Young Writers Society

My mom used to say names held power, stories, life, and some other mystical poetic babble, and only now I believed her, because I wanted to change mine.

Too bad I couldn’t shed it like a second skin. It still clung to me, the way it clung on the white walls of Intramuros. Plastered on vacant surfaces like some hero’s name, except their names were in gold plaques not vandalized posters. They bore my name as they bore into every city folk’s consciousness the name of a criminal, a rebel, a monster. “Franco.” People think it’s an odd coincidence I shared the name of Intramuros’ most famous persona-non-grata, but I never believed in baseless superstition like coincidence or fate. Even if I knew less, I wouldn’t call coincidence sharing a name with Paco, my brother.

I met his face again as my carriage trotted along the busy streets of Intramuros, which was no surprise since his posters were like faded tattoos on the capital’s walls. Don’t get me wrong. I got used to seeing him in wanted posters. What didn’t sit with me was his stern expression. No wonder he’s still roaming free; that guy in the portrait’s not him. Paco would never hold a straight face. He’s always scheming, smiling a mischievous grin, but I guess people can’t make a monster smile and call it dangerous.

Still, seeing his grave face, blank eyes staring into me, it unnerves me. Was Paco capable of looking so sullen?

Quit haunting me. I thought and wiped my brow. The carriage regained motion and strolled by, and he was gone. I straightened myself, looking ahead. For all I know he must be dead. It would’ve favored him, because if he found out I was on my way to the Audiencia, I bet I’d see his stolid face in flesh.

I took a deep breath, and Intramuros sprang back into life. The music of the hustle and bustle of the capital, in rhythm with the clopping of horses on the cobble streets, dissipated all stray thoughts of Paco. Edifices materialized around me, half-stone, half-wooden houses of the city’s most prominent, with balconies peering over the streets like theatre boxes—whether we passersby were the rabble or the spectacle, I didn’t know.

Once more, I looked to my side, and Paco’s face disappeared into the crowd of finely dressed people. The gentlemen strutted with canes in hand, carrying themselves with natural confidence. I shifted in my seat, adjusting my collar and my posture. I groaned at the discomfort of my clothes, layers upon layers of fabric in this warm morning, but I dressed to impress. To gain respect you must first look respectable, even if it means fixing a knot around your neck.

The carriage paused for a moment at a junction. I looked ahead, more houses lying beyond us. We still haven’t cleared the residential district? I don’t remember the ride across the city take that long. Fair enough, the Audiencia was at the heart of Intramuros, along the main vein of the capital, Calle Real, but half an hour was enough to get through the north gate and out the south. How long had it been? A short while later, the carriage stopped again.

“What’s the hold-up?” I leaned towards the coachman.

The coachman stretched himself. “Pardon, señor.” His English was rough. “Horses and carriages are so close they could be kissing.”

I jutted my head out the window. The traffic looked like a halted parade. The Audiencia was still several blocks ahead. I could march it, but a sweaty face wasn’t good for any interrogation. Especially this.

I went back to my seat, arms crossed, feet tapping. Sweat was trickling down my temples. In a few moments, the nine o’ clock bells would start chiming. I’d have half an hour to find a way to transport myself halfway through Intramuros, and I wasn’t in a position to make an audience wait. I clicked my tongue. Either I showed up disheveled or not show up at all.

I rummaged my pocket for coins and handed them over after checking. I burst out of the carriage, onto the pavement. The line of carriages stretched the avenue, unmoving. I rushed through the crowd. This certainly wasn’t going to be a pleasant morning stroll.

I walked in strides as brisk as I could. Every now and then I would pull my collar from my neck to keep it from choking me. I felt a droplet drip down my back. I imagined myself standing before the audience with sweat running down my face, short of breath. It won’t be a surprise if the verdict says guilty before I stated my case, but please not.

The bells chimed, reminding me I wasn’t gallivanting. I passed one, three, five blocks. I could see the sign reading Calle Real several yards away. Still far, but nothing too distant. I turned to the streets. The carriages made slow progress here, as well. They were nudging forward, but a turtle could outpace a horse in this setup.

I had to breeze past the shops I normally spent some time to admire. In my occasional visits to the capital, I had familiarized myself with some of them. There was the boutique, always displaying apparel of the wildest sense of fashion. Today’s display was a pink dress with an overbearing amount of frills and laces. Past the boutique was a flower shop. It was pleasing to look at, but the mix of different scents was more nauseating than fragrant. There were also restaurants, furniture shops, liquor stores, and the like, but there was one shop I appreciated the most.

It looked quaint with all the lavish stores around it, but its simplicity held its charm. It filled the streets with the waft of freshly baked dough. Their golden brown pan de sal were always a delight to see, possibly even more to taste. I’ve never tried a piece, because I could never bring myself to buy one. I always passed it by, ignoring the tugging feeling to look back. It reminded me too much of pleasant mornings in our small hut, before Paco left, before mom left.

Times long gone.

Warm pan de sal are only served in the morning, I always told myself. Some things simply belong in their own time.

I passed the store as regretfully as I always did. Ahead of me, a group of people gathered around the streets. The road bottlenecked, as carriages were forced to proceed through one lane. Finally, so that was the cause of the disruption: half of the road had been closed off, and a throng had surrounded the blockade.

I hastened towards crowd. Yes, it’s rude to eavesdrop, but I had to know what in the world was so interesting that crippling the city traffic seemed unimportant. I didn’t need to see it, just someone to utter a noteworthy detail.

But no one had to utter at all. There was a dim yellow glow on the people’s faces. As I neared, my face felt warmer. Absurd as it sounds, it was like sunlight converged around these people. My curiosity piqued, I squeezed between the shoulders of bystanders. People covered their noses, but I smelled nothing. Their faces were a contorted mix of shock, fear and disgust. I turned to where they looked, and words slipped off my tongue.

“Sancta Maria.”

It looked like a burning log. What I mistook for crooked twigs and branches were actually arms and fingers. It had roots, thick fleshy coils, protruding from its open waist, where the rest of its legs should be. Its face was like a sculpture’s, preserved with an expression of agony. Its skin had begun to crack like charred wood as the golden yellow flames crackled all over. The ground around it was wet. Someone must have tried to put out the fire, failed, and in defeat, let the flame consume its fuel.

People gasped and gagged behind me. I heard them mutter.

“Unbelievable. It’s so morbid it’s unbelievable.”

“H-how could a person do such a thing?”

“Not a person, Lena. It takes a person to kill, but a monster to slaughter.”

So it was true. Rumors of odd murders in Quiapo had reached our boarding house in Sampaloc. Mangled bodies? Scorched corpses? I’ve seen such an incident before. They couldn’t be true. They mustn’t be. And yet, the evidence to it all was lying before me.

The fire danced as if taunting, gold flames with heat no water could douse. I stepped away from the crowd. I walked on, dreamily. Soon, I saw the facade of the Audiencia, but I kept seeing the previous scene in my head, my mind like a slideshow of the same photograph, whichever way I turned the knob. The sound of the crackling flames rung in my ears, cackling in a familiar voice.