Still Him, At The End Of The World.

chapter seven

"Around 9:30 in the morning, Common Wealth Avenue has yet again encountered a hit and run inci..."

The sequence of professional stating from the news caster of a hit and run incident marked an excruciating pain of someone I do not know. It is unpleasant to think about the gnawing reality of one random day, you're about to delve into some inexplicable bombardments of unfortunate and misery.

But who was I to know? I even manage to elude the association of myself with anything related to coffee after adhering how it can bring small nuance to health relations. Who was I to know when I already deemed what process I should be undertaken?

I already do not drink coffee so never mind the pain it follows.

I carried my brewed tea and settled myself into the couch.

"Why do you, like, always listen to the news? You're so old." Carol remarked that even daunt how nonsensical this conversation we're having. I averted my gaze to not only deter the about-counter but to neglect Rain making-face and his constant snap shots.

Well, it changes every day, Carol.

"What is it that you want, Carol?" I probed the matter of purpose for this prayed video call but instead of hearing their response, I was yet again welcomed by an off topic answer. I remained impassive and discontinued my exertion of attempts to draw the cohesion behind this persisting call.

"Waiter?"

"Can I ask some water, please? Distilled not mineral."

"Manong, sino 'yong model na nasa poster n'yo?"

"Huh? Salamin? Salamin 'yon? Huh, 'kala ko kung sino."

Their stature may be only apparent from behind the monitor of a laptop, but their standard exchange is dominating anyhow. This and this. That and that. Like dogs whom for the first time saw the yellow from the sun. This and this. That and that. Like a fish released from a new cage of water.

The apparent tedious energy that give off the two are somewhat tiring and yet I choose to regard them.

"Brook, mamaya ---"

I placed my cup above the toaster and shut the gadget off.

I could almost hear father.

Ridiculous, he will remark.

I adjusted the volume before dragging my gaze upwards, gaping my ceiling and allowing the insistence of incoherent news to travel from my ear and out to another.

The series of information gushing from the station's informative, the ticking time, the almost, finished tea: it seemed distant and pale. Like a dream but of someone else's.

Perhaps minutes, perhaps an hour, the space was utterly still - a stilling of everything but pulse and breath that I almost thought the room was breathing and not me.

Still I did not fret.

I remained impassive and patiently waited for father to finally return home.

I RECOGNIZED how his gaze loomed the cascading walls of his residence. I watched father did not regard the housemaids but nonetheless tilt their head down.

Back straight as a sheath, a silver sheath, a golden sheath.

"Father?" I announced my presence, intervening through his daunting apprehension of his very own abode. And I wonder about that too. Bakit kaya linilibot nito ang paningin? Bakit kaya tumititig ito sa paligid na parang hinihigop ang lahat? I wonder about that too and greatly wishes for father to finally let me in.