The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 17 (Censored Version)

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THE BOY listened to the laughter of the whole class, to their guffaws and cackles of envisioned victory. He had looked forward to this day since the start of the previous vacation: the day of his very first attendance as a college freshman. He had not imagined it then that this was the kind of ordeal he would have to face.

Yet despite the claps, stomps, and whistles of his classmates, the boy simply sat still. Not a word or sound was heard from Him. He sat and without batting an eye stared. Not at Professor de Léon of class PHL 61, who was trying to suppress her own chortling by clearing her throat; rather the boy gazed ahead into nowhere, which was at once somewhere. Somewhere mysterious, somewhere almost secret.

The laughter of the juveniles shortly began to fade like heavy rainfall receding into a soft drizzle, and eventually died when the teacher punctuated it with an even louder clearing of throat, and a "Turn your textbooks to five point four..." The classroom was soon back to its humdrum.

But the boy's mind still raced.

The Almighty still exists, he thought to himself: his mind would refuse to succumb to any alteration of his judgment. All this derision was but a mere test, which if he passed, would so terrifically strengthen him and his faith.

The Almighty is still good.

The Almighty is still love.

The Almighty is still just.

The Almighty is still almighty.

These thoughts remained no matter what they said, whether they jabbered or articulated, whether they laughed or raged.

The moment the bell rang, the boy hurried home. He locked himself in his room, his temples pulsing, throbbing, ready to rupture at any moment. His stomach was a twister of languish and turmoil and pity and shame. He curled up in his bed till his mother called him for dinner, even so dragging himself downstairs as if huge iron balls are chained to his feet.

"What have you been crying about?" Molly asked. His sister sat in front of him and did not even try to pretend she had not been staring.

The boy was certain no one could miss the puffiness and redness of his eyes even if they tried to; yet he attempted, "Crying?" but his voice cracked, betraying him.

Beside him was his mother, watching the news on her phone. "Allergies?" she said, muting the device, which she slipped into the pocket of her daster before serving herself a few spoons of the warmed, stiffened rice from the middle of the table— from a mini rice cooker beside which a small plate of boiled imported corned beef had been placed.

The boy lowered his head, took a sliced kalamansi from the bowl beside his plate. He squeezed the juice all over his untouched plate and played with the seeds with his fork. What was he thinking anyway? A lie was a lie, and his moral values and beliefs prevented him from entertaining such unless it was a matter of life and death.

"Let me guess," Molly said. "You were spat at again, weren't cha?"

Their mother sighed, and whispered, "Molly, why don't we talk of something else, okay? We're having dinner here."

But the advice was promptly dismissed. "What is it this time?" Molly asked.

The boy sniffed and swallowed the saliva amassed in his mouth. "God's omnipotence."