In a few hours time, the axe will fall.
I shudder at the thought of getting executed.
I received the call of my execution two days ago – Monday. No wonder Garfield hated Mondays. I tried to delay the inevitable. I responded a day later. I had no choice but to walk the plank and have a taste of death.
I didn’t know what happened next. Everything seemed blurry. These last few hours mark my return to consciousness. In those spare moments I reflect about various things. I think about how people have been awfully good to me – more awful than good though. I imagine the feeling of those who had their near death experiences – something I doubted until minutes ago. Most
of them saw their life pass by like a blur. Every single laugh they shared with their family and friends – those moments that took their breath away. Should I live to see the day again, I’ll tell the tale of going to face death all by myself.
I reflect on how life should end in such a manner – in front of a group of people, questioning you, squeezing out the life from you. I shudder to think about it.
In a few hours time, the guns will fire.
Dr. Jose Rizal, Andres Bonifacio, Gregorio del Pilar Antonio Luna – all Filipinos who died facing that barrel along with the millions of soldiers who took part in the war – any kind of war. I should be saying about how pointless wars are or how deception among ranks could lead to wasted lives. Yet that would be increasing their fame and putting all those who died – stupidly or otherwise – on top of a high pedestal for all to revere, admire and follow. Not that I mind at all.
I particularly liked the perspective that the dead remain dead. It’s comforting to know that those ghosts and spirits that haunt many places here on earth are not spirits of the dead but something else more evil and ghastly. Imagine seeing the spirit of your dead relative hanging all over the place. I shudder at the thought.
I wonder who injected those concepts into the minds of people. I tried telling a ghost story once, my listeners ended up laughing their hearts out. They all thought it was a joke. I also remembered submitting one story in our high school paper about my scariest moment, I told it as vividly as I can. All I remembered after passing the article was the vivid color of ink on paper inside the trash can. That was when I learned that ghost stories are like jokes in that they are hard to make.
Harder still if you’re the one to tell people of their ghosts in life. You’d end up dead just by breaking the truth to them. We would have fared better not knowing those things.
I only have a few hours left until that panel of people would question me to death. I would have breathed easier if they were asking things like “who’s your crush?” or “were you the one who left the cookie jar open?” or “Did you just eat bagoong this breakfast?” and not “What’s wrong with this kid?” or “what are we going to do with him?”
Right now I imagine the scenario, I come inside their hall or wherever it is they’re going to put me. And grill me with a lot of questions. The ghost would eventually appear:
Social Worker: So, what do you think? Will the child be able to speak?
I swallowed everything in. Spitting it out would be the hardest.
Me: Well, considering the circumstances of age, cognitive ability and functionality, the child is already a teenager – as you can see. He is able to discern things that his visual and auditory sensations would feed him. His processing may seem to be moderately limited to what is necessarily available…
That’s just a social worker. Imagine if it was a parent. It’s really harder if it was a parent. It always is.
So now, I sympathize with the doctors, nurses and all the other health professionals whose lives are always in complete danger from the patients that they handle. Danger from the patients denial issues, anger issues and depression issues erupting from their ghosts in life.
Simultaneously posted @ manacled.wordpress.com
It’s now 1:00AM and I am still up. Probably it’s part of the celebration for the early start of the Halloween break for me. Or probably, it’s something else.
I have been singing a song for more than a year now. Actually, it was more than two years now or maybe more. I sang it thousands of times to notice that it comes to me automatically.
I love to watch kittens at play.
