Sunday is Not Coming

iii. Secrets After Secrets

III. Secrets After Secrets
Isaiah.

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Santa Lucia had yet to finish mourning for Isaac when news of a young boy's decaying body found in a trash can circulated.

The culprit behind this news? Me and Koen.

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When Koen convinced me to dig the alleged grave, I expected Sunday Velasco's corpse. Instead, I saw a boy's lifeless body lying in a fetal position, seeking solace and warmth in his final moments.

My resolve went downhill in an instant.

Koen's words echoed with unsettling accuracy. Seeing the body would make me feel guilty.

The sight of the child's lifeless body chilled me. His eyes were closed, but his face wore a look of surprise and terror, as though he had met his demise trapped within the clutches of a haunting nightmare.

I looked away in horror, unable to bear the sight of the dead boy.

My heart felt heavy as if my hands were gripping tighter and tighter. The thought of his fragile form being washed away by the relentless floodwaters, treated as insignificant refuse, buried beneath the soil, and left to nourish the subterranean creatures was unbearable.

Despite the raging rain, I stood before his body and whispered silent prayers for his safe travels underworld.

To Sunday, too-whose pitiful body was nowhere to be found-with a sliver of hope; I prayed that she was still alive.

That was the only thing I could do as a relative of the alleged murderer.

At that moment, I thought of what I had experienced in Isaac's hands too. If it was me only, I could forgive him. But, with this corpse-a clear evidence of Isaac's ruthlessness-before me, I have decided.

I wouldn't let his soul rest in peace, Isaac. I'll dig into every secret he holds to prove his involvement with this crime.

Isaac, you owe them an apology.

"You were the perfect son to our mother, the noble head to your fellow sacrists, the model student to every professor and classmate, and lastly, a great leader for the organizations you invested your efforts and talents. They will never forget you."

I ended my eulogy grimacing at Isaac's coffin. Mama's sobs echoed through the eight corners of the church. Her friends coaxed her; some whispered assurance, others fanned her.

I scanned the whole church. There were lots of unfamiliar faces mourning his last day with the living. There would be a lot of people that would be disappointed once the matter of his crime gets revealed.

This spot for the eulogy was supposed to be for someone, but since Mama was afraid of being talked to by the town, even if she was still mad, she passed me the microphone to deliver my impromptu eulogy.

Wala akong balak magbigay ng pamamaalam para sa mamamatay tao. Mas lalong wala akong balak bumalik sa bahay kung hindi lang namin kailangan ni Koen ng alibi.

I wanted to give the boy a proper burial, but it could only be achieved if I called the cops. The problem was: Koen and I wouldn't be able to explain ourselves. Would they believe me if I told them Isaac wrote of his murder?

In the first place, it was Sunday's death that he wrote and not this child. Was the word of a college dropout more believable than the most-prized student? Everyone knew the answer.