CAGED

SEVEN

SEVEN

Cross Legged I stand outside the lantern shop. I do not know if I am too early or too late. Many people pass by. They throw a quick glance at the shop and pass. If the owner of the shop has changed her mind about hiring me, I would try again tomorrow and the day after tomorrow.

Working in this place could be a foolish decision. It is. But there is something about this place that has pulled me in and kept me amidst the dangers involved.

My eyes move around the environment brightly illuminated with solar lights, then I move my butt to the floor close to the entrance of the shop. The locks are simple; just a padlock which an iron rod or stone can break apart. 

Soon, I see her approaching. She is no longer putting on what she was putting on at noon. Then she wore a blue jean with white shirt and a hat. Now she is in trousers with a see through net shirt that reveals her white bra. I get to my feet and wait. 

‘’Hey,’’ she greets before putting her hand through the protector door to unlock it. She struggles with it for a while then she unlocks the inner door and widely opens it. I step in after her.

She moves and raises the trampoline that covers some lanterns in a part of the room. She moves back to the door and closes it putting up the ‘’closed ‘’ sign.

She explains the different models  and how they are to be arranged. The lamps have very weird names based on their patterns and some based on what she felt.

She caresses a leaf pattern lantern. ‘’Like this one.’’ She sets it on the shelf and puts it on. It gives off a leaf reflection to its surroundings. ‘’I call it memory.’’

‘’It is beautiful,’’ I say.

She pouts and dims her eyes as if in thought. ‘’ it is peaceful.’’

I continue my work in the presence of the delicate leaf cast glow of the lantern. My hands itch to draw closer and place my hand on the shelf where leaves would litter over my hand and I would raise them above the base of the shelf and watch them float as high as they can go.

There are other lanterns she calls memory. They are easily distinguishable. They are the ones she displayed at the first shelf like the very important group of the organization.

She is the one that mops the place when we are done arranging. I perch on a stool behind the counter. She removes her shirt and drops it with her sling bag on the counter before me. While looking at her, I open the zip of the bag and pass my hand freely inside it. There is nothing in the bag. I smile then step out for some air.

I love how there is no night in this place. I love the loud music I hear almost everywhere, the view of scantily clad women parading  the street, the noise and the burst of activities.

 Where i grew up was a more quiet place. At night everyone began to retreat inside their shells but it was at night I loved to come out after school. It was at night that I was thrown into that moving bus after Kent left me. I did not see the bus and everything happened quickly before the man in black before me turned blurry and my limbs became too heavy to move.

For a while I have not thought about that prison, the large quantity of food, the agonizing screams, that man I killed…

My hand quivers and I use both hands and hug my teddy to my chest. All over again, I can taste the blood in my mouth, vividly I see his blood stained shirt and the shock in his eyes as life leaves him.

 I jam my teeth together as I stare into space, trying to shut the door to these memories. They keep flashing in - my body bent over a stool as he rubbed his penis over me, the craze I felt when he smacked me to the ground after I stabbed.