One fine day, not so long ago, a boy woke up from his dream. In his dream he found himself in heaven, or so he thought, for there were angels singing heavenly praises to God and there were spirits who joined the singing.
The boy did not know what to do. First, he was surprised why he was in heaven.
He remembered climbing a coconut tree because he wanted to get a young coconut fruit and drink its sweet water. Just when he was about to bring down one nut, his left-hand lost grip of the slippery trunk he was clutching. Down he plummeted to the ground, his head hitting a sharp rock. It was all he could remember.
He saw his body on a stretcher being wheeled to the emergency room of the hospital. The doctor noted that Juan had ceased breathing and began applying chest compression, but the boy would not respond. The doctor repeated the process but there was no response. Suddenly Juan felt that he was floating in the air like a wisp of smoke, leaving behind his lifeless body, or so he thought. Higher he went to a strange city, bright and gleaming while a white-haired man came down from the clouds and waited for him at the gate. The old man stretched his hands and said:
Welcome to the Perfect City, Juan.
Is this a dream? He asked himself. Am I dead? The white-haired old man approached him.
You are not dead, Juan. This City is not for the dead, but for the living.
The boy looked at the old man and remembered the icons on their household altar.
Are you St Peter? asked the boy.
I am Peter.
You are St Peter, repeated Juan.
The old man was amused but sad.
You know, boy, in this place everybody loses his identity except his name. if they call me a saint after I have denied the Savior, it was not to honor me but to punish me for turning back on Him.
The boy knew nothing about sainthood or the gravity of the sin of Peter against the Master he thrice denied. All that he knew was that he was the saint of the sabongero in their place, a squatter area near the railroad track where everybody, young or old, had cocks.
Juan looked around and thought he saw one of his playmates who was run over by a train when he tried to beat it by running across the tracks just a few meters away from the speeding machine. But he tripped over the first railing and the bystanders gasped as the killer train chewed the petite body of the boy like banana chips.
Juan tried to touch his arm but his fingers went fast the arm of the boy. He was shaken and told Peter that he wanted to go home.
Don't you like this place, boy? No worries, no problems. No temptations.
Again, Juan looked around him and was sad to know that there were no trees and frogs. And the multitude of beings had no corporeal bodies. Then he spoke:
This is not my home. My mother, my brother and sister, they are not here. I want to go home.
And Peter understood. But he tried to talk to the boy to stay.
I know you miss your family and even if I tell you that this place is perfect, at your age you won't know yet. Don't you like the angels singing sweet songs and these spir..." I mean blessed beings are rewarded for their strong faith, boy?
The boy wanted nothing of this perfect stuff. There were no muddy pools for frogs which he enjoyed catching. No guava trees, no street urchins like him who were free to roam around, rummage on waste bins, no dirty canal or busted water pipe which provided them with free water while the water crews were nowhere in sight. This place was hygienically clean and strange.
He just wanted to home. Peter thought for a while and said:
I don't want to do this but this is the only thing you need to pray for this place and appreciate it, for the multitude prefer their earthly abode to this perfect place.
And he led the boy to a place where no sweet angels' dwell. This is the home of the damned.
See if you like it.
The Gate Keeper vanished and the boy could see nothing but wretched creatures: snakes of every kind swarming around, hissing and spiteful.
Total darkness enveloped the place, but Juan could see through the darkness in hell where light had been denied the damned spirits.
