Inflammable [On Indefinite Hiatus]

Chapter 2: A Cruel World

Chapter 2: A Cruel World

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Can you imagine a time when the truth ran free?

The birth of a sun

The death of a dream

Closer to the edge 

- 30 Seconds to Mars, "Closer To The Edge"

***

You would think a little boy’s life was all flying kites and sunshine and laughter like a running brook.

Or of wide open fields to run in and do cartwheels with other boys his age, and they would have merienda under the mango trees, content as kittens.

Such things, however, were reserved for little boys in storybooks.

Emilio balanced himself atop the thin concrete railings of a newly mended bridge; he crossed bridges that way, especially when Guardia Civiles weren’t very strict with their watch in rare moments. He watched the small river below trickle, glimmering away with light from the fading sun.

It would be six o’ clock soon, and everyone should be in their homes saying the Angelus. The church bell would soon herald the hour. Yet Emilio plodded on, as silent as cotton, off the bridge railing and unto the pebbled streets.

He heard a cry faraway, perhaps the wailing of a woman who wouldn’t want her grown-up son arrested by the guard for some petty crime. Maybe the guards would let that son go, maybe they wouldn’t, and maybe they’d let the mother pay a sum first. Day in and day out, there would be cries and shouts, and bystanders would shift in the shadows, too frightened to interfere.

His brows furrowed a bit, as if swatting an unwanted thought away. He heard the cry again. In his head he was reciting the multiplication table of twelve in perfect Spanish. The cry soon faltered, and there was silence. He stopped counting.

The next sound he heard were his own footfalls pattering up the steps of his home, small but clean. The sun had set and the call for the Angelus was but minutes away. An oil lamp hung from the middle of the room, and he immediately saw the silhouette of his mother stooped right below it, rummaging through something.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. His left eye still throbbed from Damian’s onslaught, and he could feel a welt certainly forming around it. The room was, perhaps, dark enough. If he kept his face turned a certain way, his mother wouldn’t really notice…

Josefa turned around at the sound of her son’s approach. She smiled; Emilio could actually see her eyes and the tiredness in them that seemed to melt away upon the sight of him.

She held up an article of clothing. It was a light blue camisa de tsino.

“Aling Tenang was kind enough to give away some clothes her son had outgrown to us.” She turned the shirt a bit. “This one seems about your size. What do you think?” Her voice was soft, musical. Emilio lowered his gaze.

“Looks alright, Inang.” He tried to sound convincing.

But as most mothers go, to Emilio’s slight trepidation, Josefa gave out an audible sigh, and she lowered the shirt to her lap.

“The truth, darling,” Josefa said gently, but Emilio could sense a deep sadness in her tone.

“I like blue,” Emilio said simply, and wordlessly he stepped up to his mother to touch her right hand to his temple, a sign of courtesy to elders. He barely lifted his face up.