The Angelic Conflict (Extended Published Version)

Untitled Part 21

THE GIRL says, "Fuck faith." She pushes back her chair; its hind legs get caught in the rug and she almost tumbles backwards. But the boy grabs her arm on time and stops the fall.

She balances herself and stands up, tugging her arm back to herself. "Your fairytale has been very delightful to listen to. Thank you very much."

"You're very much welcome."

She mentally curses him— his innocent face and innocent ways. The girl slams her palms on the table and pushes her body forward till her face was only an inch away from the boy's. She hisses, "If you think that only you know what happiness is then you're drunk! Your happiness is a fairytale, too!"

"And yours will be not?" the boy retorts. "I honestly don't want to go personal, but I can sense that your life is a mess."

Leo, the employee at the register earlier, approaches their table and asks in a nervous tone, "Anything I can help you with? A customer said that there's been a little bit of commotion here."

"Fuck you." The girl stands. She raises both of her middle fingers in front of the boy's face. "Fuck you to the moon and back." The girl slings her bag and shirt over her shoulder and tumbles her way to the girls' bathroom— a small room that could only contain one person. She removes the white garment and wears her still-wet shirt.

"Shit," she hisses to herself. She punches the walls to stop her hand from quivering. It does no good. She turns on the faucet and wets her face. The water mingles with her tears. She repeatedly splashes water on her face till her breathing normalizes and she isn't shaking so much anymore. Her phone then beeps. A text message from Cruz.

You stuck? I'll pick you up.
Already here at Tuazon so I should be there in a few.

The girl exits the comfort room and finds out that the boy has already gone. She waits for Leo to finish wiping off the table she and the boy used before approaching it and setting the used shirt on the boy's tower of books under the table.

The rain is still pouring rather heavily outside. The girl situates herself by the sidewalk, finding shelter under the extended roof of the café. She looks about the streets, the song of the rain hiding her quick sobs.

Cruz said he brought a white Volkswagen. A few minutes pass and the girl spots the old bug. She waves a hand, and the car parks in front of the café.

The girl, as if it would do her good, shields her head with her bag as she approaches the vehicle. She taps on the tinted window. It rolls down, revealing a man who is probably in his late thirties, his countenance resembling that of the actor Joey.

"Cruz?" the girl asks.

The man greets back before the girl enters the car.

The car's upholstery is faded and ripped as its outer painting is dirty and chipped. Everything looks dusty, even the green rosary that hangs on the rear-view mirror. The girl cannot tell if it's the car or Cruz, but there's an unpleasant smell— like sunburnt sweat mixed with bagoong.

"How long have you waited?" Cruz asks. His tone was bored.

The car begins to move.

"I don't know," the girl says, forcing a chuckle. "Hours."

The air conditioner is broken, and she feels her shirt getting drenched again, this time by sweat. Fortunately, her head has totally cleared and she does not feel hot anymore. Perhaps the boy's close-mindedness triggered the fever.

The girl reaches over her right shoulder but grabs a loose seatbelt, so she releases it back.

"Your aunt finally let you go?" Cruz asks. He is wearing a plain, gray shirt, splotched with sweat on the front. A silver chain adorns his chest, a fake white gem his right ear.

"No. Went on my own."

The girl hopes Cruz would ask about her puffy eyes, or her wet garments; but the man does not seem to care. She misses the boy's warmth, the way he immediately offered her food and gave her a shirt to change into. But she mentally curses herself and tries to brush him off from her thoughts. It was all a façade, she tells herself; he was not really concerned.

The car reaches the corner of the street where the traffic thickens. Cruz starts to whistle to the rhythm of the wipers.

Neither of them speaks as they ramble through the jammed cars. The girl only attempts a conversation when she notices that the route they have taken has become less congested— when the buildings have morphed into mansions.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

Cruz doesn't answer at first, so she repeats her question.

"My house," Cruz says briefly, annoyed, as if the girl were a little child bugging him for a piece of candy.

The girl feels a tingle down her spine. "Where is it?"

"Mandaluyong. Just near."

"What are we gonna do there?"

"Order pizza or something."

"Then what?"

"Chill. Talk about your future. Maybe take some samples shots of you." His voice drops a bit at the last sentence.

The girl couldn't dismiss the shift in his tone. "I don't think I'd like that. Can you drop me off now?" she sighs. "Over the next stoplight?"

Cruz does not answer. He only keeps on driving. The sky continues to darken; the rain does not stop.

They have crossed three stoplights.

"I want to get off now." The girl reaches for the wheel and swerves them to the right.

"Hey!" Cruz elbows her in the chest, and she sinks back in her seat, wincing in pain. The car jolts forward and her head bounces back on the head rest.

"Let me out!"

They are about to cross an intersection, and when Cruz still will not stop the car, she opens the car door and lunges out into the streets. Just jumping off, without giving it a thought. All she thinks about is the sunlight on her face on December mornings as she watched her favorite films— being eight years old again and wrapping herself in a black blanket, pretending to be Holly Golightly.

She thinks of her father. How she longs for him, his lemon scent lingering in the shower after he's taken a bath and gone to work. How she longs to know if he is well. Where he is, in the least.

She thinks of her mother— her voice, singsong, timid yet confident— how it once hypnotized a hundred thousand people in one night. How she has always wished her mother did not die at childbirth, making her feel as if it is her fault in the first place— that she remained alive so that she had a bestfriend.

And she thinks of the boy. Brief though their encounter was, she misses him.

How did she get here? She does not want this. She never did. How can life be so cruel? Perhaps it is better if it ends. Right here, right now. The pain can stop all at once.

The girl is sprawled on the ground. Cold raindrops splatter on her face, mixing with the hot, painful liquid from her eyes. She cannot move, and has no will to even if she could. This is it, she says to herself as she listens to the loud beep of a cargo truck. Deafening.

But just before the vehicle hits her, a blinding light rushes over her. Swift. Warm. Caring.