a tanod reported that there was a gunfire a few minutes ago. I’m not so sure of the location, but they say it may be just a few miles away.”

“That’s it!” I shouted like a three-year-old, relieved. “I told you.”

The man on the desk rolled his eyes. “Call Dan.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m coming!” I butted in.

“You can’t come with us, miss.”

“But I know the place—”

“Stay.”

The officer pushed me aside, and I collapsed on a chair. Most of the police marched out with him.

After minutes of pure apprehension, a police requested for my parents’ number so he could call them. I declined the offer when he asked if I wanted to talk to my parents. After speaking on the phone, he walked up to me.

“Your parents said they’re on their way,” he said. “They might get here before the sun rises.”

“Thank you,” I weakly said.

“How old are you?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

The officer chucked me. “Say, you’re a pretty girl.”

I slapped his hand away. “Even if you’re wearing that uniform,” I furiously said, hugging myself as I remembered how awful my attire was, “you remind me exactly of them.” He backed up and never stepped any closer to me until my parents arrived.

A reunion with my family was what I needed to feel comforted. I privately told my parents everything that had happened in the car. They believed me, it seemed; but they prohibited me to tell anybody else. Why wouldn't they...she's all scratched up and in a night gown that's clearly not hers.

Before we left, the police told my parents that they still needed to file against anyone who might have been arrested. My parents refused to. They told the authorities that were happy I was safe. Period.

So I sat in the backseat of the car, watching the sun rise over the horizon. I couldn’t enjoy the scene, because I kept on thinking about what happened to you. I hoped and prayed you were alright – just like you had promised.

Going from Sapang Palay to Manila City was a four-hour trip – a long time for my mother to rant at me. My parents made two things clear: first, I was never to go out at night again till I turned sixteen, plus there would be certain rules; second, I was to keep my mouth shut about what had happened to me – they greatly detested the possibility of my meddling with the investigations.

Deep inside, I believed that they were simply being selfish. I suspected that they were only afraid people would think I was actually defiled. I was most certainly concerned with what had occurred. I could even charge those men who had been arrested; they acted violently against me. Figuring out everything that might happen, I swore to myself: If I were needed for the investigation (say subpoenaed) I would do anything I could to help find justice. I was confident that soon the truth would have to be disclosed, and my parents wouldn’t be able to stop it.

Days passed. I realized how Philippine current and public affairs could sustain an issue to keep the mass intrigued. I didn’t have to beg my parents to call the police and ask what had happened to the operation because the incident flooded the news headlines. There were so many newspaper and online articles and news slots regarding it. I read and watched them all – again and again. I even started to memorize some lines, like what one police had said: “As of now, we still don’t know what caused the gunfire, and we are not to conclude...” I remembered the statement merely for wry amusement though.

After one and a half weeks, investigators confirmed that the women were raped before killed, and the police had given out a list of suspects who hadn’t been yet arrested (as if they'd been serious of getting those hoodlums arrested). Channel 7 promptly aired a special episode about this certain case, which was called the Sapang Palay Case:

“December 21, 2007,” the host started. “At Sapang Palay, Bulacan...” The screen showed a video of the house. No matter how huge and beautiful the house could appear to the eyes of men, to me it was haunting; it had held secrets which had acted as hell for those women who had been there before me.

A man appeared on the screen. It was one of the news clips previously shown at the nightly news broadcast. He was one of the six suspects arrested that night. (Sadly, none of them was either the bald man, or the tattoo-covered man; and of course, none of them was you.) This man was badly wounded because he tried to fight; he ended up with a bullet in his left arm, another one in his right thigh.

“You were found hiding in the base of a house where nine female bodies were found,” the reporter’s voice said.

The wounded suspect lay in a hospital bed, covering his face with his arm.

“What were you doing there?” the reporter asked.

“I can’t remember, sir,” the man reasoned.

The reporter tried a different question. “Do you know what happened to those bodies?”

The man paused. “It was all part of the initiation, sir.”

“What was part of the initiation?” The reporter was quick to ask.

The man remained silent, so the reporter asked his question again. Finally, the man answered: “To rape a woman...”

A woman appeared on the screen; she was an attorney. “Sexual assault is an inhumane act, ‘no?” she explained. “Our law – the law – strictly prohibits it. We have what we call the Anti-Rape Law of 1997… As stated in Article 266-A, rape is committed by a man who shall have carnal knowledge of a woman under certain circumstances, ‘no? Like through force, or intimidation. For example, the man threatened the woman that he would kill her, ‘no? – if she refuses to concede...”

The suspect was shown again on the screen.

“Then after that...?” the reporter asked.

“They were killed, Sir.”

“Did you do it?”

“I don’t know anything about the killings, sir.”

“How about the initiation? Did you have to be initiated?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Why?”

“I was only threatened, sir.” His voice cracked, seemingly crying.

“Threatened by whom and for what?”

“They were going to kill me if I didn’t join their gang.”

“So you really had to do it?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What about those women? Did you think about them before you did it?”

The man had remained silent. Maybe he had regretted saying too much. Maybe he had been guilty because he knew what he had been doing was wrong.

The attorney appeared on the screen again. “The motivation for rape, ‘no? – let’s see... Actually, there is no single theory that explains it, eh, ‘no? But we can name several common motives: anger, desire for power, sadism, sexual gratification, under the influence of alcohol, or worse, drugs...” .

How about you? What were you doing there? – with them? Did you really belong to that group of men? Was it your ‘initiation’? Did they threaten you, too? These were the questions in my mind.

“Effects of sexual assault are drastic,” the attorney explained, shaking her head. “Victims can be severely traumatized by the assault, ‘no? They might go insane. Their character is distorted; they become upset for no reason. They become stressed, ‘no? And because they’re afraid of being seen as a ‘dirty woman’, they prevent themselves from revealing the crime to their friends or families, or to seek the police or medical assistance...”

And I didn’t have to go through any of those because of you...

“And this silence,” the lawyer continued, “is the cause why there are only hundreds of reported sexual assault cases – it was raised by twenty percent in the previous year in the Philippines, ‘no? And we are sure that there’s a much, much bigger actual number . . . and that number, may even fall into thousands.”

A different woman appeared on the screen. She was a mother of one of the victims. “It’s painful,” she said in a plaintive voice; she was at the verge of crying, and I could see she was a strong woman. “—just painful.”

I understand the pain that the crime had brought. I shared a part of it – somehow. A few days before the airing of that particular show, I had been summoned by the investigators. Surprisingly, my parents had agreed for me to come...

“What am I going to do, sir?” I asked the investigator. The investigator patted my shoulder as we walked through a hall. He must have sensed that I was greatly bothered.

“As you may have heard already,” he said, “nine female bodies were found.”

“Are they all identified now?”

“Yes, and none of them came from the same city or province.”

“Does that mean they kidnapped women from different places in the country?”

“Yes. It was probably because they thought that the authorities would have a harder time tracking them.”

“Oh...”

“There are also two dead men found.”

“I know,” I melancholily <-- that's not a word. You might want to find a different one. said. Deep in my heart I was dreading. What if one of them was you?

“They were the ones who had fought with the police and were killed.”

If one of them was you, I doubted what the investigator said. (You didn't fight the police...you fought with them.)

“What I want you to do,” he continued, “is to try to remember them. If you can recognize either space here of them, you might help us a lot with the investigation.”

I nodded.

We entered a room where the corpses, wrapped in white cloths, had been laid on the floor. Slowly, the investigator removed the cloth from the face of the first one.

I covered my nose with a handkerchief as I looked intently at the face. The man had black curls, and dark skin. He had a tattoo on his neck. I was relieved. It wasn’t you.

“I don’t remember him,” I confidently told the investigator.

The investigator nodded. “OK. The next one was shot in the head, so it would be a little gruesome.”

The next body was unwrapped. Its thin frame disturbed me. My eyes scrutinized the face. Blood mixed with dirt covered his forehead and left eye and cheek. His lips were already pale as his skin, and his cheeks had somewhat already sunk in.

I turned away swiftly, swallowing as tears trickled down my cheeks. Slowly nodding, I said, “I remember him, sir.”



It was you...

I cried – I cried for you as if you were my brother. And at that time I still hadn’t known who you really were: that you were the younger and only sibling of the bald man; that your real name was Phanuel Andrei Gonzales; that you were an orphan; and that you were rich, and the mansion – which acted as a hideout for your vile-minded brother’s gang – belonged to your late parents. All I knew back then was that you seemed to be a friend more than a stranger. So I cried for you even though I still hadn’t known that no one else really would.

Three years have passed. I’m sixteen now. Just finished high school. Not a popular girl. Don’t have many friends. A loner most of the time. I’m just living my life. I’ll be at the university at just about a month from now, and I’ll be taking up a course in Criminology. Crazy idea, I know. But for real justice), I’m still hoping to find that bald man and his tattoo-covered friend. When I do, I’ll make sure they get the punishments they deserve. I don’t seem to learn from the ‘spit’, did I?

And, oh, boy, take heed – even after three years, our story hasn’t completely died. Like any other infamous cases here in the Philippines, relatives of the victims of this particular episode would annually mourn for those innocent people who were harmed; and hope that people continue to learn from it. That’s why I still hear about it once in a while. And when I do, I go back in time when certain people – mostly journalists who worked with detectives – were so engrossed by our story. I go back and remember a particular interview for the Jessica Soho show. “It’s such a unique story about an unlikely hero,” Jessica had said. She had been so eager to meet me; I felt the same way.

So I sat in the dark, sitting on a couch, waiting for the taping to start. My identity was unexposed for security purposes. When I appeared on television, I would only be a shadow with a distorted voice; and they were going to ‘hide’ me by the name ‘Nancy’ – not my real name, of course.

The interviewer coughed, and her shadow moved as I heard sheets of paper being shuffled. Someone told us that the camera was rolling and we could start anytime. A squeaky voice started to ask me questions, and I answered everything – except one:

“If that man – Phanuel – was still alive, what would you tell him?” the voice was high-pitched; it was Jessica.

I smiled as if she could see me, stared at her shadow, and remained silent. The question got me thinking: What would I tell you if you were still alive?

In the dark, I remembered your face. In my mind, I knew exactly what I’ve always wanted to tell you:

Phanuel Andrei Gonzales,

I never told you how thankful I am for what you did. I had the chance, I know; but I declined the opportunity. It was because I thought I’d see you again.

I was wrong...

I was wrong to believe you when you told me that you were going to be alright. Now, every time I remember your frightened, dark eyes, and wide, childish grin, I think of how things could have turned out if we had escaped together. It’s simply mad, but sometimes I wonder if we might have been actually meant to be in a bed together. Sometimes I catch myself pondering if you really had cared for me – or if you had fallen in love with me even for just one moment in time.

If only I had known that you would make me into the maddest mad girl in the world, maybe I would have pushed you harder into leaving that place with me. There were only two possibilities after all – we escape together, or we die together – and I have to admit that I wasn’t ready to know which of them would have come to pass. And even if now I have the courage to risk my own chances of living, it’s too late: I can never go back in time to know, I can never decide for my past, I can never do anything anymore – for you. I need to move on, I guess.

But before that...

Andy dear, I doubt that I will have all of my questions about you answered, and I guess your kindness will forever remain a mystery to me. But . . . there’s one thing I can and always will be sure of: You were the strangest strange stranger there was — and still is.

With all gratitude and affection,

Nina Baromeo

Skins wrote:Plus, you said they had dirt and such on their faces? I always thought that bodies were cleaned before they were put in the morgue type things? They might still have cuts and bruises, but no dirt or anything like that.

“What about those women? Did you think about them before you did it?”

The man hadremained silent. Maybe he hadregretted saying so much. Maybe he had felt guilty because he knew what he had been doing was wrong.

The attorney appeared on the screen again. “The motivation for rape, ‘no? – let’s see... Actually, there is no single theory that explains it, eh, ‘no? But we can name several common motives: anger, desire for power, sadism, sexual gratification, under the influence of alcohol, or worse, drugs...”

How about you? What were you doing there? – with them? Did you really belong to that group of men? Was it your ‘initiation’? Did they threaten you, too? These were the questions in my mind. Reword this last sentence.

“Effects of sexual assault are drastic,” the attorney explained, shaking her head. “Victims can be severely traumatized by the assault, ‘no? They might go insane. Their character is distorted; they become upset for no reason. They become stressed, ‘no? And because they’re afraid of being seen as a ‘dirty woman’, they stopthemselves from revealing the crime to their friends or families, or toseek the police or medical assistance...”

AndI didn’t have to go through any of this because of you...

“And this silence,” the lawyer continued, “is the reason whythere are only hundreds of reported sexual assault cases – it was raised by twenty percent in the previous year in the Philippines, ‘no? And we are sure that there’s a much, much bigger actual number . . . and that number may even fall into the thousands.”

A different woman appeared on the screen. She was a mother of one of the victims. “It’s painful,” she said in a plaintive voice; she was at the verge of crying, and I could see she was a strong woman. “—just painful.”

I understand the pain that the crime had brought. I shared a part of it – somehow. A few days before the airing of that particular show, I had been summoned by the investigators. Surprisingly, my parents had agreed for me to come.

“What am I going to do, sir?” I asked the investigator. The investigator patted my shoulder as we walked through a hall. He must have sensed that I was greatly bothered. Describe the building.

“As you may have heard already,” he said, “nine female bodies were found.”

“Are they all identified now?”

“Yes, and none of them came from the same city or province.”

“Does that mean they kidnapped women from different places in the country?”

“Yes. It was probably because they thought that the authorities would have a harder time tracking them.”

“Oh....”

“There are also two dead men found.”

“I know,” I melancholily said. Deep in my heart I was dreading. What if one of them was you?

“They were the ones who had fought with the police and were killed.”

If one of them was you, I doubted what the investigator said. (You didn't fight the police...you fought with them.) [color=#FF0000](No justification for this: how do you, and more importantly, how does the reader, know this?)[/color]

“What I want you to do,” he continued, “is to try to remember them. If you can recognize either of them, you might help us a lot with the investigation.”

I nodded.

We entered a room where the corpses, wrapped in white cloths, had been laid on the floor. Slowly, the investigator removed the cloth from the face of the first one.

I covered my nose with a handkerchief as I looked intently at the face. The man had black curls, and dark skin. He had a tattoo on his neck. I was relieved. It wasn’t you.

“I don’t remember him,” I confidently told the investigator.

The investigator nodded. “OK. The next one was shot in the head, so it will be a little gruesome.”

The next body was unwrapped. Its thin frame disturbed me. My eyes scrutinized the face. Blood mixed with dirt covered his forehead and left eye and cheek. His lips were already pale as his skin, and his cheeks had somewhat already sunk in.

I turned away swiftly, swallowing as tears trickled down my cheeks. Slowly nodding, I said, “I remember him, sir.”



It was you...

I cried – I cried for you as if you were my brother. And at that time I still hadn’t known who you really were: that you were the younger and only sibling of the bald man; that your real name was Phanuel Andrei Gonzales; that you were an orphan; andthat you were rich, and the mansion – which acted as a hideout for your vile-minded brother’s gang – belonged to your late parents. All I knew back then was that you seemed to be a friend more than a stranger. So I cried for you even though I still hadn’t known that no one else really would.

Three years have passed. I’m sixteen now. Just finished high school. Not a popular girl. Don’t have many friends. A loner most of the time. I’m just living my life. I’ll be at the university at just about a month from now, and I’ll be taking up a course in Criminology. Crazy idea, I know. But for real justice, I’m still hoping to find that bald man and his tattoo-covered friend. When I do, I’ll make sure they get the punishments they deserve. I don’t seem to learn from the ‘spit’, did I?

And, oh, boy, take heed – even after three years, our story hasn’t completely died. Like any other infamous cases here in the Philippines, relatives of the victims of this particular episode would annually mourn for those innocent people who were harmed; and hope that people continue to learn from it. That’s why I still hear about it once in a while. And when I do, I go back in time when certain people – mostly journalists who worked with detectives – were so engrossed by our story. I go back and remember a particular interview for the Jessica Soho show. “It’s such a unique story about an unlikely hero,” Jessica had said. She had been so eager to meet me; I felt the same way.

So I sat in the dark, sitting on a couch, waiting for the taping to start. My identity was unexposed for security purposes. When I appeared on television, I would only be a shadow with a distorted voice; and they were going to ‘hide’ me by the name ‘Nancy’ – not my real name, of course.

The interviewer coughed, and her shadow moved as I heard sheets of paper being shuffled. Someone told us that the camera was rolling and we could start anytime. A squeaky voice started to ask me questions, and I answered everything – except one:

“If that man – Phanuel – was still alive, what would you tell him?” the voice was high-pitched; it was Jessica. ...Who is Jessica?

I smiled as if she could see me, stared at her shadow, and remained silent. The question got me thinking: What would I tell you if you were still alive?

In the dark, I remembered your face. In my mind, I knew exactly what I’ve always wanted to tell you:

Phanuel Andrei Gonzales,

I never told you how thankful I am for what you did. I had the chance, I know; but I did not recognize the opportunity. It was because I thought I’d see you again.

I was wrong.

I was wrong to believe you when you told me that you were going to be alright. Now, every time I remember your frightened, dark eyes, and wide, childish grin, I think of how things could have turned out if we had escaped together. It’s simply mad, but sometimes I wonder if we might have been actually meant to be in a bed together. Sometimes I catch myself pondering if you really had cared for me – or if you had fallen in love with me even for just one moment in time. A bit short a time to be in love....

If only I had known that you would make me into the maddest mad girl in the world, maybe I would have pushed you harder into leaving that place with me. There were only two possibilities after all – we escape together, or we die together – and I have to admit that I wasn’t ready to know which of them would have come to pass. And even if now I have the courage to risk my own chances of living, it’s too late: I can never go back in time to know, I can never decide for my past, I can never do anything anymore – for you. I need to move on, I guess.

But before that...

Andy dear, I doubt that I will have all of my questions about you answered, and I guess your kindness will forever remain a mystery to me. But . . . there’s one thing I can and always will be sure of: You were the strangest strange stranger there was — and still is.

With all gratitude and affection,

Nina Baromeo