The Condition of Living

The Condition of Living By John Paolo M. Yao

The news was heard around the community. A young girl was raped and killed. Her clothes were ripped apart. Her legs were bloody. Her head was bashed open with a rock. This incident woke the seemingly resting village from its verdant cradle, tilting it over, resulting to the abrupt end of the natural motion of swinging. Now that the unthinkable has happened, will the village have hands to turn it up once again to its natural practice? The peculiar attribute about the community is its inherent ambivalence of principles: when one wishes to travel on this village, one will immediately perceive the welcoming atmosphere by the natives amid the striking forestry; however, in times of great distress, like accusations of robbery, the community would immediately act its own impression of justice by bashing the hands of the accused with rocks until injured. How ironic it is to be civilized and primitive at the same time—maybe to be human one must adapt to any situation no matter how outlandish it may seem.

"God help us!" is the common reaction between those that heard the incident; and for those that saw the lying inanimate creature swimming in its own blood, they said nothing: it was not as if they could not conjure words, but it was how their minds worked when faced with such a lacerating incident—it would be best not to describe and acknowledge events that would scar the mind. The sight of the victim was distressingly amplified by the scene of the grieving relatives. Both of the parents knelt on the ground while supporting their child by their arms, both could not bear to speak nor even let out a voice to cry: the pain was too much to manifest in any human form. Both of them were mute but their actions, no matter how subtle they may be, exhibited painful gestures that will wound anyone who will notice. The mother touched and caressed her baby child's cheeks motioning a manner of when parents try to calm their crying child. All what is left for the mother to do is to give comfort for her child away from the incident—no matter how long it takes, it does not matter even if the child could never be calmed down, Mother will be there. The father, on the other hand, could not help but blame himself on the notion of him not being able to save his child. The thought of her crying for his help shattered his heart, and being unable to hear and save her brought a reason for it not to heal. Both of their tears washed some of the blood from the child's head and legs, bringing more detail on the child that they once cared for.

Not far from the incident, a mother too was grieving for her child. Her tears were silently running down as she is preparing breakfast for the entire family. Dried fish, fried eggs and fried rice were all of her sons' favorites so, as any mother would wish to do, she has to cook them all to make them all pleased because that is what a parent truly wishes, to make her children happy. She prepared the meal in the kitchen where it was built without any enclosures; this then provides a clear view of the forest and mountains as well as the persistent breeze coming from the hills. The kitchen, as well as the entire home, was built entirely with coconut lumber, it is what one calls a hut. No matter what size or composition one's home is, as long as everyone is pleased with each other, the condition of living supersedes the living condition. As she arranged the finished meals, her tears arranged themselves too: drying up from the heat of the coal and oil. The final task for her now is to make coffee—a task that she sees too difficult and extremely agonizing to carry out. And as she heats up the coffee, her tears poured once again, this time she felt her throat dry up. As she waited for the coffee to boil, she thought about her eldest son and contemplated, "Where did I go wrong?" She cared for her children very dearly and guided them all on her own. "Is my love not enough?" She thought, "Or am I the one who isn't enough." She regretted not being strict at her children's prospects. It was not in her nature to disappoint her children by forbidding things that they want and places that they want to go, no matter what the expense may be: she loves them too much. "It is the drugs that caused it," She assumed then added, "But why take it in the first place?" Did the drive of taking in drugs emanated from his friends or did it come from personal problems? "Was my love too much?" She inquired painfully, "I should've been stricter so that it wouldn't have come to this!" This can be one solution to a loose child, but whatever does come from caging a creature so as to guard its prospects from the unrelenting senses of the corrupt, when it too prevents its prospects of discovery? No one can break the inevitable but only slow its ultimate end. The only left for us now is to prepare for anything. As the wind blew its soothing wind across the open kitchen, dancing within the flames of the coal and spreading the scent of the meal—the coffee came to a boil.

She brought the meals and laid them upon the small breakfast table inside the room which was considered the family bedroom when the table would be removed and the bed sheets would be laid. She then placed plates with spoons and forks on each side of the table. She would be serving all of her sons this morning—all 4 of them, for this is a different morning. She finally laid down a single mug, in it she poured coffee which produced unsettling steam and an aroma that is reminiscent of the muds on the farmland. Without her noticing it, one of her son came in and put his hand over her shoulder, producing a kind of comfort that aims to eliminate the stress that he has brought upon with him. He handed a sachet to her containing some kind of powder. She looked at it silently for a moment; her throat dried up again, with inaudible and faint motion, she took it from his hand. She poured it into the coffee and stirred it unhurriedly and mutely as if representing an indication of discomfort with every revolution. She looked at her son with fragile vacuity and said to in a weak tone, "Wake your eldest brother up and have him change for breakfast." His son said nothing but nodded while showing a kind of agony in him to carry out the task. The eldest brother was still sleeping in the corner of the room. The mother was so delicate that she did not even make a noise in preparing the meal: maybe it was how she was preoccupied with her sentiments or maybe because that her son was in a very deep sleep. The son stirred him up a bit and spoke to him about changing before breakfast. For a few minutes, the elder brother jerked his feet then turned and finally stood up. There, as he stretched and yawned in front of his mother, she saw them clearly as she and all of his sons did when he came in high last night: the blood splatters. It spread across his feet, hands and there was a miniscule amount found in his face. The mother was neither terrified nor shocked, but she was in grief for the she will lose him this morning. As he stopped yawning, the son guided him outside where he was to be cleaned and changed. The mother, sad as she was, composed herself and called all of her remaining sons inside.

As the elder brother came back with new clothes and bathed skin, all of the family has settled in to their places; the only place which was left for him to sit to is beside his mother. As he settled on his place, all of them started eating, even for the mother despite the rotating feeling of dread, fear and anxiety in her brain; she still pushed to dine with her family: she wanted to savor this rare moment of being complete at least for one last time. As everyone took a spoon of the meal, they all started chattin; even the elder brother joined the conversation which ranged from talks of affairs and mistresses to the prices of different brands of fertilizers. The mother, for the first time in a long time smiled glowingly: finally her family is complete again. As her sons converse, argue and laughed at each others stories, she imagined them being children again and how they were so innocent back then without any diagnoses about the terrible future they were about to delve in to. How she wishes of freezing this moment and keeping it inside a glass bottle in case of instances of where she seems depressed about the outlook of her sons: she could always open the bottle and realize that, at one moment, they can become anyone and that their future seems optimistic. But as the final rice is taken, all is inevitable. The table went silent for a moment. The sons looked at each other then all eyes were to the mother. The elder brother spoke softly, "It's time to take my coffee Ma."

The mother took two deep breaths before giving him the coffee, still hot and steaming. The elder son looked at each of his brothers with unspoken adoration and gratitude; he did care for them despite of him not showing it. Then he turned to his mother, he felt his tears falling but he fought it not to fall. He said to her in a soft and heartfelt manner, "I'm sorry I didn't become what I should've been."

"You have been, my dear," The mother replied and then adding, "You have been a good son, and that's all I need. I love you whatever you are."

The elder son straightened his stance and took a deep breath. He took the coffee in one gulp and placed the mug on the table silently. He searched his brothers carefully—they stared painfully back at him. He then turned to his mother, noticing a sudden change in his vision. He took another deep breath and this time he slowly fell on his mother's lap. There she supported him by her fragile and trembling arms. She touched and caressed his son's face as if taking all his sorrows and discomfort away: she will be there until he would calm down, even if he would not, Mother will still be there. As he released his final breath, they all paused for a moment. The sons approached their elder bother, then their mother as if comforting her in this distressful moment. Even if she would not find solace, her sons will still be there.