The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 4

THE GIRL exits the passenger jeep. She walks down the streets in somber reality. Her fists, as tight as her clenched jaws, dig deep in her jacket's pockets, stretching the fabric as far as it goes. It is mid-morning, yet the day is overcast. The skies are the color of pewter, threatening the inhabitants of southwest Quezon City a dozen episodes of heavy rainfall throughout the day.

Finally it starts to drizzle. The girl wears her hoodie as she climbs up the stairs of the overpass, past the dog skinned bald by fleas, past the beggar who is asking passersby for a stick of cigarette, past a young man hugging his bag pack tight to his chest.

The girl enters the train station, blending well with the crowd; a chameleon. She slips into the line like everyone else and buys herself a ticket before peregrinating through the thick throng. Repeatedly flicking one ear of the Beep card with her forefinger, she leans back against a white-washed wall while waiting for the transportation, patiently and at once restlessly. The train arrives six minutes later, and the girl pushes herself through the people.

Not liking having to compete with dozens of other people, the girl does not get a seat. She lands a standing position by the doors and holds on to the steel post before her, trying her best to keep herself to herself— to fend off the thoughts that she's being squeezed in between three men reeking of sundried clothes. She closes her eyes, feeling the steady rhythm of the train wheels under her soles, listening to the quiet tone of the silent, semi-sweaty air. Someone coughs.

The doors close, the sound of a car wheel hissing out air. The recorded voiceover, morose and faded, teased by a little bit of static, plays before the vehicle begins to move:

Next station, Katipunan. This train is up to Recto Station. Ang susunod na istasyon ay Katipunan. Ang tren na ito ay hanggang Recto.

Not long after the girl is used to the motion of the car. She puts one of her hands back into her jacket's pocket and stares out into the dim cityscape. She had thought of running away before, but decided against it, reasoning to herself that perhaps she could bear it till she graduated from college. Her aunt provided proper accommodation anyway. That is, if she appeared to have a "holy life," as her aunt called it. All she had to do was smile during church services and prayer meetings, and raise her hands all throughout three-hour worship sessions, and attend all youth gatherings, and pay her tithes faithfully with a "cheery heart." She would continue her then surreptitious activities after she gets out of there.

But that morning proved her wrong. Being caught and all, now she cannot wait any longer. Another year in the living hell might push her into insanity a little less worse than that of her aunt and his husband and the rest of the church people. School can wait. She will find a job, support herself. Be free. Now.

Once out of the station, the girl continues to walk down the streets, ignoring the abundance of car fumes and people. She fears the crackles of the heavens and whispers to all the Filipino deities whose names she can remember for the rain not to fall yet; and once again they prove to be dead. The skies release their terror as she crosses a street, and the girl whisks herself into the first café she stumbles upon, wet and cold and slightly shivering.

The guard, whose uniform tag says Fajardo, runs his Garrett over her bag. "Blessed morning, ma'am!" he says with a plastered smile, and looks away to the glass walls of the entrance.

The girl stomps her feet on the rug at the entry way. She runs a hand through her slick hair and wipes her palm to the side of her skirt. She removes her drenched jacket, revealing an equally doused shirt. She would just tell Cruz to come to this establishment instead. This is already near the restaurant he was suggesting anyway. She just hopes he does not get mad or anything.

The girl plods deeper into the establishment, quietly appreciating around eighty square meters of amber ambiance. In the background a slow rock track plays— the low murmur of chorale vocals and electric and acoustic guitars and bass and drums. The girl almost sneers; she recognizes the song as the one the youth group sang last night for an opening. Its endlessly mindless repetition: worthy is the king on high worthy is the king on high worthy is the king on high worthy is the king on high worthy is the king on high...

The girl lumbers through the space, looking about for a free seat. She passes by a little child complaining that his chocolate is not sticky and sweet enough, and a couple cuddling while taking selfies with their caffeinated drinks. All seats are occupied it seems.

She then finally feels the weight of the weariness from the succession of unfortunate events since last night. Every inch of her body aches. Her feet scream for rest. They even give way for a second and she almost falls over. So she stands still. The bread she ate that morning has been dissolved and burnt. On her tongue is the taste of acid mixed with confusion and an agglomeration of emotions: anger, misery, hatred, loneliness...

The girl feels the sting in her eyes, but sniffs and fights it off. Perhaps she has enough strength to run into the rain and look for the assigned restaurant. But just before she turns around, she spots a seat near the washing and garbage area. It is a two-seater, and only one of the chairs is occupied.

The girl begins to waddle again.

"Hey..." she huffs once she has approached the seat.

But the bespectacled boy— whose belongings on the table are in great disarray— does not seem to hear. Or is ignoring her on purpose.

"Hey," the girl repeats.

The boy gives no apparent response. Not a twitch of the chin, or a grunt. He maintains his position, hunched over his articles for writing, the lenses of his glasses almost touching the paper he is doodling on.

The girl wobbles and steadies herself by gripping the top rail of the unoccupied chair. She looks about the café again. No one seems to be giving up their seats soon.

She turns back to the boy, who is now scratching the nape of his neck as if the gesture would give him power to think.

"Hey," she tries again, this time with a louder voice; this time, summoning her usual sass.

Still no response.

The girl sighs ever so softly, and it does the trick. The boy looks up to her and utters something.