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pielcanelayep, still raw - but at least it's a finished kind of raw :D
She closed her eyes, and all of a sudden, she was alone.
The world fell silent. After an almost unbearably long moment she started to hear, very faintly, water flowing in the distance.
Then she started feeling cool wind on her face. What a calming breeze, she thought. When was the last time she felt a breeze as clean as this?
She must have been very young. Perhaps 15, 16 years old. She used to visit this part of the river in the summer.
The clean breeze on her face was the only sensation, at first. Then she felt the ground and the grass under her palms. She was sitting, propped up from behind with her hands. She had tied her long hair back with a rubber band to keep the wind from messing it up, but still stray strands flew into her nostrils.
She brushed the loose locks back from her face, tilted her head up so her face would meet the wind.
She could hear her friends playing in the water. She heard Kevin's voice, sometimes, louder and deeper than all the others'. How could she have forgotten how deep his voice had been?
"Josie? ...Josie?" Someone was calling her name. She opened her eyes.
It was Victor. Small, mousy, perpetually nervous and tongue-tied Victor, who looked at her so helplessly.
"May I sit beside you?" he asked. She shrugged, she didn't mind. With an almost exaggerated cautiousness he set himself down, wrapped his arms around his knees. He rocked himself back and forth a few times as if to steady himself.
"I didn't think I'd get you alone," Victor almost whispered, as if someone was around to overhear, "but there's something I have to tell you."
He always spoke like this, a little above a whisper. She didn't know when that had changed. Maybe when he got taller - he had shot up a whole foot when he was 18. But he wasn't 18 yet, not right now.
"I want to leave home, Josie." He sounded so young. "That's okay, right? I mean - when we go to college, we're pretty much adults, right? We can do whatever we want?"
She didn't know why he was telling her this. But then, he was welcome to say anything. They were friends.
"I don't know, Victor," she said tentatively, looking at him so he could at least see her sincerity. "But, you know, you're a Carrion." Eager to make a friend feel better. "You can do whatever you want."
"I don't think so," he miserably chuckled. "I really don't think so."
She remembered now: he was considered a disgrace. He was the only child of his parents, and was thought of as a logical successor to his grandfather, the current Mayor, who was getting on in age. But he was lacking in confidence and mediocre in almost everything - his grades were barely passing, his athletic prowess was nonexistent and worst of all: he hung out with the wrong crowd. He didn't spend his free time with the "friends" pre-selected for him - the scions of rich families, of gang bosses and warlords: handsome, intelligent young men lacking in nothing but moral character.
Victor preferred the company of outcasts, like Josie and her friends...who spoke too loudly, dreamt too big, and cared too much. They weren't all financially struggling, in fact they were a mixed crowd. But they were exactly the crowd that Victor's grandfather had wanted him to avoid.
Sometimes she pitied him - she remembered that now. He was carrying so much, and he was so small and weak. The most resistance to his family that he'd ever done in his young life was to insist on going to a public school, instead of the most prestigious private school in town.
Many years later, while campaigning for Mayor, he would use his public school experience to gain the sympathy of the many poor people in their province. He didn't need their sympathy - he would win regardless of whether or not they voted - but he still used it. Perhaps he felt that gesture was important... or perhaps he was actually proud of his time in public school, and perhaps it actually taught him something about being human.
Not enough, but something.
She reached out and touched him on the shoulder.
"Victor? What's wrong?"
He touched his fingertips to the hand on his shoulder - so lightly she could barely feel his touch.
"I'm sorry," Victor was mumbling. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
I'm sorry.
She opened her eyes. It was morning.
She was on her bed in the hospital. Her laptop lay on the bedstand.
She had been typing something... that was the last thing she remembered. She felt like she had just come out of a long dream... or a long series of dreams.
She was back on the morphine drip. Everywhere there was just a dull ache. But on top of that, her head felt heavy... as if it was stuffed with wool and cold water.
"Is she awake? She's awake." Monique's voice. "Mom... Mom? How are you doing?"
Monique took her hand. People started to crowd around her. There was Monique on one side, Marcus on the other, and Luisa at the foot of the bed.
Luisa was the first one her eyes focused on. She seemed distressed for some reason, grimacing and wringing her hands, the way she did when she was trying to apologize for something.
Maybe it was her voice Josie heard inside her head? Sorry, Ate, sorry. I'm sorry. I did a bad thing.
"Are you in pain? Can you breathe okay? You gave us quite a scare."
She turned her attention to Monique. "What are you talking about?"
Monique frowned. She looked up at her father, then back to Josie. "What do you mean? You really don't remember?"
Marcus leaned forward and touched her arm, gently began, "You were rushed to the operating room around midnight because you'd stopped breathing. The air couldn't get out of your lungs, the doctors said. They were going to do an emergency tracheotomy, but you started breathing again just as they were preparing the anaesthetics. They kept you in the ICU for a few hours, just in case."
"The ICU?" Josie repeated numbly. Moning nodded.
"That's where you came from. Dad and I stood watch, until the nurses brought you back here."
"The ICU," Josie whispered to herself. "That doesn't make sense...where was Luisa?"
Luisa made a small sound and hunched her shoulders. It was an old habit from the provinces.
"Sorry, Ate," Luisa muttered. "I lost my phone when I went down to buy medicine from the pharmacy. I looked and looked for it everywhere, but I couldn't find it. When I got back to your room, the doctors had already taken you away. But my phone was there. I was the one who called Kuya Marcus."
"Mom," Monique interrupted sharply, without looking at Luisa. That was how Josie knew she was upset at Luisa still. "It's okay now. We're here. Both Dad and I are here."
Josie's head was still in a haze. She must have had a large dose of morphine and lord-knew-what-else recently. It was quite hard to think.
Sensing her distress, Monique bent down to plant a very light kiss on her mother's forehead.
"Wow!" she exclaimed, brushing strands of hair back from her eyebrows. "You smell nice today."
Josie wondered what "nice" meant. It was difficult to remember when constantly surrounded by the smell of antiseptic, which was far from "nice".
"Like fabric softener... and fresh air." Monique grinned. "Tell us the truth: you went out for a walk last night, did you?"
"Of course not," her husband scoffed. "I think the hospital just used a different fabric conditioner."
Josie decided to ignore all that. There were important things that needed focusing on. "Did you find your phone, Luisa?" she asked.
The inquiry seemed to make Luisa feel a little better. At least she stopped wringing her hands.
"Yes, Ate," Luisa answered meekly. "It was on the bedstand, beside your laptop. The doctors must have found it and placed it there. But I swear I remember taking it downstairs..."
"Mom..." Monique's tone was chiding. "Could you please relax? Stop being a journalist for a minute! Some things just don't need to be looked too deeply into, all right?"
Perhaps Monique saw on her face that relaxing was impossible at that moment. And Josie really was in no mood to blame herself. There were too many questions. She had stopped breathing? When? For how long? Was that why she felt like she was brimming over with anaesthetics?
What exactly happened last night...? Already the details were slipping from her fragile grasp.
"Or, well, if you can't stop being a journalist, here." Monique took the laptop from the bedstand. "You've been working on an article, right? Maybe you should start your day with that."
Amid Marcus' half-hearted protests ("Your mother's just come from the ICU! Let her rest for a bit!") Monique turned the laptop on, while turning the crank that raised the upper half of Josie's bed, allowing her to sit up ("She's fine! Look! Besides, writing keeps her calm").
And as disoriented as Josie was, she was grateful for Monique's gesture, for the weight of the laptop's cooling pad on her thighs. Writing did keep her calm. At least while there were no sharp pains to distract her.
She attempted to focus her eyes on the screen.
My hometown is dying.
The M____ river that cuts through M___ town has been polluted for decades. And no one else is to blame but the Carrion family.
The next step was to give more strength to her fingers, so she could erase the gibberish that followed, and continue:
Dark as it is, poisoned as it is, the river is the foundation of the town of M___. It is the lifeblood of the people, who have relied on it for decades for everything from transportation of goods to irrigation.
The Carrion family has been in power in M___ town since Spanish times. In the Spanish era, and even before it, the M___ river has been the center of many superstitious beliefs, foremost among this was that it was home to a god
She stopped and looked at what she had written. No, that wasn't it. That wasn't what she had meant to write at all.
This opening was too fantastic, too meandering. If this were submitted to Richie, her editor, she would laugh at the first few paragraphs, then hit "delete" without a second thought. Richie wouldn't care if she had cancer. Richie wouldn't accept anything subpar.
It was important to open with the facts, lay it out straight to get the reader's attention.
Maybe there was room for mentioning the legends of the river later... she did not know why it was necessary to include them, but she simply felt so.
At any rate, there was no room to be fanciful. Focus, she needed to focus. Her mind wasn't behaving itself, and she still needed to say so much.
She had so little time.
She closed her eyes, and all of a sudden, she was alone.
The world fell silent. After an almost unbearably long moment she started to hear, very faintly, water flowing in the distance.
Then she started feeling cool wind on her face. What a calming breeze, she thought. When was the last time she felt a breeze as clean as this?
She must have been very young. Perhaps 15, 16 years old. She used to visit this part of the river in the summer.
The clean breeze on her face was the only sensation, at first. Then she felt the ground and the grass under her palms. She was sitting, propped up from behind with her hands. She had tied her long hair back with a rubber band to keep the wind from messing it up, but still stray strands flew into her nostrils.
She brushed the loose locks back from her face, tilted her head up so her face would meet the wind.
She could hear her friends playing in the water. She heard Kevin's voice, sometimes, louder and deeper than all the others'. How could she have forgotten how deep his voice had been?
"Josie? ...Josie?" Someone was calling her name. She opened her eyes.
It was Victor. Small, mousy, perpetually nervous and tongue-tied Victor, who looked at her so helplessly.
"May I sit beside you?" he asked. She shrugged, she didn't mind. With an almost exaggerated cautiousness he set himself down, wrapped his arms around his knees. He rocked himself back and forth a few times as if to steady himself.
"I didn't think I'd get you alone," Victor almost whispered, as if someone was around to overhear, "but there's something I have to tell you."
He always spoke like this, a little above a whisper. She didn't know when that had changed. Maybe when he got taller - he had shot up a whole foot when he was 18. But he wasn't 18 yet, not right now.
"I want to leave home, Josie." He sounded so young. "That's okay, right? I mean - when we go to college, we're pretty much adults, right? We can do whatever we want?"
She didn't know why he was telling her this. But then, he was welcome to say anything. They were friends.
"I don't know, Victor," she said tentatively, looking at him so he could at least see her sincerity. "But, you know, you're a Carrion." Eager to make a friend feel better. "You can do whatever you want."
"I don't think so," he miserably chuckled. "I really don't think so."
She remembered now: he was considered a disgrace. He was the only child of his parents, and was thought of as a logical successor to his grandfather, the current Mayor, who was getting on in age. But he was lacking in confidence and mediocre in almost everything - his grades were barely passing, his athletic prowess was nonexistent and worst of all: he hung out with the wrong crowd. He didn't spend his free time with the "friends" pre-selected for him - the scions of rich families, of gang bosses and warlords: handsome, intelligent young men lacking in nothing but moral character.
Victor preferred the company of outcasts, like Josie and her friends...who spoke too loudly, dreamt too big, and cared too much. They weren't all financially struggling, in fact they were a mixed crowd. But they were exactly the crowd that Victor's grandfather had wanted him to avoid.
Sometimes she pitied him - she remembered that now. He was carrying so much, and he was so small and weak. The most resistance to his family that he'd ever done in his young life was to insist on going to a public school, instead of the most prestigious private school in town.
Many years later, while campaigning for Mayor, he would use his public school experience to gain the sympathy of the many poor people in their province. He didn't need their sympathy - he would win regardless of whether or not they voted - but he still used it. Perhaps he felt that gesture was important... or perhaps he was actually proud of his time in public school, and perhaps it actually taught him something about being human.
Not enough, but something.
She reached out and touched him on the shoulder.
"Victor? What's wrong?"
He touched his fingertips to the hand on his shoulder - so lightly she could barely feel his touch.
"I'm sorry," Victor was mumbling. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
I'm sorry.
She opened her eyes. It was morning.
She was on her bed in the hospital. Her laptop lay on the bedstand.
She had been typing something... that was the last thing she remembered. She felt like she had just come out of a long dream... or a long series of dreams.
She was back on the morphine drip. Everywhere there was just a dull ache. But on top of that, her head felt heavy... as if it was stuffed with wool and cold water.
"Is she awake? She's awake." Monique's voice. "Mom... Mom? How are you doing?"
Monique took her hand. People started to crowd around her. There was Monique on one side, Marcus on the other, and Luisa at the foot of the bed.
Luisa was the first one her eyes focused on. She seemed distressed for some reason, grimacing and wringing her hands, the way she did when she was trying to apologize for something.
Maybe it was her voice Josie heard inside her head? Sorry, Ate, sorry. I'm sorry. I did a bad thing.
"Are you in pain? Can you breathe okay? You gave us quite a scare."
She turned her attention to Monique. "What are you talking about?"
Monique frowned. She looked up at her father, then back to Josie. "What do you mean? You really don't remember?"
Marcus leaned forward and touched her arm, gently began, "You were rushed to the operating room around midnight because you'd stopped breathing. The air couldn't get out of your lungs, the doctors said. They were going to do an emergency tracheotomy, but you started breathing again just as they were preparing the anaesthetics. They kept you in the ICU for a few hours, just in case."
"The ICU?" Josie repeated numbly. Moning nodded.
"That's where you came from. Dad and I stood watch, until the nurses brought you back here."
"The ICU," Josie whispered to herself. "That doesn't make sense...where was Luisa?"
Luisa made a small sound and hunched her shoulders. It was an old habit from the provinces.
"Sorry, Ate," Luisa muttered. "I lost my phone when I went down to buy medicine from the pharmacy. I looked and looked for it everywhere, but I couldn't find it. When I got back to your room, the doctors had already taken you away. But my phone was there. I was the one who called Kuya Marcus."
"Mom," Monique interrupted sharply, without looking at Luisa. That was how Josie knew she was upset at Luisa still. "It's okay now. We're here. Both Dad and I are here."
Josie's head was still in a haze. She must have had a large dose of morphine and lord-knew-what-else recently. It was quite hard to think.
Sensing her distress, Monique bent down to plant a very light kiss on her mother's forehead.
"Wow!" she exclaimed, brushing strands of hair back from her eyebrows. "You smell nice today."
Josie wondered what "nice" meant. It was difficult to remember when constantly surrounded by the smell of antiseptic, which was far from "nice".
"Like fabric softener... and fresh air." Monique grinned. "Tell us the truth: you went out for a walk last night, did you?"
"Of course not," her husband scoffed. "I think the hospital just used a different fabric conditioner."
Josie decided to ignore all that. There were important things that needed focusing on. "Did you find your phone, Luisa?" she asked.
The inquiry seemed to make Luisa feel a little better. At least she stopped wringing her hands.
"Yes, Ate," Luisa answered meekly. "It was on the bedstand, beside your laptop. The doctors must have found it and placed it there. But I swear I remember taking it downstairs..."
"Mom..." Monique's tone was chiding. "Could you please relax? Stop being a journalist for a minute! Some things just don't need to be looked too deeply into, all right?"
Perhaps Monique saw on her face that relaxing was impossible at that moment. And Josie really was in no mood to blame herself. There were too many questions. She had stopped breathing? When? For how long? Was that why she felt like she was brimming over with anaesthetics?
What exactly happened last night...? Already the details were slipping from her fragile grasp.
"Or, well, if you can't stop being a journalist, here." Monique took the laptop from the bedstand. "You've been working on an article, right? Maybe you should start your day with that."
Amid Marcus' half-hearted protests ("Your mother's just come from the ICU! Let her rest for a bit!") Monique turned the laptop on, while turning the crank that raised the upper half of Josie's bed, allowing her to sit up ("She's fine! Look! Besides, writing keeps her calm").
And as disoriented as Josie was, she was grateful for Monique's gesture, for the weight of the laptop's cooling pad on her thighs. Writing did keep her calm. At least while there were no sharp pains to distract her.
She attempted to focus her eyes on the screen.
My hometown is dying.
The M____ river that cuts through M___ town has been polluted for decades. And no one else is to blame but the Carrion family.
The next step was to give more strength to her fingers, so she could erase the gibberish that followed, and continue:
Dark as it is, poisoned as it is, the river is the foundation of the town of M___. It is the lifeblood of the people, who have relied on it for decades for everything from transportation of goods to irrigation.
The Carrion family has been in power in M___ town since Spanish times. In the Spanish era, and even before it, the M___ river has been the center of many superstitious beliefs, foremost among this was that it was home to a god
She stopped and looked at what she had written. No, that wasn't it. That wasn't what she had meant to write at all.
This opening was too fantastic, too meandering. If this were submitted to Richie, her editor, she would laugh at the first few paragraphs, then hit "delete" without a second thought. Richie wouldn't care if she had cancer. Richie wouldn't accept anything subpar.
It was important to open with the facts, lay it out straight to get the reader's attention.
Maybe there was room for mentioning the legends of the river later... she did not know why it was necessary to include them, but she simply felt so.
At any rate, there was no room to be fanciful. Focus, she needed to focus. Her mind wasn't behaving itself, and she still needed to say so much.
She had so little time.