11. "blasphemers"

When Officer Dela Cruz said that we shouldn't have high expectations when we came to the place he directed us to, he meant it.

From the outside, it didn't look so bad, and that's where we were wrong to be impressed. It was kept up extremely well -- almost too well actually, that it could be considered intimidating. The doors, the windows, and the make-up of the building itself was made out of what looked like very thick and polished metal, so clean that you could see your wavering reflection when you walked by. Nobody would dare try to break in by the looks of it, and if they did, it'd be foolish on their part because they would have to make a ton of noise, so loud the entire village would hear it. The only way to get in would be with a key, no doubt about that.

But when I went in the first time to drop off my things I had to retrieve from the place I was originally staying, I was bombarded with not only the feeling of humidity, but the smell of it too, somehow, if that's a thing. I left my suitcase against the wall and darted out of there in a jiffy to sign the paperwork we had to sign. It wasn't until I came back that I found out more than it being an instant-sweat machine. It was also infested with mosquitoes or something -- too much in comparison to what I was used to at least though I didn't itch if I was bit, and nearly everything was falling apart. The most I had going for me was a layer of foam on the floor, and a bed sheet.

I couldn't complain though. I wanted to -- heck -- of course I wanted to, but I couldn't. The place prioritized our safety from the outside and that's what we needed the most. I decided it'd be best if I calmed down, humbled myself, and became thankful for the conditions I usually live in back in the states, which I never thought very much of before, working minimum wage.

Trying to think as positively as I could for what life was becoming for me, which was still pretty dark and negative, I went to the sink and started brushing my teeth. The taste of vomit was still sitting on my tongue, and I was determined to get rid of it since I got the chance to. After puking up everything I ate today, I still didn't have an appetite. My stomach did grumble every so often, but the soreness in my throat had no hope of swallowing food. Not right now.

All I could think about was Ryan. Whether my eyes were opened or closed, I could see his face, as if he was sitting directly out in front of me.

I thought about the time when he visited the states and we actually got to spend time together. I admit, it was fun even though I was irritated that he showed up out of the blue. He didn't stay long, and he was back to Europe as fast as he came. If he was the same as anybody else, I would've been relieved when he left -- I would miss the peace and quiet. I was never panicky about being alone, but when he was gone, I kind of missed his presence.

I can't say that we were best friends, but we had the potential to be, or I like to think so.

Why is life so short -- so fragile?

Why do we die?

Why don't we have nine lives? Or heck, why don't we have twenty? One hundred? A thousand?

Why don't we live forever so that we don't have to know what grief means? The world sucks, but when the ones we care about leave it, we hate that. Maybe, depending on how it went down, we are happy that they are no longer in misery, but we always hate it because we have to accept that the last memory we made will always be the last.

That's far too hard to accept in general, but it was harder when I thought about him. He didn't just die. Someone killed him. Someone killed him, the police only considered him missing, and I didn't get to the opportunity to know him as well as I should've.

"Yo, Colby," a muffled voice came from the other side of the door, spooking me badly enough that the toothpaste in my mouth came dripping down my chin. I leaned over the sink when I realized it was too late for me to do anything to stop it. I could hardly hear the person outside my door, I decided I could act as if I didn't at all, but even so, the person didn't leave.

"Dude, you don't have to let me in. Just come out here," their fingerprint clicked into the system, and in evenly spaced letters written in light, Payawal was written across my door. Jayvee had come to see me. Seeing that, I neared closer to her to hear her better. I wasn't up to seeing anyone, but I was curious nonetheless of what she was doing trying to talk to me.

We rarely ever talked one on one. She talked to me when everyone else was around for the most part. I got used to that.

"What? Why?" I shouted to respond. I didn't think I'd do that much, but it happened. Something came over me.

"Have you seen the kitchen yet? The pantry is fricking full of food, my friend. There's a ton of Filipino dishes if you want to try them -- have you tried Filipino food before? Or you can eat American food, there's a few choices for you there too -- I don't know, it's up to you. Are you hungry? You should eat."

How could someone be hungry right now? I thought to myself, but I didn't say it. I could see myself expressing anything I said right now with annoyance, and right after that, we'd be fighting with no idea on why. That's what happens when everyone is under stress. It doesn't have to be intentional. It just happens, and I didn't want to be the cause of that, or contribute it even a tiny bit. Besides, some people develop an appetite when they're in pain. Just because I wasn't that way didn't mean nobody else was.

I'm not going to take our downhill day as an excuse to judge someone. I hope all of us, in whatever way it is can figure out how to cope with this if it's possible to. We can mourn in our own ways, together.

"No, sorry, Jayvee. I'd love to try it, but I don't feel so good . How about later, maybe?" I answered. My hands itched to open the door solely because I thought that was the nice-guy thing to do, and that's just the kind of person I was, but I knew that if I did, I'd have to put myself through things I didn't know if I could handle. I could barely stand being alone with my thoughts. How could I handle listening to everyone else's?

None of us were supposed to be here. We weren't supposed to be taken from a seminar by specific police instruction. We were supposed to be a group of six looking forward to the possibility of reaching our dreams. That was far too much to have to think about. Simply being here and nothing else was already too much, because everywhere I looked was a reminder of the biggest tragedy ever known.

"Come on, Colby. Talk to me. There's no reason that you should go through this by yourself," she insisted. It blew my mind that she could sound so optimistic. Of course, that wasn't evidence that she actually was because as we know, the expressions on a person's face can play a ton of tricks on another -- it's a master at foolery -- but she wore the mask quite well. Kind of like how the mysteries underneath the surface of us six did; the tiny details that became a billion that we never told anyone. The thing is, eventually that ruined us. We can't pretend it didn't.

"How do you sound so--," I trailed off for a second. "Okay?"

How do you sound so okay?

"You bottled it up. You never told anyone how you felt. You never let yourself explode. I've been yelling at Nova and Jared since this all started. I'm not saying that's a good thing and I'm not okay, not at all. I'm not going to lie and say that I am, but at least I got to let it out," she claimed. She found something to say before she had to think. There was irony in it that I felt for some reason, and I can't say why, but I couldn't relate to the tone of her voice. I felt like no matter how much I screamed in depth of my lungs from the very top of the world, the darkness would settle right back in right after. That's if it left me alone at all.

"I miss him," it came out before I could hold it in. I didn't mean to admit it.

"We all do, Colby. We all do, but maybe there's a reason for it. Maybe one day we'll understand."

I shook my head. "There's no reason for this. This is messed up. This is wrong. When he died, we were robbed. All of us were. He deserved better, and we deserve better too."

Like watercolor, tears painted my face, and it was the first time I can remember that I let it be -- I let them fall. My voice went husky when my throat closed up, and regardless of my efforts to clear it out, I couldn't. It stayed, and so I let it stay too. I let my emotions be real with me behind closed doors where nobody could see me.

"Didn't you love him?" I asked her.

"Of course I did. I still do."

"And no part of you blames yourself? No part blames yourself because you think, if I loved him enough, would he really have died? If I loved him, shouldn't it have been strong enough for everything to sail perfectly? Should I have loved him more than I did and that I do? Was he not loved enough?"

Jayvee didn't answer. There was silence, and besides some rustling from the other side, that was it. If she didn't feel it before, she finally felt it now, what it was like to drown in your own mind. How funky the mind is, really -- it could give you the greatest of highs, but the worst of lows, and here she was, experiencing the lows of it.

Or maybe she was experiencing my lows. Maybe she came to see life through my eyes. Maybe it was a lot worse for me than it was for her, though you wouldn't think so. Would it hurt more for someone who loved another, but spent their life making memories with them, or would it hurt more if someone cared for another, but never got the chance to have the memories they should have? Is it worse to have too many memories to remember or not enough?

She banged on the metal. "Open the door," she commanded, changing the subject.

"No."

"Yes, open the door."

"Why would I?"

"Just do it."

And I gave in, wiping my eyes of where my sorrow showed, because she was known to be the leader and I was used to respecting her. I opened it just a crack, but she pushed it open wide, and she held me in a hug before I could react -- before I could decline it or accept it. Her eyes were red too, probably exactly like mine and I knew that for sure, though I only saw them briefly.

"I'm sorry," she whispered in my ear. I have not a clue what she meant, or in what way she was apologizing, but suddenly it felt that the person's whose embrace I held wasn't a person at all.

This was a monster. A monster that took advantage of humanity's weaknesses for the fun of it, and I wanted her far from me.

As far away as possible.

Whether I was wrong or right, I couldn't breathe around her.