LACKING FRAGMENTS: A Novel (Completed)

The Lady by the Cursed Sea II

All for the while, amidst their shared time together, there came some unavoidable complications. During their years, politics was at full chaos. World politics.

     Their genuine and timely love had then been placed to the test in a tightened restriction, like a perfect timing gone wrong— as if one is cooking a perfect meal at first, until the meal all got into something black-burnt.

     Mother and Father lived in this country, where most places were guarded by military, under the President's absolute command and power.

     Martial law.

     Still, only love, involving the promise of getting married, in legality of one onto another, was the only thing that kept them to keep on living. Breathing. Aside from that, they had their eagerness, their in-depth conviction to free the country from the ruler. Within their hearts, they had their combination of the two— a balanced point; abstract things only found within their chests.

     Love and conviction.

     Mother also said there were a lot of opportunists and bad people during those times, regardless of the safety of others (especially of the poor ones). There were people who despaired to thrive. Those opportunists included some of businessmen, armed forces of the military, and yes, the President himself. One has to protect the life of oneself, said Mother, from all those bad people. Protect yourself, whatever the cost, in such extreme manner. For if you don't, you'd struggle later to get away from bad men in power.

     But, she said, however you protect or defend yourself, on the other side of the paper money still, such safety actions would rise suspicion. In fact, government's suspicion— to trials and judgments.

     "Though some people believe it is the golden era of the Philippines, well, so to speak, when the average price for rice had a fall off," Mother kept going, "to us whose freedom of speech, of true expression, was taken it is not. It cannot be called the golden era. To be frank, it's far from it! We were silenced. Especially, the writers of literature. The speakers from the heart."

     "Were you a writer, Mother?" I asked. As a matter of fact, I didn't know much about my parents's ways of life. I'm clueless of when they were still alive. Lost in guesses. For when they died I was just around at the age of five, still kind of senseless to full machinery of society. "Please tell me more."

     "I'm not a writer," she answered, "Well, I used to write in journals, yes, in the notebook your father gave as gift. My teenage life— it was pretty much recorded in there. In that notebook, my handwriting, of how and when I listened to my soul. Although, I had no idea where is it now...

     "I'm not a writer. But your father— he was a writer."

     A beat.

     "What used to be your job, Mother"

     "Hmm. Tell me about yours first," she retorted. "I'd be glad to know how you were doing in your thirties, how your life was going. Tell. You've really grown... you know that? Never in my imagination, really, that you'd look quite like your father."

     "Good-looking?"

     "Indeed, you are."

     And I smiled at the compliment.