Life Among the Pastures

Dear Valeria

During the last few weeks, I visited my girlfriend during the weekends. She didn't live that far from where you live actually, only a couple of blocks down, ironically. In terms of writing, it has been very difficult in trying to get queried for my manuscript and the mountainous stack of papers are about to topple over the place. Everyday, I would arrive home and dedicate myself to writing a few pages of the manuscript. When I finally finished the last few lines, I was shook with jollity and brought a case of beer to celebrate. Still, nobody was willing to even glance at the manuscript I had produced and was slowly growing slightly paranoid. Maybe the plot wasn't as intriguing? Maybe the characters lacked depth? Maybe the opening hook didn't grip onto their attention? So I let my shredder masticate some pages of the manuscript and rewrote them as best as I could, pouring every ounce of heart and spirit so the pages could breathe like a living being. After much work, months passed and my esteem began to waver and escalate into hopelessness.

    So, the joke of the story is: I'm still not a novelist yet to tell you the truth. I've been a starving artist, trying to write a decent book that may be publishable. As days passed, my pen became heavier and harder to write. So, that day, I chewed on a smoke on the balcony when I received a call from my girlfriend. Our relationship was unhealthy while we try to gallop on the path of the forbidden, blinded by our foolishness. Her family disapproved of our relationship because of my low work-wage. She lied to her parents and articulated a story, convincing enough, that allowed her parents to fall into the trap of deception. Although that lie was a candle of hope, the wax of the lie will melt away to the truth one day--meaning our relationship was not bound to stay. I could sense that while I rode the transit bus to her apartment.

    Her name was Lily, a short statured girl with strands hazel hair pulled back into spiraling braids. The first time we met was in elementary school and we were recess companions, playing hopscotch and tossing bean bags. It wasn't until seventh grade when I found my eyes following her more than the textbook at hand during class. Suddenly, the hairs become stunningly vibrant and opalescent, not that her hair changed at all. The more I looked, her eyes became prettier throughout the years like black pearls. After graduating middle school, everyone dissipated onto separate paths and our connection severed for a while. We reconnected again when she told me she was transferred to a different school and texted me since I was the only friend she had at the time.

    We would hang out from time to time--bowling and settle ourselves at cinemas. It finally came to a point that I could no longer camouflage those feelings with "friendship" since being friendly was my way of getting with her. After much thought, I confessed whole-heartedly in the car-ride home. She only battled it with only a faint smile, and that only hindered our connection for a couple of years down the road.

    It was when I got the job as a English teacher, she suddenly phoned me out of the blue and wanted to reconnect again. She had broken up with her previous boyfriend, who was quite abusive. When we met at a cafe, the ring of bruises she wore on her gaunt wrist told it all. Especially that night, when she took me home to her apartment, she exposed every angle of her white-powered and voluptuous geometry of her limbs. Her breast scattered faint bruises while her back was plastered with a red scratch-mark. I thought I witnessed everything until she slipped down her panties, and the moonlight geysered through the bedroom window, making the bruises more pronounced that you could see thin lines of ruptured veins.

    When I arrived in her apartment, she had already prepared grilled chicken breast with a side of potato salad in the dining room. She wore a nightgown with lingerie underneath, just for the occasion.

    "I wanted to tell you about something." she began during supper while I was feasting on the last few slices of chicken breast.

    "What is it?"