A WALK WITH MILDRED

Part 1

Why Mildred…? Why did you come?

She was the sweetest I have ever met. She had this brown eyes that pierces through my soul. Her scent is so distinct I could smell her as I step just in front of my apartment door. Her hugs never failed to make my day easier despite the load of the day. She was the best thing that has happened in my entire life. The way she kisses me were so natural, so extra-ordinary, not like the others. Every day I spend with her is the best memory of my entire life. 

I am Emerson Dela Cruz. I am a journalist and as a journalist I have shitload of works from people of different personality. I am particular of deadlines. I am not a boss but I am the boss of my own time. No one takes my time away. Not a red light, not a stubborn policeman nor stupid traffic that delays every cycle in this world. I am a man of the right time. I run the streets to make my deadlines. I jump over fences and leave my Ford in the middle of the road just to be in an audience. I do not care about others. I never cared.

I was born that way. My father was a veteran soldier of the World War. My mother was a doctor who took care of my father when he was wounded in battle. They both raised me with iron hands. Each mistake, one slap. Each slap, one lesson. Each lesson, a scar. That was their principle. I can remember fully the day when my father was drunk after his own birthday party. It was always a big celebration. Military men, drinking, bragging about their medals and new guns and talking about killing like it was hunting animals, cars parked everywhere, million-dollar accounts being discussed. That was my father’s annual celebration. The only thing different that day was my presence. Due to unpremeditated instances, I was late. I was 18 then and I was at school for a writing workshop. I was not a bright kid so I finished late. 30 minutes late. Plus, there was no one to fetch me. 1 hour. Then there were no cabs around, 2 hours. I walked to our home. 3 hour late.

That was the line I should not have crossed. That was the epitome of a bad time. An hour late at home during a celebration was metaphorically deadly. But, I never knew what 3 hours would be like to a drunk father. I never knew up until that night.

It was cold outside. My blonde hair waved through the night. The pavement tugged to my leather shoes. The street lights guided my path home. It was a three hour walk. No cab. No cars. No kind soul to even know me and pick  me up. No money. I spent all my allowance on the workshop registration. I forgot about going home. I am filled with nothingness while our house were filled with a lot of people. I was tired. My blue eyes became dazzled and unfixed. I stand 5’7” tall but I was bowing to tiredness and numbness in the cold night. Half-way through, I sat down on the pavement like a homeless man giving up on life. I was not giving up though, I needed rest. And rest I had. I dozed off.

10 minutes. 20. 30. Goodness!

30 more minutes late. I woke up and dashed my way, hoping against all hopes that I may not be punished back home. “It’s better late than never.” I told myself. But knowing my parents, it is never good to be late. I was doomed.

When I arrived home, there was emptiness. No more cars, only the smell of half burnt rubber. There were no more people, only their trashes and cigarette butts.  The party was over. I didn’t make it. 

I entered our house and it was really over and I am done for. My father sat on the corner couch facing the fireplace. He was smoking and was still drinking his brandy from the bottle. It was not a good sign. 

“4 hours. On my birthday.” 

He looked at me. I was afraid but I was more tired. “I… I had no cab, no money, no car to come for . . “

I was not yet able to finish my sentence when I was face first on the floor. The bottle hit my head. Something hot was oozing in my temple, it was a mixture of alcohol and blood. My own blood. I tried to get up to plead to him.

” . . please dad, don’t” But then I was back down on our wooden floor. His boot on my back. Mom, please help me. I tried to talk but I can’t. I’m bleeding. I’m tired. He was drunk. He’s angry. He’s stronger than me. 

Mom, anybody, help me. 

I couldn’t move an inch. My head hurts so much. The brandy bottle was hard, like metal. There was so much pain. Not only physically, but emotionally. My own father, my assaulter. I couldn’t fathom how this man saved his country but caused his son’s own downfall. I was losing my consciousness. Perhaps, my mother was at the hospital, at the hospital where I could be helped. I need to be at the hospital, with my mother.

Hospital. Mother. Hospital. Help. 

Hospital. Mother. Hospital.

Hospital. Mother.

I was losing myself. I can still hear him. His anger. I can still feel him. His boot on my head, on my back, on my hands. I was bleeding profusely. Hospital… Mother…

Then she came, out of nowhere, I was helped. I smelt her scent. I felt her touch. I heard her anger. 

“MILDRED! NO! GET AWAY!”

It was too late. She too was hurt. A boot on her face. She helped me. She tried to save me. It’s my fault she was hurt. Then, in agony, there was serenity. I heard nothing, felt nothing. Peace.

“Mildred, why did you come? You should have stayed in the corner. You should have just watched me… “