Until my Blood Turns Ink

Two

Two

      It never really occurred to me that we were bereaved. The atmosphere in the house is subtle and tranquil, with undeniable gloom. Would it be cruel of me to admit that it put me at ease? My mother could have still been grieving, although I never really saw her cry; her eyes were never red and swollen. She could have cried secretly, or maybe she never really shed a tear. Nevertheless, either way, that doesn't make her less affected by grief. My older brother, who's currently in Singapore, was the only one consoling my mother through calls. He wasn't able to come home until September. My younger sibling, oblivious, and my father, who was assigned to work in a faraway region—I don't know—but sure he received the news.

At some point, I was thinking that it's better that he wasn't here, my father. All he'd certainly do is drink. As an alcoholic as he is, I know it's the only thing he would manage to do. He would only be a burden; he would only worsen the situation. He would only add to the stress on my mother. 

My mind then recalled the moments when my father was around. And I couldn't even imagine back then that he wasn't drunk. It is not like he had never been sober; it's just that it's the only thing that registers in my mind. It's also just the fact that he was often uncommunicative when sober. He doesn't really talk to me, to us, or to anyone. He's plain, nonchalant, and stoic—kaya siguro nagkagusto si Mama sa kaniya. 

When drunk, he's loquacious and hilarious—a totally different person. That's the only moment when he talks a lot, when he jokes around, the only moment that he talks to me about my plans in life, in college. But I don't really like it; I resent when he's drunk and talking to me—because he only forgets them the next morning, when he will be back to being the stoic man he is. 

May mga araw na nasanay akong lasing siya kasi halos araw-araw siyang nakakainom kaya naninibago ako kapag hindi na naman siya nagsasalita. And when he had been sober for quite a while, maninibago na naman ako, kasi lasing na naman siya at masiyahin. Maninibago rin ako kapag bumalik na siya, kasi nasanay na rin ako na hindi ko siya nakikita. Alam kong mata ko lang naman yung maninibago. Kasi hindi ko rin naman ramdam ang presensya niya kahit noon pa mang araw-araw siyang nandito. 

But why was I even thinking about it? Why was I thinking about him? It's futile. 

"Did you finish our science assignment?" That question encountered me right when I set foot in our classroom. 

"I didn't even know we had one," I flatly said as I walked past that classmate who asked. I don't even remember his name. I am just bad at remembering. Well, not all the time. I can say that I only remember those that I want to remember. 

"Well, none of us did." My seatmate, Francis, if I wasn't mistaken, beamed. I never bothered to give him a glance and just proceeded on rummaging my bag to get some paper and pens. 

As much as I don't want to talk to anyone, I had no choice but to ask him about the assignment. Yet instead of responding with a word, he handed me his yellow pad. This time I turned to him, and so did he. 

"What was that?" 

"You asked about the questions," he flatly said, dropping the pad of paper on my desk. "If you want to copy my answers, sige lang." 

I shrugged, and he rolled his eyes away, chuckling to himself. He knows exactly why I won't do as he says. He knows exactly that, even if I had the whole answer in front of me, I would still doubt it. I'd still question it. Nonetheless, I began writing on my paper. But I kept on stopping as my fingers were sore. I have crumpled so many papers already because I hated my writing and kept on misspelling.