I had violent dreams again.
If I confessed to my counselor that our anger management sessions were not working with my pent-up bullshit, she might refer me to a psychiatrist. And that would cost much more, considering that she worked for free. And a real psychiatrist would mean that I have real problems. I didn’t have an actual problem. My counselor just liked to tell me that I had all these repressed emotions because doing so, would make her degree in Psychology valid. I was just a kid who carried his own pound of bullshit.
I hadn’t had a violent dream for the last three weeks, when I spent most of my after-school hours in Mrs. Reyes’ office. She made me write stuff—letters, anecdotes, and even literary pieces. And on the more interesting afternoons, she would ask me to break ceramics. I’d end up cleaning all the broken pieces though, as she’s deathly afraid of sharp things. Although, I knew I’d been faking it. I was excelling, but I was definitely feigning. I wrote the things I’d written as a different person. I broke the plates and teacups for fun. Not one of our anger management rituals had even stirred my core.
I realized that the reason why I didn’t have the same nightmares because I was acting like a different person. I’d been doing that for the last three weeks with Mrs. Reyes. I’d been doing that for the last eighteen years, as a matter of fact—until eight months ago, when I met him. Everything that had been happening to me could be traced back to that day, May 25, 2015: The Day of the Fives, I remembered. He saw right through my masquerade act. He gently removed every mask and every personality I owned, and I let him. I was afraid, but I trusted his steady hands. With all the aesthetic masks toppling over one another by our feet, he looked at me. It was unnerving to meet his gaze, but when I did, he smiled at me. Perhaps, he was the only person I trusted. Well, that was the case until he cheated on me six months later. It was unfair how he could just take off all of my layers and leave me exposed. And that’s when the violent dreams began.
We hadn’t been in touch since then. It was just too much. And from a troublesome kid, I became an angry teenager, a hot-headed mess. My friends ended up scared or annoyed by me, so they kept their distance. He kept the distance between us the farthest. He opted to study in a university in the city, rather than the one that was near to both our homes. He probably knew I’d enroll on that school, so he left for a different college.
I was about to end the call and mull over my stupidity when he finally answered. He was gasping a bit. “Who’s this?” he asked. He apparently deleted my number. I apparently knew his by heart. A sob rose to my throat and it lodged up there. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know what to say. “Hello?” he said. “Hello,” I finally croaked. Now the silence was on his line. I thought he had dropped the call, considering the long pause, but then he spoke again, “Ethan?” My chest ached as I heard him say my name again. He spoke it the usual—and proper—way, with a breathy ‘th’. Even when he was mad at me, he still spoke my name the same way. I found myself breathing my own name. “Look, I just got out of the shower and I’m still wet. Can I call you back?” I swallowed and answered, “Sure.” I froze, with the phone still on my ear, even though the other line was already absent.
My knees were spoons clanking against each other and my stomach was a heavy rock. My head was fuzzy with cloud of disbelief. I asked him to meet me and he was already waiting for me when I walked by. I saw him through the convenient store’s wide glass windows. I stopped a few feet away, afraid to move forward. But the thought of turning back made my legs felt agile and light. They were ready to run away again. But then he looked at my direction and found me standing frozen. He shared a wry smile and a wave. I couldn’t imagine what look I gave him then.
I saw the cashier watching us. And I told him this. “Let him,” he said. He kept on glancing at his watch, I noticed. I looked at everything, except his face. My eyes wandered around and I noticed that he was wearing the shirt I gave him for his birthday. The plastic design was already melted at the edges, though. He saw me looking. He played with the frayed plastic and said, “My sister accidentally burnt it. Sorry.” I waved him off and laughed. He didn’t. He glanced at his watch again and nonchalantly asked, “So, what’s up?” I blinked the tears away and muster all the strength to casually reply, “Nothing much. Still the same old life.” His head bobbed. “Okay.” “I’m going to buy something,” I hastily added. “Okay,” he said again.
I stared blankly at the variety of bottled drinks. I let the cold air seep to my skin and chose a bottled orange juice. “That’d be 25 pesos, Sir,” the cashier said, breaking me from my trance. I gave him a fifty-peso bill. He returned my change and my receipt. As I walked back to our table, I saw him texting. He put the phone face down when I sat again in front of him, but it vibrated urgently. He ignored it; I uncapped my drink. But then he mumbled an apology and went outside. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I could see him gesturing. He was doing the same gestures he did when he was apologizing and explaining at the same time.
My sore tonsils restricted me from gulping the whole bottle but I did. I had emptied it, when he finally came back. “Sorry,” he said. “That was my Mom.” But your Mom texts, not calls, I’d like to point out. She’s not fond of talking over the phone. “So anyway…” he trailed off.
“I’ve been attending anger management classes,” I blurted.
“Oh,” he replied. “That’s good.”
“It’s for free, anyway. Our university’s guidance counselor helped me with it.”
“That’s great. Also, it’s free. But I didn’t know you were having trouble with your anger.”
“Ah, well, I’ve tried to hide it. But I’ve always been like this. My Dad used to call me kissed by fire because of my rage.”
“Yeah? How’s your father, by the way? And your Mom?”
“They’re good. How’s yours?”
“Also good. They’re having a bit trouble at home, but still together.”
The conversation was so awkward I’d have to drop it. When I asked him to meet me, I wasn’t expecting this. I actually didn’t know what I was expecting. I hardly thought about meeting, because I was sure he would decline. But when he agreed to, I had no other choice, even though I know that to see him again would be the hardest thing ever. And it was. Seeing him—more muscled, much taller—sent pangs of ache to my chest. I wanted to touch him again. I could feel my hands sliding against the smooth, wooden table to his hands, but I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even look at him long enough, for Christ’s sake. I was frozen, the same way I was still frozen on our shared lives that had already ended two months ago. I was stuck in the middle of the hourglass, with my feet dangling, eager to be grounded on reality again, but with my head buried on the sand of our past. I kept remembering every single moment of us and live through it, when for him, those were just memories, left to forgotten.
“Hey, look,” he said. “My Mom would be expecting me home soon.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
“I have to go. It’s nice to see you again, Ethan.”
It was still the same breathy ‘Ethan’.
“Bye.”
“Wait.”
I didn’t hear the door chimes so he might have heard my plea. He was probably standing in front of me, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t lift my head to look at him. I meant to tell him everything, hoping it would dissipate the anger boiling inside me. But when I got to it, I found that I couldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered loud enough. “Go.”
I didn’t hear the door until a few seconds had passed. Then, I saw him on my peripheral, walking back home. I went home right after. I was glad that I lived on the opposite side. I walked opposite his direction.
There were no violent dreams when I slept that night.
0 Comments