Serrated Edges

Chapter 6

Wag na wag mo tanggalin ulit, he warns again in a low, dangerous voice.

This ring is a f*cking lie. We're a f*cking lie. Jusko, RJ, Hindi ka pa ba napapagod sa ginagawa natin?

So you think matutuwa si Rose sa pinagagawa mo?

The mention of their baby's name is a freshly-sharpened bayonet to her heart.

She gives up.

She shuts her eyes.

The scraped skin on her finger now starts to throb in pain.

She has no more tears to shed.

July 17. Wag kang maglasing sa sarili mong kasal. His voice still like sleet and ice.

What happens after two years?

Bahala na mga abogado ni Mr T. Wala akong pakialam, he says. Prenup natin sa May. Promo sa June, talk shows tayo para mataas ang rating pagdating ng kasal.

She slumps on a dining chair, tired and defeated. He continues to explain the sordid plan.

We'll act like a normal couple. Then sabihin mo may psychological incapacity ako. Sabihin mo irreconcilable differences tayo. Na wala akong kwentang asawa. Pumili ka.

Pagod na ako, RJ.

He snaps.

He suddenly reaches over the counter and cups her chin with brute force, his fingers digging deep into her face.

This is the biggest role of your goddamn life, Nicomaine, kaya umayos ka.

She wrests her face free from his grip and slaps him. Hard.

Don't you fucking lay a finger on me again, RJ. Or else.

Or else what, Meng? he threatens. His voice is dripping acid.

She lets out a long, exhausted sigh. Thankfully, the alcohol and pill cocktail is starting to kick in.

The weight of his proposal sinks into her head. Two years? With enough vodka and pills, maybe she could live with him for two years. Separate beds, separate lives, one big lie.

Hell, maybe one day she'd be sober enough to actually carry on a conversation, any sort of conversation with him. Maybe they'd touch each other again in a way that didn't hurt. In a way that wouldn't leave a bruise. Maybe one day, he'd talk to her about Rose. Maybe.

She glances at him and sees that there is nothing etched on his face but pure blame and loathing. She understands and silently berates herself. She has tried to forgive herself over and over for a fault she still thinks is hers, all to no avail. It is only right, she believes. If she had been so careless and unthinking, then she did not deserve to raise a child. She shakes her head and gives up her hope. I lost our baby, she reminds herself. She has lost the right to hope.

RJ looks at Maine, her tired face barely lit by the kitchen lamp. She is frailer now, weaker, and more ashen. The light in her that had once brought so much joy to people had gone out indefinitely.

He glances at the girl he once loved madly and shakes his head. Before him is only a pathetic shrapnel of that girl, cut by a thousand broken shards of his love. For a second, he wonders if something so broken can ever find its way back to being whole again. But he does not hope. Hope is a poisonous, traitorous thing. There is just too much pain now; the chasm is now too wide. He dares not hope again.

She looks at the ring on her throbbing finger and marvels as it sparkles. How expensive these lies can get. A spectacular four-carat stone surrounded by smaller yellow diamonds, set in white gold. The stuff little girls' dreams are made of. This ought to make her incandescently happy. But now, everything just hurts. Her jaw hurts. His hand hurts. Her pride hurts. His heart hurts.

Two more years of lying, and you'll never have to see or work with me again, Meng. Gusto mo 'yun, diba?

It was all too much. Maine feels bile rise again in her stomach. It climbs and burns a path back up to her mouth. She closes her eyes and runs to the bathroom. She grips the edges of the toilet. She vomits half of the measly supper she ate earlier. She retches and heaves, throws everything up. She gropes at the rim and steadies herself. She can't stand. This will be another night on the bathroom floor, she thinks. She will pass out soon. She always does.

She sits on the cold tiles of her bathroom and reaches for her pack of cigarettes hidden on the low towel shelf.

Meng.

His voice booms from the doorway.

She sulks back into the floor and starts to sob once more.

Here they were again, under the harsh fluorescent light of her bathroom. He looks at her sobbing body hunched over the dirty tiles of the bathroom. He walks in and after a few silent minutes, he scoops her tiny frame off the floor and carries her into the bedroom. For a sliver of a second, he is surprised that she welcomes his touch.

He glances to see that eyes are dazed and unfocused. She is simply drunk again.

In another time, they would be tearing each other's clothes off in this very room. But that time is long gone.

Now, he silently removes her stained clothes and wipes the spittle off her wet face. He puts on a fresh shirt for her to wear. She does not struggle as he removes her shirt and brassiere. She watches him through the slitted lids of her eyes and thinks, he is still so angry. He can do whatever he wants with me and I couldn't stop him. She feels a sense of helplessness overcome her as the pill cocktail she took earlier now work their numbing magic. Her body now goes limp and as soon as he puts a fresh shirt on her, she crashes onto the bed.

He sees the pill bottle on her bedside and his heart, the one he thought dead for the last two years, starts to ache.

My God, Meng. His voice betrays a tinge of concern. Had she mixed them again with her vodka?

She does not answer.

He gently lifts the strands of her damp hair off her face and covers her with a blanket. He tucks her in and walks out of the room, but as he does, a lump forms in his throat. His heart throbs in pain. A million things to say, but he can't say it. The pain and pride won't let him.

She hears him step out of her bedroom. She closes her eyes, falls asleep, and braces for the demons to come.