Before the third episode of the Philippines Graphic Literary Workshop (PGLW) concluded on April 18, we knew that we had one more thing that we can offer our bright young fellows: a starting platform for their creative endeavors. Here, we present one of their final outputs from the workshop. We also asked them to provide an artwork that they think best represents their stories. Read on.
Inside a boutique shop stood a fitting room where everyone could wear whatever dress they wished.
A lady let her gaze wander before entering the room. She made sure nobody could disturb her, as she always wanted some “me time” and a sense of freedom in a fleeting moment. It was Friday, finally—the last workday before the weekend. Outside, noon shines brightly, yet the room is saturated with gray, even the luminous chandelier struggles to brighten the room.
The place was empty, as if it had been waiting for her. She was gladly welcomed by four teenage-sized mirrors, which stood an inch taller than her. Above the back mirror was a black wall clock. Her eyes recognized familiar images—from her right, left, and back. They were all her, of course, wearing her usual vintage beige rose boutique shop uniform. The uniform was made of noble fabrics and painted with opulent colors. The boutique screamed elegance, but this uniform was the only one she owned. Not to mention that it was the same uniform she had started to wear after dropping out of college two years ago. Buying another uniform would have cost her a month or two of salary.
A gavel smack, banging a loud echo in the room.
A feeling of familiarity and unfamiliarity lingered in her mind upon seeing the image of the woman in the mirror in front of her. The woman, although looking a bit older than her, mimicked her facial features; her black hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, nose, pores—except for her pair of black eyes and her lips.
She held her lips, trying to grasp the mystery on the woman’s lips. She could be wrong. The woman’s lips were shaded with her dream-matte rose lipstick—a bit fairer than her current lipstick, which was a crepe paper she had bought from the store beside her apartment in Looban.
The bizarreness intensified when she realized that the woman was wearing a black robe and standing at the judge’s stand. A ray of sunshine bloomed in the woman’s face when she showed her teeth. It had been a long time since she had seen a ray of sunshine. She left her apartment at dawn and returned in the evening.
Her chest tightened, as if something crawled inside it.
Her foot moved one step. The sound of the clock’s arm above the mirror began to echo in the room. Tic.Tac.Tic.Tac.
Her hands floated in the air, trying to reach the woman.
A gavel smacked again. The woman glided herself away, teasing Mary to reach her.
Five.
A child’s laugh travelled within the four corners of the room. The reflection in the mirror on her right shifted into a child holding a crayon and paper inside a sixth-grade classroom, where house rules and math charts were pasted on the wall.
“Class, draw your dream job when you grow older,” the teacher asked.
The child had her own style. She drew herself in a stick-figure style wearing a robe and holding a suitcase. She colored the robe and the suitcase with a black crayon she had just picked from the box of her eighth piece crayon.
She then stood in front to show her drawing to her teacher and classmates. She had no choice but to be the guinea pig for sharing their drawings, as her surname starts with the letter A—Abad Santos.
“Mary, could you tell us what you want to be when you grow up?” the teacher asked.
“I want to become a lawyer,” she said in front while her white teeth—free of cavities—shining.
“Why do you want to become a lawyer?” the teacher asked.
“I watched on TV that a lawyer protects people. I saw my mama getting beaten by my papa. I wanted to defend her,” she answered.
Mary’s sight began to go blurry. She wiped it up before it even turn into a storm. Then, she turned her gaze to the woman in front of her.
She moved another step.
A gavel smacked again. The woman glided herself farther.
Four.
The aromatic smell of Bilo-Bilo lingered in Mary’s nose. The reflection of the mirror from Mary’s left switches. It’s still her, of course, except she’s wearing a black toga in a burgundy tarpaulin with a congratulatory message for passing the Bar Exam. Her father had hung the tarpaulin on their door. Her brothers, Junnie and JunJun, prepared the table. Her mother, who just came from their dirty kitchen, served the most special bilo-bilo at the dining table.
“Congrats, nakong. We’re so proud of you,” her father said. “Atty. Mary Abad Santos, the first attorney in the family!” her father added while raising her fist in the air.
Not for a long moment, Mary realized that, for the first time, her father didn’t smell alcohol.
Mary raised her old digicam to call her mother and her brothers to join them in the sala.
“123, Smile,” Mary counted, and they took a family picture.
Mary’s tears finally fell from her clouded eyes. She wanted to be stuck at this moment for eternity. Of course, she wanted this to last. Her father abandoned her and her siblings and moved out with his mistress when she was in twelfth grade. Her mother died from grief and kidney failure, and she was left to take over responsibility for her brothers. She sends half of her salary to her brothers for years.
A gavel smacked again.
Three.
The woman got farther and farther, but her foot kept on stepping and her hands were floating in the air, almost there. But when Mary was about to touch the mirror, the familiar eerie sounds started to play. She turned her head slowly towards her back. There, the back mirror showed the greatest horror movie—a Metro Manila Film Festival worth winning—her life. Her, staring at the laundry basket that had waited for water and detergent for almost a month. And her, picking up a sticky note on the wall that says, “Due date: electricity bills, monthly rent, matriculation of Junnie and JunJun.”
She picked up the phone ringing on her table while holding the laundry basket.
“Hello, ate, how are you there?” her brother Junnie asked.
“Goods. All goods,” she said, but at the back of her mind, Mary wanted to say otherwise.
“Ate, JunJun and I have to pay for our remaining balance before taking finals.”
And of course, without any hesitation, even though she was about to skip dinner again, Mary answered, “Sure, I’ll send money later.”
“Thanks, ate. You’re the best”
“Tsk,” she smiled. Right after the phone call, Mary sat down on the wooden floor, embracing the coldness that it brings.
Her sorrow screams in a vacuum. Mary closed her eyes. The tiniest sound travels in her mind. Tingggg!
The loudest smack of a gavel echoed.
Two.
Mary opened her eyes, and turned her gaze slowly. The child, the family picture, and the woman wearing a black robe fragment faded into the air. The four mirrors again showed the rawness of her everyday life.
She then walked one final step. Mary pressed her hand against the mirror. Thoughts rushed into her mind. But to her surprise, the mirror was warm—warmer than she expected.
Mary wiped her tears on her cheeks with the sleeve of her uniform. She then finally released the heaviest sigh she had been carrying the whole time.
Stop crying, she said. You can do this!
Of course, she can. She is the woman who has a mantra of, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”
For Junnie and for JunJun.
One.
A timer rang across the room. Ringggg! It’s exactly 12:30 pm.
The room’s gray vanished. A ray of sunshine curved across her face before she turned and left the fitting room.
Time’s up, break time is over.
Edvhen Mark B. Sucgang
