Most children are given titles, ‘Best Speaker’, ‘Most Active’ and what so. I was given a label: ‘Bad child’
Majority of my youth my Mother never failed to point out that I am the lesser daughter, the rotten apple and other metaphors implying the brusqueness of my character. Whenever I did something wrong, it wasn’t the action that was bad but me. My shortcomings reflected who I was thus a poor response equated to my atrocious personality.
I came to believe her words soon after with it being repeated on numerous occasions till the exact intonation and stresses of how my Mother pronounced it burnt itself unto my mind. I was in fact, a bad child and I acted upon that supposed natural impulse of doing terrible acts. After all I was a displeasurable human. I could not indulge myself of the concept that I could be more than that synthetic being. I had a knack of quickly coming to conclude that I was incapable of being good —that I was a selfish and scheming person.
Who I am now mirrors my upbringing and I am not exactly certain what kind of person I am. The internal dilemma embossed within the crevices my mind purges on: Could I be more than that damning inscription?
Good or bad, sometimes I think maybe I’m better off as the latter. I never describe myself as good. To say I’m decent would be a luxury. When asked what my redeeming character was, I would always say rational. I wasn’t someone who would comfort a despondent friend, I was the type who’d bicker the painful truth or at the slightest, distance myself to leave them in peace. Being pragmatic was a compromise I had to make. Being nice didn’t exactly mean being smart and practical.
What does this tell about parenting? From my point of view given my understanding of basic Psychology, that giving a disheartening insignia to your sons or daughters would gradually define them as a person, quite similar to how it has delineated my persona and my view of myself.
I am not a good human being but right now, I don’t assess myself to be completely bad either. The hurdle of having to accept that I am beyond that sheer epithet urges me to know myself better.
Maybe I am not so bad after all.Monday 5 th May
In instances, I feel myself crack under the pressure cooker we call life, I seek solace in here, writing. Because while in the process of slowly yet steadily losing fractions of the person I was before, the words I put into ink remedy the courage I had lost. I begin to reflect over my weakness, my pains, my shortcomings and somehow my awareness of the limitations set upon myself allow me accept my humanity…then I allow the pressure to consume me, mold me till all that is left is a charred exterior enclosing a diamond, a being much more valiant and tenacious.Sunday 27 th April
When you begin to really like someone, slowly all the physical attributes disappear till all that remains is a sheer visage of a person, an abstract incorporation of all that makes that person what you love and adore; His tangible portions simply embody a much substantial whole, a whole which is greater than the sum of all the parts of that shell that encases his corporeality. I truly believe it is only then that you have fully given your compassion to someone — when you can’t recall the face but your heart remembers that vast wave of emotion, the spellbinding wizardry which they address as love.Tuesday 8 th April + 1
'It's what you wear that makes men rape you.'
NO. NO. NO.
Never fall into this belief. What you wear does not matter. It isn’t a good enough reason to rape someone. Let me correctly reiterate that , there is no sane, logical and moral reason for someone to rape anyone. RAPE IS PLAIN WRONG. No reason can ever justify such an atrocious act that objectifies people as a sex machine of some sort. If it were your clothes or rather the lack of it that compels me to unconsensually push your dick into my vagina, I would have long raped all those men I’ve seen on the beach.
We have got to stop telling women that it is the clothes they put on that oblige others to touch them. THEY ARE THE VICTIMS HERE. Why are you making them feel guilty you heartless mongrels?
Fuck off and grow a vagina.Sunday 30 th March + 2
We can’t forever rely on other people to encourage us and embolden our discomposed spirits . There will come a day that we need to be that person who pushes ourselves to aim for inordinate ambitions.Saturday 29 th March
Everything that you are about to read right now is nothing but the truth. I’m not imposing that you believe me. Frankly, I don’t want to believe it myself.
First and foremost, let’s get one thing straight: I’m not someone who thinks ghosts, monsters or whatever you call them are real. Never did a passing thought occur to me that they dwell within the darkness or that’s what I used to say.
Have you ever read stories at creepy pasta? Or those horror novels so thoroughly written they relate fear so realistically? They would make out the inability to scream as the lodging a shriek within the throat, the fear so consuming you lost the the ability to utter out anything, a gaping hole void of any sound.
I felt that fear.
It was one warm evening a few weeks back and a group project that had taken a little too long resulted in an unfortunate extension of my stay in CAS late at night. Sitting idly within the vicinity of the guardhouse, I patiently waited for my parents who insisted I be fetched for warranted safety instead of accompanying my friends to commute. Nothing felt out of the ordinary aside from the deafening silence and the occasional honk of a passing-by vehicle. The air was humid and the breeze was dry. Old music played through the nearly broken down speakers of the guards’ radio while I silently lounged around playing with my iPad. As some of the guards began to do their usual rounds, I felt a slight pang below my stomach, 'I needed to pee.' Excusing myself, I hurried towards the Rizal Hall, briskly walking to the comfort room only to find the entrance locked. I had two alternatives: I could either go to GAB or use the second floor CR and out of discomfort, I took the road less traveled (Like literally, it takes less travelling. lol) — the latter.
The second floor was empty and the quiet loomed. My every footstep seemed to echo through the dark halls but the urge to expel urine was greater than my own anxieties. Shuffling to the CR, I heard a whisper. It was faint yet distinct, ‘Huy’. I was quick to shrug the thought and continued to do my business in spite the seeds of concern that were now planted within my mind. By this time, I should have taken that as a sign to run away but the rational individual within me wouldn’t entertain the concept of an apparition. Hurrying out the cubicle, I heard the inflection once more and it was louder, demanding to be acknowledged. I gulped and a chill went up my spine nonetheless I remained motionless from the paralyzing fear that was beginning to overwhelm me. Whilst I stood facing the mirror, the lights, though dingy, seemed to give strength and comfort however I would soon be proven wrong - the light couldn’t save me from the inevitable. As soon as I composed myself from the unsettling noises, I slowly exited the CR but halted to the creaking of the cubicle door that began to sway softly. Thinking critically, of course I had initially assumed it was the wind but I’m pretty sure that air doesn’t bang on doors. Poltergeist or not, if Comfort room doors begin to slam on their own, I suggest you run and I did but doorway quickly shut itself. ‘Shit.' I smacked my fists on the wooden door, screaming for the guards to open it, but the racket of the cubicle doors that continued to sway maniacally drowned my cries. It felt like a scene taken out of a horror movie only this time I was the pitiful main character. My hands trembled with much intensity that I nearly dropped my phone while reaching for it from my back pocket. The slamming dragged on and the white lights began to flicker and to make matters even worse, no one was answering my calls. It seemed never ending, the turbulent thuds, but it was only the commencement of my nightmarish ordeal.
The girl bore resemblance to my age and stood a little taller than myself. Her short tousled hair was covered in mud but the ebony-colored strands were visible. I could say even less about her clothes. She was draped in a blue knee length skirt and a white blouse all drenched in black sludge like she had just dug her way out of her grave and by the looks of it, maybe she just did. But if there’s one thing I would never ever forget, that one visage that continually preys on my dreams was her face. It was a rotting shade of gray, her decomposing skin clinging so close to her bones as if any more space between them would cause the flesh to fall off. Sockets so lifeless, housed black orbs, an abyss of sheer nothingness. She stared unto the mirror, immobile, her lanky body barely able to erect herself. Covering my mouth in a feeble attempt of making my presence unknown, I felt my breathing get harder and my heart speed in rates I never believed to be possible. I tried to reach out to the doorknob, my only prayer for the entry to finally unlock but my apparent negligible credence to the creature was not left unnoticed, as she was swifter than I had reckoned. Lunging rapidly, I found myself face to face with this being, a lunatic leer etched upon her decaying features. Raising her scraggy finger against her dark thin lips she made a motion for me to keep mute. My entire body quivered at her proximity, my power of speech completely absent.
‘Takot ka ba?’ her screechy sounding voice gabbed out. I remained unmoving and she laughed, her high-pitched cackle resonating about the entire space. Her smirk persisted, its twisted form seemingly engraved whilst she gaped at me. It was the last image I saw before she finally disappeared into the nothingness, the blackness devouring the room altogether and her along with it. Then the entrance unbolted with a guard now standing in front of me.
His gaze conveyed he knew nothing of what transpired and my lips were tightly shut.
'Ma'am andiyan na po yung sundo niyo'
I was on the verge off crumpling against the cold tiled floor, but I didn’t. Rather, I bolted till I couldn’t see the shadows of that dreadful place.
The ride home was soundless. I was too frightened to even tell my parents what had happened. I kept reassuring myself that that thing wasn’t real; that it was my mind playing tricks on me and for a while it worked. I avoided passing by the RH second floor since then, up through yesterday, that is.
It’s not real. It’s not real
I murmured, shifting my feet so softly as I treaded by that cursed corridor. I was not going to even turn my head to face that bathroom, let alone completely look but…
‘Takot ka ba?’ she breathed into my ear and I was back in my hell once more.
There has been much speculation over the veracity of this chilling tale but yes, it is in fact Fiction. This post was actually tagged ‘Fiction’ but due to my sudden change of theme for the blog, the tags were not included in the post itself (And to be honest the blog looks better without it.) SO, NO. I am not being followed around my a decomposing she-devil.Saturday 29 th March + 2