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“Hey, how are you?”
This is it again, his favorite time of the day: the faint light of the lamp in his room against the brownish tone of his skin, black marker in his right hand, and the buzzes of the cicadas outside being his only companion. Excitement bubbled within his chest as he waited seconds, minutes, for the response of his friend —
Charcoal-black words appeared below his writing, over his left forearm.
“I am fine. How about you?”
The writing screams so much of him that he literally can feel his very presence, on his forearm. They’re truly connected, he reveled, comfort and warmth spreading all over his chest.
Taking the pile of cotton balls and the alcohol beside him, he erased his words on top of the response he was given. Ignoring the heavy crackle of his ribs as he breathed, he proceeded to write.
“It’s been long. I hope you are okay.”
He reminded himself of the day he met this guy, and he felt a smile grace his lips. His eyes flitted towards the fading scars and bruises on his legs and arms.
The guy was truly the definition of freedom, if he should say it himself. The guy, in tattered and soiled clothes, with his black hair and brown streaks dancing to the wind and body bathed in the moonlight — he seemed like he owned the universe. His stares were intense, and he pierced directly into his eyes, his brown melting into grey pools. Scars and scabs littered his legs, bruises on his arms, and yet —
He emanated an aura of ease, as if he is bound by none, nothing. Not even those damn scars (which looked and felt really painful, he thought).
“I have been seeing you around here at these times of the day,” he said, voice gravelly and deep, and it struck a chord in his soul.
“What are you doing? It’s dangerous out here.”
He certainly remembered how he felt at ease at that moment, like a piece finally finding its place within the puzzle —
Like meeting your other half.
“I want to be free,” he said, looking back at the grey pools of the stranger, who only looked at him with understanding and kindness, oh so overwhelming.
“Free from what?”
“Everything. This world, others, stupid rules, and all that,” he said, and he felt the frayed nerves of his heart untangle. “I don’t want to feel burdened anymore.”
A sad glint passed by his eyes — or was it the trick of the lighting? Before he could understand what was it, it was gone, and was replaced by a fiery intensity, and a soul-piercing glance at him.
“Then, join me.”
Those simple words ignited something within his chest. Passion? Desire? He didn’t know its name, but when he took that hand, running full speed to somewhere, everywhere, he felt like he ruled the night.
He smiled at the memory. He wants to feel again the exhilaration and the excitement thrumming under his skin, through his veins. He wants to feel free again, to fly with wings unrestrained from the burdens of this world.
He wants to be away — from this house, from the strangling atmosphere of this house they deluded themselves into thinking as a “home.”
Minutes passed by and the ticking of the clock became loud in his ears, drowning every sound in his silent house.
“I don’t really live anywhere,” he remembered that boy telling him on one of their escapades, his lips straightening into a thin line. “I have been here for as long as I can remember.”
“How did you survive?” he asked, eyeing every scar on his body, remembering the phantom feeling of the scars on the same places in his body (which the other guy totally didn’t know about.)
The boy only smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
His chest heaved with every breathe he made, and the memory did nothing to alleviate his growing worry. An eternity later, the words on his forearms disappeared — albeit messier than how he did it, smudges of something akin to charcoal coloring his skin — and was replaced with the same unruly writing he knew belongs to that boy. He let out a sigh of relief.
“I am fine. Don’t worry. Go to sleep.”
Another heave resounded from his chest, but he cannot help the smile on his lips.
“Alright. You too. I will see you soon, okay?”
A response came again, but the writing was messier.
“Yeah.”
He had nothing to worry about though. The boy never broke any promises. He won’t break any soon.
Morning came, and the crackle against his ribs was gone, along with the scars across his legs and the bruises against his arms, leaving the fading words, “I wish I had what you have” on his arms.
He felt something die inside him.
Alex Ram is a second year college student of AB Psychology in Philippine Christian University. He had an experience in journalism back in senior high school wherein he served as a literary staff writer and eventually, as the editor-in-chief. Currently, he spends his time reading manga and watching anime, usually consuming stories of the Shonen demographic. For comments and suggestions: marc@voxpopuliph.com.
