* * *

  The Dead Snake

He didn’t attempt to inch his feet away from the sanctuary where he found recourse so perfect he became oblivious of the beating of his heart and the constant whir of the generator nearby.  For some reason he became aware of his place in the scheme of things and on cue, the past, the present, and the future appeared to him in record time without effort, but he was not mad at God anymore: there was only acceptance.  The moon is nowhere to be found, and elsewhere without the streetlight it was dark so he decided to stay.  He became afraid of the veil of darkness, though for years he has sought its comfort and protection.  In the past he consciously adopted the wonders of nocturnity to carry out his crimes.  In the dark nobody knew who he was and nobody was able to read his intentions, which was favorable.  In the void, he could not be found.

That night, he didn’t walk or run away as he always did after a mission.  There was no mission accomplished.  He knelt below the crucifix post and prayed.  There was complete rest in his heart, and somehow, he was at peace with Something he didn’t understand.  For the first time in years, he heard himself singing to comfort his soul.  Worse, he was singing with them, and his heart recalled the lyrics by rote.  And he didn’t run, for it is said that a boy who loves his mother never runs away from home.

- - -

One moonlit night we tried to kiss.  I knew she was serious about it, so my hands were clammy and wet.  The shadow of the bamboo behind her made drawings on her pretty face and my heart skipped a beat.  It was to be my first kiss.  She closed her eyes but not so far away in my memory, a thought revisited me.  And I ran away.  As fast as I could I ran away again like a crazed maniac deep into the night where I was able to hide.

It has been sixteen years ever since.  I have not seen my first love for God knows how long, and I made a vow never to give this heart its use.  My precarious existence killed any tenderness, warmth and mushiness in this beating muscle.  When lucky, though, I was able to fill my mind with her and imagine her breath on my neck.  And then in those pathetic moments, I will hope to live, and desire that my half-existence hurdle the obstacle of sad realities and broken dreams so I could finally be.  It was all vain hope, actually, but a hope I held on to nonetheless.  I didn’t have a home to rest my head at night, or a bed of my own where I could knead these dreams, my forbidden fantasy --- my own secret haven where I can fondle my imaginings of intimacy and love.  I was to live a destiny that is the object of dread and condemnation, which is for sure.  It was a life meant not to be lived with someone you cherish and spend the rest of your nasty and brutish life with.  It was too troublesome to live it with her.  To live alone was my resolve, and that was what happened though I did not consciously wish for it.

I don’t know just how long my painful feet have endured running.  I was a coward, the scum of society, the dirt that even the filthiest criminal detests intuitively.  The lowest in the rung of criminals, I must say.  I kill men for a fee.  Only a faceless coward kills a faceless person who could otherwise be his ally in another time and under other circumstances.  Men kill their enemies, and they are called heroes.  Soldiers maim, plunder, ravage in accordance with the rules of engagement, and they go home with the glory.  Garlands drape their necks. Bands grace their arrival.  Flags are raised in their honor.  A man who kills out of passion or obfuscation in vindication of a grave offense against him or his family is better off than a thief, they say.  I was worse than a thief, for I steal life from people who do not hurt me or take anything from me, in any way. There is a twisted thrill that makes me live with the face of death every day and each time I send one to the grave, I go deeper down the rut where I am already in without any hope of resurrection after my lingering death.

Running is what I do best.  Running to be free is different from running to evade capture.  I run to evade the ghosts I have made and I run to fossilize a coward’s role, but I can never truly escape, for how can one outwit himself, the ghost of his own creation unless heaven strikes him down unawares in an act of benediction?

I have long run away from the values of a loving, devout mother.  I have long shunned the scourge of a disciplinarian patriarch.  It was during high school that I truly became an adult when the most hideous creation of sin was exposed to my eyes…

I saw a man ravish a helpless woman.  It was another dark, moonlit night and until now, my receptive mind refuses to unload the gory input of the show of indecency and depravity.  What the light above showed me appears every now and then, and the audible torment does its turn to give me hell until I die, or kill with my gun.  My innocence coupled with ignorance constituted the moist earth that was to receive the seeds of filth.  I was the audience to a tragic play and my ticket was destiny.  Again, I did not ask for it.   I was accursed to witness the violation of my own innocence.

Since then, my youth shifted to adult mode and the desire to kill was sown upon my fertile heart.  I did not lift a finger, though.  The feeling inside me was that of an adult but my hands trembled like that of a child feeding a rabid dog.  I picked up a rock, but it seemed it was too heavy for me to use for its cosmic purpose at that particular place and time.  I slumped in fear, and then ran.  That was my first.

I didn’t scream in fear because the poor woman did the screaming for me.  Hers started with high pitched sounds, first of surprise, then fear, then dread, then ultimately, of one damned without redemption and without prospects of vindication.  As if in harmony, the crescendo of her audible suffering was matched by the hungry noise that only a human can do when his appetite is sated or his thirst quenched.  I wanted to purge what remained of the dinner that my mother lovingly cooked for me which I ate in a hurry and with a vengeance after that strenuous basketball game.

Her scream resonates in me time and again like the yelp of a wounded animal every time I take a life, lives.  I, _____, was able to internalize the frivolity of life at that moment and was convinced that like any other commodity, it is within the commerce of men such as me.  And just like that, this profession found its way through me, and somehow, I found release.

My mind returns to that event every now and then to justify my killing spree.  I go from place to place to transact my line of business.  I kill killers, too, because I have neither affinity nor a sense of belongingness with them or anyone in particular.  Every single time, it was nothing personal.  But tell you what, at the point of a gun, all are the same.  Some beg and some fight up to the last drop of blood they have. Some of them curse, and I could tell their ardent desire to verbalize my name and give account as to my evil deeds up there.  I am famous, always after the fact, but nobody knows by what name this angel of death is called, or if they did, dare not speak it.  I am known for what I do, but as to who I am, hell, I can’t even guess.

My gun is my mistress, my jealous mistress.  I keep her hidden until she is useful to meet my needs.  And she helps me silence all her screams, and her smoke blurs the memory of that irreverent tableau.  I talk to her before I fire; I make love to her with my hand until she is warm to the touch and then she becomes precise.

Mother sang to me when I was young.  I went to church with her.  The melodies of the songs catch up with me sometimes, but I have long forgotten the words.  Sometimes, just to feel the security and comfort of that memory, I’ve tried to infuse my own lyrics, but they never sound good enough.  My mom was silenced long ago and now sings her songs in another realm, so I will never, ever more be instructed by her hymns. 

- - -

It was a fairly easy job, this one.  I was to kill Mr. ___ who lives at ___ Street along ____ Avenue.  Death shall knock on his flaccid belly at nine. Death with one precise, mortal bullet, ideally, and the scream tones down. The second or third, depending on my fancy is a mere formality.

I stood outside his house.  Some people have started to gather in his cozy abode and it seemed to me like they all knew each other well.  The smell of a home-cooked dinner and the chit-chat of the middle class who are living very comfortable lives escaped the walls to where I stood.  In one corner a couple was hugging each other passionately, and a boy runs to greet them and the man picks him up to give him a piggy back ride.  An elderly woman carries a plate of cookies and pastries and a young man shyly tries one.  At the door, the hosts greeted every person with a hug or a kiss, and everyone looked so happy. Spit. The music was escaping from the house.  The entry point, the contact point, and the exodus are well-placed.  “All of the stages must be executed with the fluidity of a criminal connoisseur,” the voice in my mind said, and I listened.  I reached for my revolver and distinguished my target.  He was meeting friends at the door. I decided to wait a little while, but while waiting, I listened.       

They started to settle down and they began to sing a song.  Not long after the first line was sung and the guitarist struck the next chord, I recognized it immediately as the song my mother used to sing.  It was our song!  I slumped on the pavement and heard the weight of all those crazy years crush to the ground. My feet trembled in fear and unspeakable tiredness, but there was rest likewise. The song!  That was the song!  I began to shiver and tears fell down my cheeks.  All of a sudden, I found myself wishing for my mother’s touch.  In the darkness I found my heart longing for my father’s wrath.  My soul began to ache for that girl’s kiss sixteen years ago. 

----

A crowd began to gather around what remained of the man.  Some grew scared especially when they learned he was a notorious gun-for-hire who preyed on lives.  Some began to curse him even to his grave and beyond.  Others covered their faces in fear.  To the policemen who saw him sprawled after the hit-and-run, he was just a dead snake who will bite no more.  They laughed at how his journey ended the way it did, and cursed the day for passing by that road and finding that thing there.  For them, he meant another police report, and they didn’t want that.

Ruth dreams to write a story that will be read in Hum. 1, or a poem of equal calibre.