1. In this vast world where uncertainty is like that of breathing. I who is still learning on the mysteries of this borrowed planet has to offer, is ready to take the obstacles along the way head on to unfold certain answers that will shake the very soul of my curiosity.
2. To enter the realm where Cupid is the superior is to learn on how to be patient in knowing on how the world revolve and function of the individual whom you will be with for eternity;
3. During this time, you will meet encounters that will surely develop the world that is inside of you. It can sometimes destroy you for letting yourself be consumed by the playful and dangerous expectations. And can make you better in a way that it developed the very pillars and foundation of your love and trust.
4. Promises are made, sometimes drives you crazy for having to think something that is just based from the leap of faith. It is all for the fruitful future.
Secretly get a love story pocketbook from your aunt’s room. Slowly go back to your room. Close your door. Open the light and cover yourself with a blanket. Start reading and let yourself be overtaken by it. Well, that was pretty much my routine every night when I was 10 years old. Enjoying reading the books every night that are "not yet good for me," as said by my family. And yeah, well, it wasn’t that long, and I was also still 10 when they caught me sneaking in for those lovely books. Being caught wasn’t as bad as I imagined. In fact, they did not even get mad at me, just disappointed, which is understandable because I disobeyed them. And being the I-don't-want-my-parents-to-be-disappointed-with-me child, with a heavy heart, I stopped sneaking into my aunt's room and started writing what I wanted to read. So, when I was 10, writing felt like a dream.
I started writing stories that I couldn’t read. I specifically like romantic and feel-good stories, so I wrote them, A LOT. I like imagining things and writing them down as if they were going to be my life story. I enjoy reading my writings over and over until I fall asleep and feel satisfied, as if I had published a chapter that many people could read, but the truth is that I am both the writer and the reader.
My next two years are almost identical to the previous one. Nothing much changed. I am still the girl who loves books, but not the academic type of books, but the books that I would like to call "escape from my reality" books. The books that I wrote. The one that made me wonder why I can’t just be the character who always feels rainbows and butterflies, or a character that can overcome their struggles easily, as if years of healing are just pages, I mean, days. I am still the girl who always wants to go home to hide in her cage. I mean, room. And silently daydream about the things that I wish would happen to me.
I would be lying if I would say that it’s not sad thinking that the things, I’m wishing for are too far fetch from reality. But then writing saved me from that sadness. Because again, I can write. In writing I can be whatever and whoever I want to be. In writing I can build my own world too. I can pick my partner. I can navigate my destiny, and I can control what will happen to me. Obviously, all the stories that I wrote are almost about me and my dreams. So, when I was 12 writing for me was Hope.
It’s fun. Writing is fun. I spent all my night drafting and writing the stories that I alone would read. Because until then, I never had the courage to show anyone that I write. No, it wasn’t sad. I’m contended that I’m the only one who reads my stories because in the first place the reason why I write is because I want something to read. That time, my passion for writing a story seemed endless. I never got tired of writing and drafting. Never out of ideas. Never discouraged even though I had no one to share my stories too.
But then, when I turned 14, everything changed. I slowly got tired of writing. I'm slowly running out of ideas. Slowly feeling the need to be recognized. I'm slowly finding someone to share the things I wrote. And I'm running out of dreams to write about. When that happened, the only things that I could write were the position papers and essays that the schools required. My passion for writing my own story completely vanishes, as if it did not exist at all. Not until one day, my newfound friend started to share interesting stories about herself. Starting from the day she was young and unexpectedly discovered that she wasn’t really born in the Philippines and that her age on her birth certificate was wrong, she continued to share her stories until she became a grown up and started making bad decisions for herself. We cried and laughed about it. She’s independent since her family is not with her. She explored and did a lot of things all by herself, and that made me admire her. But what made me admire her most was that she was the first one who made me realize how much I missed writing stories. And one night, I told her that I wanted to write her a story, but I needed to use her experiences and real-life situations as inspiration, so I needed her permission. Then she asked me what I was going to do with that, to which I replied, "I’m going to write your story and will change all your wrong decisions into right ones and give you a happy ending." We both laughed as I mentioned her wrong decisions again. But luckily, she agreed, so I hurriedly went to my room, my usual spot when I was writing before, but suddenly stopped and realized I didn’t know how to properly start writing anymore. So, when I was 14, writing to me seemed brand new.
Not long after that, I finished her story. So gone are the days where I am the only one who will read my own story because now, she will read it. I started feeling excited and nervous at the same time. I know for a fact that I’m not good at writing. I’m just doing it because I love it. So, I don’t know what to expect in her reactions. And that night I couldn’t sleep, so I started typing poems on my phone that I didn’t know I would enjoy doing. So, when the morning came that day, my mom said I look like I zombie and it’s weird because my smile is still ear to ear. Then, after catching up with my mom while eating, reality slaps me hard again. Ugh, school. I need to go to school and that means I’m going to see my friend and her feedback about my story.
I remember her running towards me and hugging me while I was stunned. The first thing she said was, "Your damn talent." I laughed. I wasn’t. But I won’t deny that my heart pounds with joy from her statement. I suddenly realized that this is what it feels like to share your passion with someone you know.
Days and months have passed, and in those months, I started to share my written stories with the people I know, and I trust. The most fun part about it is after they read my story, I always share with them what or who were my inspirations in writing those stories. Because, again, most things that I write come from a real-life scenario. I just like making it lighter and happier. And then it was my 15th birthday when I decided to publish my stories in the application Wattpad. I feel shy at first, but I keep reminding myself that they don’t know me, so there will be no problem. Plus, my friends keep pushing me to do it. So, when I did, it wasn’t that long when other readers started to read my stories. So, when I was 15 writing for me was vision turned into reality.
Talking to friends, family, and acquaintances; listening to music, watching shows or finding other inspirations and writing them on my laptop became my routine. Pressuring myself to learn new words and proper grammar became a part of it too. But all the sleepless nights and frustrations just to give an update in my posted stories are worth it because the feeling of fulfillment never left me. It even felt better when I saw one of my stories become number 3 in one of the categories on Wattpad. I never expected it. I never imagined it. But thanks to my 3.2k readers, that time the writer in me felt like an Artist of the Year winner. And considering that I am not a good writer, my 3.2k readers felt like a million for me. So, that year, writing for me felt like a wonderland.
Then I turned 16 and covid-19 happened. My birthday is in April, so quarantine has already started. No one expected that covid-19 and being quarantined would take that long, but just like what they say, expect the unexpected. I didn’t think that covid-19 would affect my passion for writing, but I was wrong. I forgot that interacting with people is what keeps me going in writing. I needed inspiration to write. I needed someone to talk to, but no one was allowed, and everyone was busy keeping themselves sane, which is very understandable. So, I was back at it again. I slowly got tired of writing. I'm slowly running out of ideas. Slowly lacking inspirations. Slowly stop writing. And eventually stop updating my stories. Since this happened again, the only things that I could write were the position papers, critique papers, research, and essays that the schools required. My passion for writing stories completely vanishes again, as if it did not exist at all. So, when I was 16 writing for me was a candle that is slowly dissolving.
I am now 17. Still in the middle of pandemic. Trying to graduate from senior high school, so I am writing this. And in case you are wondering, no, I still did not continue writing. But I plan to write again, maybe soon, but not right now. Especially now that it’s kind of easy to access my friends. Plus, I found a new one. Who’s almost the same with me. Who knows, she might also be the one who will help me with writing again. So, for now, writing for me is an old lover that I want to love again.
Marco Sanchez – A fourth-year Civil Engineering student, in a relationship with Ian Tiamzon
Ian Tiamzon – A third-year Architecture student, proud LGBTQIA+ Community ally, in a relationship with Marco Sanchez
Mirna Sanchez – A 54-year-old controlling mother, the mother of Marco Sanchez
Lawrence – A block mate of Marco Sanchez
TIME
The time is the present.
PLACE
A small condo unit in Makati, Philippines
Scene 5
Late afternoon. Inside Marco’s condo unit. MIRNA sits on the sofa, watching the Television.
FOOTSTEPS outside the unit is heard. IAN softly knocks on the door.
MIRNA
(Stands up and opens the door)
Oh. It’s you again. I told you a million times. I will never accept you in this family. Do not go here again.
(Starts to close the door to reject Ian)
IAN
(Contests and opens the door)
Ma’am, I want to respect you as much as I can. I just want to know if he’s okay, and I brought his medicines. Again, my intention for your son is always pure and sincere. How can you be so rude? We could talk for a moment, shall we?
MIRNA
(Furiously looks IAN in the eye then heavily breaths)
After this discussion, I don’t want to see your face ever again. Everyone knows our family and yours. We have built good and excellent name. You don’t have the rights to destroy my son’s life! If you continue to do this, it will bring disgrace to me. Do you understand?
IAN
(Nods for approval)
However, it would be better if you’ll listen to me. No one wants to be rejected, especially if I stand for love.
MIRNA
(Ignores IAN and walks to the kitchen area)
Before you talk nonsense, I’ll go first. Since my son will be graduating this year to finish his college degree, he will be married to Lea a few months after. Her family has a well-known business that goes international. Besides, we have known each other ever since Marco was a kid.
IAN
Are you saying you have planned his life all along? I don’t think he will approve to that setup, nor he is informed!
MIRNA
He doesn’t need to know. I only know what’s best for my son. And you! You don’t even belong there.
(Moves closer to IAN)
He follows every command I tell him to do. He acts very disciplined and well-mannered.
IAN
Do you actually know how he feels towards you? Are you aware that he feels all the pressure and anxiety because of you? Of course, you don’t! You will never see the Marco you have trained and didn’t love.
MIRNA
Shush! How could I be standing here, talking to some disappointment in life by someone. No doubt it was just you who have influenced my son not to follow me! You made me look so unkind to Marco! You don’t deserve him!
IAN
Marco and I have shared a lot of memories together. We have planned our future together. A successful and happy life is what we want.
MIRNA
You still have a lot of things to learn, young man. Do not attempt to provoke me and my rights as his mother! You know nothing!
IAN
No, you know nothing!
(Breaths heavily because of frustration)
Do you want to know why he hates you? It is because you’re too controlling and too selfish. You think only for yourself! You don’t bother to ask if he’s okay or he’s happy. All you ever wanted is fame and money.
MIRNA
(Slaps IAN on the left cheek)
How dare you to say all those things? Love is not enough in building a family! You can’t even bear a child. So, stop acting like you made his life and completed his world!
IAN
(Starts to feel outraged)
We have faced a lot of difficulties in life. There were a lot of challenges that questioned our love for one another. So, stop acting as if he will be happy to be with someone else!
MIRNA
Shout at me all you can, but he’s already dead!
IAN
(Tries to contemplate with what MIRNA has said)
No, no. I don’t believe you! Where is he?
MIRNA
He does not message you nor update you about his life, right? Because he’s gone and that is because of you!
IAN
If he’s dead, where is he, then?
(Tries to hold back his tears)
Answer me, where is he?!
(Slowly walking towards MIRNA)
MIRNA
I won’t ever tell you. You’re just a stranger who claims to be the best person for my son. And you have failed to be.
IAN
(Stares at a blank space)
So as you, Mrs. Sanchez.
(Stares at MIRNA)
The only difference between you and me is that I sincerely appreciate Marco. That’s why I love him more than anything in this world. While you, you’re an irresponsible and homophobic mother who does not have any plans on seeing her son as a normal human being. You see him as a pet that you can control and command. Right?
MIRNA
(Starts to hurt Ian hysterically)
How could you be so disrespectful, you’re just a piece of trash! I don’t want to see you again! Leave this place now! Or else I’ll kill you!
IAN
(Tries to stop MIRNA)
Stop! Hey, hey you! Stop! That’s enough!
(Sees a knife near him, unconsciously grabs it, and aggressively stabs MIRNA)
You killed my only hope. You have killed my future! So, die! Die now!
(IAN finally realizes what just happened)
Oh no. No, no, no, no. Look what I have done.
(Releases the knife and sits on the floor)
This is the end, my love.
(IAN cries hysterically while shaking)
I’ll be there. Wait for me.
(Drinks all the anti-depressant medicine of Marco and dies)
FOOTSTEPS from outside the unit are heard. MARCO knocks on the door. Nobody answered.
MARCO
(Opens the door)
Mom?
(Sees MIRNA and IAN on the floor, lifeless)
No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening! Mom, wake up. Babe, open your eyes! Mom! Ian, please! Oh, God!
(Starts crying heavily, takes the knife, stabs himself)
LAWRENCE
(Enters the unit)
Bro, I think we forgot some—Bro!
(Attempts to stop MARCO from killing himself, but failed)
MARCO
(Starts to feel weak)
No, no. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be good.
LAWRENCE
(Tries to carry MARCO)
Hey, buddy. We need to get out of here, okay? Listen to me. Stay with me you’ll be all right, Got it?
MARCO
I don’t have enough energy anymore, Rence. Please make sure that my corpse must be beside Ian’s. And tell the world that I deeply loved him with all my heart and soul. Always.
I still remember writing daily entries in my diary under the tree just outside our house. Narrating episodes of my life made me felt like a main character. Back then, I was happy making a novel based on the dramas in my life. I imagined that novel being adapted to a movie that ends with "based on a true story" like it's the most unique story out there. Crazy right? But "Why not?” that's what I thought. Not until my cousin pointed out my mistake, "You wrote it as dairy you know? It’s diary, D-I-A-R-Y!” Eyes widened, I faked a laugh and said that it's on purpose. What a pride! But after that I stopped writing about my life and decided to just live it.
Fast-forward to when I entered 7th grade, I also entered the world of fiction.
My classmates are talking about reading novels in this certain app which lead me to do the same. You can say that I don't want to be left out, but it was a blessing that I did. Because little did I know that after reading some novels there, I would want to write again. But this time, I stopped writing realities and started writing fantasies. I started photocopying my daydreams in the form of words. Writing stories became my new diary where I write about scenarios that I think about before I sleep. Scenarios that pops up in the middle of class discussions or scenarios that I think about while walking alone. Although I never showed it to anyone, I enjoyed writing stories that is impossible to happen to me, although I wished it will. Nonetheless, I wrote fiction mixed with a little bit of reality from the romanticized life I have inside my head. Now I can say that the stories I wrote did happen to me, even if it’s just some part.
I didn't let anyone read the stories I authored because I enjoyed imagining that I have a double life. It's like being a full-time student in campus but a famous author outside school. Sounds cool! So I stayed in that dreamy state to the point of pretending to even have a book signing event. It was fun while it lasted. However, as I read amazing books after amazing books, I found myself questioning the capabilities of my imagination. I compared my writing to others only to find out that their writing is better than mine. I always find fault with my writing and find theirs as perfect. Until it reached the point that I stopped writing stories even if it's for fun.
It's self-sabotage, I know.
Now, I'm only thankful to the school subjects where we are required to write stories because it makes me look back to the diary of scenarios that I left. Ever since I stopped writing stories, the subjects that allow us to write became the only way for me to finally put entries in the remaining pages of my diary of scenarios. But don't get me wrong, that doesn't mean I will never write again. I just stopped writing fiction and came back to writing realities. I stopped writing stories but started writing poems. Poems are reality; at least the ones I write. Poems are where I can express the reality of my feelings and perspective; this is where I incorporate my feelings about my life. And since my poems are about my life, I can say that "I have a lot of stories to tell" or should I say...
Seventh grade. I discovered my love for reading fictions. Through sunny days up to rainy days, my classmates would always talk about fictional men, the plot of the stories they were reading, and how amazing it was—wishing their life would be something like that too.
I was confused.
Aren’t we the writers of our own story?
Yet, I was curious.
Why do they love reading? Why are they going crazy about men who don’t even exist? What is so special about it? Fiction is not real. It only feeds our imagination with things that are far from the reality.
I thought of it like walking inside a castle, anticipating for a prince waiting down the stairs while holding a bouquet of flowers. Countless thoughts occurred inside my head and all I know was the fact that I was there—I was there in front of the white shelves that are taller than me, full of books containing different genres as well as stories. It is very vivid to me up to this day on how colorful it was. The books weren’t dull to my eyes because I’ve seen the sparks.
And that day, I bought one.
That day, I read one.
For the next days, I installed an application full of stories from different writers. I added them to my library as I was leaning on the wooden chair on our terrace. Sometimes, I would find myself laughing, screaming, jumping, biting my nails, and crying.
Ah, those days. I miss those golden days where I was only thinking of what the next chapter would be or how I would protect the book and its pages from any damage. Everything happened so fast but all I know was that phase was golden because finally… I found the reason why people love reading fiction.
It makes you feel different emotions. It is an escape.
So much for being a high school student. However, despite how some books made me feel butterflies in my stomach, it did not make me feel satisfied. It felt like something was lacking and it crossed my mind, why don’t I discover it myself? I wasn’t satisfied with other works, pointing that some parts could have been better or maybe, it would have been better if it happened this way. It was crucial for me because I started to lose my interests with reading.
Ninth grade. I was overwhelmed with a lot of things. I wanted to feel things but it felt like everything was repetitive. It was like waking up everyday with the same view, a very monochrome one. It was too much. It was like I was coming to the age where I started to feel what reality is.
It was starting to get harsh.
Far from the books I’ve read.
I would always play with my pen around my fingers, spinning it just like how my thoughts are spinning—almost tangled with each other but one thing was for sure, I wanted to let it all out. In a swift, my hand started to move along with my eyes, casually looking at the white paper with black ink.
I made a poem… and the feeling of being able to create one was wonderful, especially when the black ink was screaming what was inside my head.
And I wanted more of it. It made me feel at ease.
That was the time I started writing poem. Most of them are not just for fun, every piece that I wrote is very important to me because I dedicate my feelings whenever I write. It is a part of me. If reading made me feel a lot of things and was an escape, writing made me feel free. I never had to put a façade whenever I write, I just had to be…
Me.
That was the first experience I had with my journey as an aspiring creative writer. The poems that I made were derived either from my head or heart, nevertheless, they were a part of me that I could never tell anyone in person. It was like I found a light inside a dark and empty room where all I could hear was an echo. An echo of my thoughts that were almost banging my head, but as the light lit up, I saw a door. The door that led me to who I am now.
The girl who found freedom through writing. Freed from the chains that tied her from expressing her thoughts and feelings.
I realized that as I write a penny of my thoughts, I also grow as a person and as a writer. Sometimes, when I open my notes where my poems are written, a smile will be plastered on my face because the poems sound cheesy. Just a thing of a beginner, I bet. However, it never failed to amaze me when I noticed how I improved the more the dates caught up to the present.
As a curious person, I wasn’t satisfied with writing poems only. It felt like sometimes, it needs more power. It needs a voice.
And there I found poetry.
One time, I had a performance task in one of my subjects in the ninth grade. It was related to poetry, a spoken one. We were tasked to create a poetry and I was up for it. It’s a pity that I can’t recall what’s the topic all about but each group was required to perform a spoken poetry. I was called and it was my very first experience. I was chosen among those who could win because surprisingly, I did well. Although I didn’t win, it was enough for me that I expressed the piece very well, enough to touch the hearts of some.
It was an amazing experience but I didn’t dare to perform another one. It felt like it was too much for me to handle. Too overwhelming. It felt like if I am too immersed with it, I won’t be able to stop. I don’t want to be someone who would get swayed in the middle of the ocean, so deep and scary.
Tenth grade. I started to read again but this time, a thought crossed in my mind. Why don’t I give life to my own ideas? That’s where I started to write stories. Just a short one because honestly, I can’t finish a novel. I tried a few times with five different plots. It’s a shame that I cannot finish them even one at a time and I was devastated.
What’s wrong?
If I could write hundreds of poems inside my head and thousands of scenarios in the bathroom, why am I always stuck at the fifth chapter?
Is it what they call a writer’s block?
Or is it because I don’t have enough motivation to finish it?
Or maybe it’s not just for me?
I wanted to write stories, a fiction one but it should portray the reality of life. The cruelty it has and how it can destroy someone. I wanted to share my own thoughts but I didn’t push further. I consoled myself that it didn’t have to be a novel, I just need to write, write as I can. If I dwell on the things that I can’t do, won’t it be the end?
Then, it occurred to me…
If I stop, what will happen to the rest of my pens?
…to the years that I spent to give it life?
Dilemma. It was a dilemma between the urge of trying to discover new things or just stick to what I’ve been doing. However, it was all answered when I stepped in senior high school. I wrote different kinds of literary pieces, not because they were only required, but the fact that I am interested.
Flash fictions. Photo essay. Short stories. Poems.
All of them had to be creative. It was stressful but I was grateful, it cultivated me that writing doesn’t have to be writing only. It can be creative and transformed into something else.
Beyond what someone would expect.
With that, I found the answer between discovery or staying on the same path.
None of the above.
For now, I will let the pen decide for me.
After all, without it, I wouldn’t be here writing.
Glass doors get easier to open as you age. Haunting nostalgia faulted me otherwise, recalling my limping push deriving from excessive contemplation and feeling of tension. Well, the remembrance happened when I stopped by a gasoline station store standing beside NewpointMall in Angeles City. I went in to buy Vien’s personal favorites for a sunset picnic, some chips and bottles of beer, while the motorcycle got drunk outside. The path to the checkout counter seemed to be a parade of reminders how and why I was there from the very beginning.
As the pandemic just came to an end, believe me as I confess that my emotions handled me rather than I did to them. Though, I must say that my love for sculpting kept me sane, like it always had. Speaking was never an option for me, so I never asked for helped and relied on a pile of clay. Well, fondness backfires. The only-people-in-the-house’s relationship vanished with the pandemic.
Mother argued, “Lawyer is what you should become, future is important as well as the usefulness of your potentials.”And since words are my foes, it was me to blame for not defending what I believe in. Before noticing, aqua slided above my lower lash lines to my chin.
“That shed cannot convince upcoming truths, only an experience of a roof missing on top of your head!” Mom yelled, pointing at my tear. “It will, Noelle, if you play with disobedience. I mean, what will become of you?”
I wondered if bringing up my plan on pursuing what I considered as my calling never happened was a smarter move. But, if I did not, will I ever get to pick up the phone? How come aparent can bear to suppress her child’s dream? Is passion never to collide with reality, because it cannot check the list of joyful domesticity? Or maybe, I am to fulfill the lost of my ma’s supposed future as she birthed me.
The drill was a routine, a bare minimum cramp of the heart equaled to molding a figure. The ache crept in every part of my body as someone just told me that I cannot pursue it. I needed someone to talk to and the one I was comfortable with was also the reason why I longed for such.The more my emotions escalated with my sculpture, the more I expressed my feelings since no one was around. Weeping dozed me off to sleep.
~
The next morning, waking up was bizarre, fresh from quarrel, the left mold melted on the floor, and flabbergasted by pebbles tapping on the window.
I gazed out to check, “Vien!” It was strange to meet someone again, especially her.
Rushing out, I greeted Vien with an embrace that showed how much I missed my friend. Her visit’s why was to invite me for a motorcycle stroll and speak of something. Joyrides werebasically our bond, problems seem to subside from the sight of cityscapes and landscapes. And because I was looking for time to clear my mind, the answer was an immediate yes.
I went back in to change my outfit and grabbed a piece that was a gift, then swifted off. Vien wore her present of leather jacket that fitted like a crop top, which gave us the giggles. I insisted to drive, then we rode off. The chains on Vien’s jacket clung as the ride went breezy from the oceanic side routes of a mountain bridge, causing her wrapped arms around me to tighten, tighten, and tighten, so she wouldn’t fall...
The playback was paused.
“Hey!” Vien greeted, who came from behind, after mentally popping the curiosity of what we were supposed to talk about, only to answer it myself.
I swiftly turned around with startlement in a dropped-a-bottle level, the cashier lady laughed and asked if I was fine. Vien always gave me the shocks. Now, I remembered why I was presently there and what the flashes of memories were all about.
~
I payed extra as an apology to the broken item and speed walked to my ride, the glass doors weighed tons from the sensation of anxiety as well as genuine confusion. Then, I pumped the engine that was three times weaker than my pulse. The feeling triggered me to road rage.
As I parked and settled the space to lay down, I opened up to Vien.
“My mom and I had a fight. Well, I was incapable to put up one. She said that my potential is not for a lost roof, but for being a lawyer, because apparently it meets my capabilities.” I cracked. “But, what if I am more afraid of ignoring my dreams and being employed for the sake of money? T-then, then, uhm.. she labeled my vulnerability as a sign of weakness, which is hurtful, because it came from her and she did not stop.”
I paused for a while to remove the block in my throat, then continuing, “Vien, and then there is you. Your surprise at the store earlier made me realize how worse I am becoming. You were not supposed to be there.”
The confession began, “Noelle, I listened to you as you sculpted me and needed someone to talk to, that is why I left my stand this morning to prepare the bike. You needed this, but…”
I continued for Vien, “But it was just me who brought it out. And I know that the bike ride was my own invitation, the jacket made me feel like another person, and you are not real, but you are in me. You were molded for this sculptor, you carried me out of my sadness, and even at times of simple silence.”
I sighed, “I need to let you go, but isn’t nice to imagine that someone was there for you? Or atleast, something.”
1. The day that no one can predict; foresee. But anyone can expect what to see, either bad or good. It is an unwritten event that cannot be read on any following pages of the book. Because the writer hasn’t finished the story yet. But most people see hope, hope that one day success will show up and say... Surprise!
2. He is great, he is clever, he is happy than before, he is now braver than the alpha, he is a magnet of new ideas every day.
Hybris Leymonde – The 2nd Prince of Asmodian empire
Roland Bourchu – A powerful duke who’s known as the Devil’s eye.
Agnus Cesar – The son of Prophecy
Edward – Hybris’ knight
TIME
Year 9843
PLACE
Asmodian Empire, Helios
Afternoon. At the Emperor’s office. EDWARD opens the door and walks towards HYBRIS.HYBRIS who is writing stops and puts down the pen he is holding. EDWARD presents the paper he is holding to HYBRIS.
SCENE 7
EDWARD
I present myself, Edward Lombardi to the Emperor, the Light and Future of Asmodian empire (Bows). I came here to report that the Devil’s eye requests you to go down from your throne, your highness.
HYBRIS
What for? What kind of reason he has for him to take down the fated emperor that will bring the empire a good life! (He slams his fist to the table).
EDWARD
According to the letter delivered by Duke Roland himself says that you don’t fit to the position you are in and if your highness’ life is important, you should take initiative to dethrone yourself or else a war will take place.
(HYBRIS stays silent for a moment, thinking on why the duke would be trying to commit treason when he is the late-emperor ANASTACIOUS trusts. He then looks at AGNUS who have been listening to the conversation.)
AGNUS
You don’t need to worry about the throne, your Highness. It is meant for you and only you. Base from the prophecy that I got 7 years ago, there is no one beside you that fits the throne. You are the future of this Empire your Highness, don’t let a merely duke orders you to give up the position that you worked hard for.
HYBRIS
(Stands and walks towards the door)
Send him a response that says I’ll be meeting him at the battlefield.
EDWARD
Understood, your Highness (Bows).
(After HYBRIS opens and walks out of the office, EDWARD lifts his head and proceeds to the Training camp to inform the knights regarding the war that is about to come)
On the same day at nightfall. In the battlefield, stands hundreds of knights from both sides. HYBRIS and ROLAND get near to each other with smile on their faces.
HYBRIS
Didn’t expect that we’ll be meeting each other at this place Duke Bourchu.
ROLAND
I anticipated this situation but didn’t know I’ll be right, that you’re going choose violence and brutality just because of a position that doesn’t belong to you.
HYBRIS
You don’t know anything, duke. You don’t know what I sacrificed for me to achieve and sit on the throne that is meant for me.
ROLAND
So, you have chosen this path, (slowly takes out his sword) Hybris.
HYBRIS
(Takes out his sword, aiming at duke ROLAND)
I have no intention to give up the throne in the first place.
ROLAND AND HYBRIS
CHARGE!
Swords clashing, blood stains, life being at stake, pile of dead bodies, injured knights can be seen at the battlefield.
(ROLAND then manages to corner HYBRIS with his sword pierce through HYBRIS’ body.)
ROLAND
Any last words, your Highness?
HYBRIS
I will not yield. Before my body I throw my warlike shield. Lay on, Roland, and damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough! (Coughs up blood) Remember this, I am the destined emperor… That is what the Gods decided to give to me as a compensation of years of sufferings in the hands of my Father.
ROLAND
What you may know might not be the truth. Agnus Cesar is not the real Son of Prophecy, your Highness. We already captured and locked him up in prison for using the name of our Gods for his own greed. We could’ve ended this peacefully if you didn’t choose this war, you could also have known the truth on why your personal knight, the maid, and Agnus would be in a plan where it will bring the empire to ruins. But you threw away your chance. You were blinded by the power and revenge and even the prophetic lies saying you are destined to be an emperor of this empire. The empire already suffered enough to your tyranny, goodbye.
HYBRIS
NO! IT IS DESTINED TO BE MI- (Before HYBRIS could finish his sentence, ROLAND slashes HYBRIS’ head with knights watching and determining who wins the war.)
………
PEOPLE AT THE EMPIRE
(ROLAND enters through the Palace door)
ALL HAIL DUKE ROLAND! ALL HAIL THE FUTURE OF THE EMPIRE! Hail, king! for so thou art: behold, where stands. The usurper's cursed head: the time is free!
ROLAND
I see thee compass'd with thy empire's pearl, That speak my salutation in their minds; Whose voices I desire aloud with mine: Hail, Emperor of Asmodian! We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves and make us even with you. As calling home our exiled friends abroad. That fled the snares of watchful tyranny; So, thanks to all at once and to each one, whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone.
It was a dreary morning when Gerton decided to go for a stroll to entertain himself as he was extremely bored in their mansion. Gerton enjoys seeking out new experiences on his own, fueled by his curiosity and the fact that he has no siblings. He is also friendly and chatty, which he gradually developed as he engaged in numerous sports and games that need socialization.
As he slowly walked, he sensed that someone was staring at him. He spotted a girl hiding behind an old tree, holding a rose, so he went there to meet her. He was surprised that the girl was his age and opted to befriend her even though he didn't learn her name, maybe out of a desire to have a companion.
“Hi! Would you want to be friends?” he said enthusiastically, and the girl nodded. “By the way, my name is Gerton,” he stated while he reached out his hands for a handshake. “I'm Roseia,” the girl replied. Roseia was Gerton's total opposite. She was silent and resembled a rose as she had red lips, and her face was stunning, but her eyes were deadly. After introducing themselves, Gerton asked Roseia if she wanted to play, and Roseia agreed. But before they could, Gerton heard his name, and it was his grandmother summoning him to return to their mansion for breakfast.
“Sorry, it was my grandmother who called, but we can play tomorrow if you want,” Gerton suggested, and she nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, see you tomorrow in this tree!” he said as he turned his back on her.
The next day, the two were unable to play hide and seek due to the heavy rain that had fallen the night before, so Gerton invited Roseia to their mansion for them to continue to play, but as Gerton was about to find Roseia, he saw her sat on a chair in one of their rooms. “Are you tired?” he asked, and she shook her head. “No, if you’re tired, we can play chess, I’m good with this!” he boasted. “But there is a twist, whoever wins has to take a piece of paper from the glass box and hand it to the loser, who must then come up with a phrase using the letters,” he said. “I'm also good with this!” she remarked with a smile and nodded.
Gerton assumed he would win the first round since he was a chess expert, but Roseia consistently won the rest of the game. Gerton felt guilty of his prior thoughts when he had underestimated her abilities. “Woah!” he shouted, amused, since in the seven rounds, only Roseia won, and he did not win even a single play, which is quite unusual.
“Gerton, this is the last paper. I'll just get something,” she said, and as soon as Roseia handed him the paper, he began to construct a phrase. But when he was already done, Roseia was no longer in her chair, and the only thing that was left was her rose and a dagger. Gerton returned his gaze to his generated phrase. “Found me,” he said quietly.
After that day, Gerton never saw Roseia again. He was still puzzled as to what had happened and why Roseia had left a dagger and her rose. Also, what the phrase he came up with implies. He wondered whether any of these had anything to do with Roseia's abrupt disappearance.
One night while he was drinking his milk. He noticed that his grandmother was talking to a girl, and he couldn't be wrong. It was Roseia. But he wondered why her clothes were bloody, and her body seemed full of bruises. Roseia smiled at him and turned around, so Gerton rushed to the open room to talk with her, but as he entered, there was no trace of Roseia. He only saw Valeria, his grandmother, who was sitting calmly. Gerton wasn't sure whether what he saw was real or if it was simply a figment of his mind. He didn't say anything, supposing that he merely missed Roseia, which is why he saw such a thing. But he still pondered what would Roseia do in his grandmother's room if she was ever there. "Roseia may have only come here for a vacation," he concluded, and that's why he won't see her again.
Even weeks had passed, Gerton never missed a day without thinking of Roseia. He took out Roseia’s dagger and decided to give it to his grandma because having it around was dangerous for him.
As he entered Valeria’s room, he found her looking through their old albums. Valeria, her grandmother, didn't realize he was already there when she murmured, "If only Roseia hadn't been born." Gerton was taken aback since Valeria knew Roseia. “Lola, do you know Roseia?” he said cheerfully. When he saw Gerton, Valeria seemed that her soul had left her body. “Who is she? I don't know her,” she replied, averting her gaze.
“I heard you mentioned her name. She’s the friend I'm talking about, whom I met in that tree. I planned to bring her to you, but she had already disappeared without saying anything; perhaps she had already returned to their real home,” he lamented. Valeria immediately recalled what she had done in the past; her hands shook as she closed the old album, but a photo fell on the floor. Gerton took it up and was shocked by what he saw.
“Why is mom with Roseia?" Gerton questioned. "This is the dress she was wearing when I met her, as well as the rose, so I'm sure she's my friend, but why is she in the photo?" he asked, his face puzzled.
Valeria was surprised as to how Gerton knew Roseia. “No, she's not your friend, and why are you carrying my dagger, Gerton?” She questioned; her gaze fixed on Gerton's hand. Gerton didn’t immediately respond to Valeria's question as he saw Roseia's name and the year 1980 when he turned the photo. He was now utterly baffled by what was going on.
“Lola, the dagger was Roseia's,” he sobbed. “Look at that part, it has my name on it,” she said while pointing her name at the dagger. “She can't be your friend, you could be mistaken,” she added. “Lola, it can't be because I had the chance to play with her, and we talked!” he shouted.
“It's only imagination. I didn't even see you bringing a friend. She doesn't exist,” she asserted emphatically. Gerton persisted in persuading Valeria that Roseia was real and that she was his friend. Valeria burst into tears while they were arguing about Roseia's existence.
“No! Gerton, she's already dead. I murdered her with my bare hands using that dagger! She killed your mother. If she hadn't been born, your mother should still be alive!” she grumbled as Gerton continued to tell her that Roseia was alive.
“It can't be, Lola,” he muttered, tears welling up in his eyes. “She's your half-sister, Gerton,” she said as she approached him to apologize. “I murdered her because she was the daughter of the man who had sexually abused your mother. She was a burden to her," she said. Gerton left Valeria and walked to the tree where he first saw Roseia. He cried there because he couldn't take in all of the truth he was hearing. He concluded that Roseia appeared to let him know she existed and that he wasn't alone. “I'm sorry, Roseia,” he sobbed, as a gentle breeze embraced him for a moment. “I can't believe it, but I will iron out this mess,” he continued, sobbing under that old tree. Valeria agreed to pay for her wrongdoings after that day, as Gerton had requested after uncovering the untold truth. Years later, Valeria died in prison. But before she died, she told Gerton where she buried his sister, and Gerton had already forgiven her. Gerton returned to their mansion and placed a rose under the old tree, whispering, "Yes, I finally found you."
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