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.

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“Don’t forget to eat your papaya, anak, so the baby will grow beautiful,”

Mother’s voice passed through my ear. The tinge of concern in her voice echoed through my unmoving body. Only the word papaya swirled incessantly in my thoughts, stitching anak deep into my chest, crawling its way up to the veins of my neck. It was but a soothing pain of a moment– one that I will never hear for a long time again. 

“Don’t tire yourself too much,” she firmly held my arm covered with a knitted sweater while carrying two thick bayongs on her right shoulder. 

The corner of my lips curled into a wry smile as she held my arm tenderly, nodding and tasting the sour metal on my mouth. 

“Do you want to stay with us for a while? There will be a fiesta in the village and Dodong will celebrate his birthday,” the mere mention of another person’s name, not to mention a name of another man, sent jolts down my spine. It echoed through the ceilings and walls of the house. I woke up that very second.

I only have twenty-five minutes to salvage myself. 

Shaking my head, I smiled, almost pushing her towards the entrance, “No, Ma. I’m completely fine.”  

“Sige, but call me if you have any problems,” I nodded.

“And don’t forget to tell General I said hi,” Her final words before disappearing into the alley.

I returned inside. The living room reeking of the pungent smell of sampaguita flowers– my mother’s favorite perfume. The sink drenched in used utensils, cups, and plates. Pillows were messily placed across the couch.  

Swiftly, I went to the couch and rearranged them. I swept the dirt off the floor, collecting the debris from the outside. All should be spotless and clean, the residue of someone else in the room unrecognizable. 

Twenty minutes left. 

Towards the kitchen, I placed the metallic basin in the sink. I turned the faucet on and let the water run. The running water aggressively hits the basin as I collect the papaya seeds from the plate and into the plastic bag. 

My thoughts constructed the sentences I will say, weaving the words into a perfectly spoken plea.

“My mother came this morning, she checked the baby’s condition,” A soak.

“My mother and I talked about things–,” A scrub.

“She gave us fruits, you can eat them while I cook dinner,” A rinse.

“I’m sorry,”  The ring on my finger grazes the ceramic while rinsing the excess coffee stains from the cups.

I lost my hold of the time. Where’s my phone? I checked the pockets of my apron, countertops and the shelves. The phone was nowhere in sight. No, it doesn’t matter.

I’m not gonna make it.

Holding the edges of the sink, I stared at the water, its sides covered in bubbles and soap. 

I heaved a huge sigh out of pure exhaustion.  My reflection pierced through my brown eyes, stinging my coffee skin, curling my toes at every angle, at every damn sight. I tried making a certain image as the water dripped. The water rippled wistfully, melting the image I see. Could I for once be as pale and lifeless as the princesses I read in books, waiting for death’s kiss to bring me to another life? Each attempt, however, heightened the crisp and intensity in my eyes. The sharp distinct features of my jaw, and cheekbones unveiled by my loosely tied long hair. The echoes of low rumble outlined my reflection. 

I could never escape the fact that I’m starting to look just like him. 

I closed my eyes. One drop of water and a different image appeared.

A young child. Her hair was short, and her skin was pale. She was wearing a black hairband. Something that I’d wear but she looked nothing like me. She looked nothing like him.

I tilted my head at the sight, she abruptly tilted her head too. 

I knitted my brows at her sudden jerk, slowly moving in, examining the details of the reflection in the water.

She moved in too, a little too fast which shocked me.

I stepped back from the sink. 

“Are you okay?” a child’s voice lingered on my right side. I turned to my right and saw the same child on the reflection of the sliding door towards the backyard. The clouds hid the peeking sun this late afternoon, revealing the intricateness of her small form. She was half my size, wearing yellow oversized clothes.

“Who are you?” I slightly bowed down to clearly look at her. She bowed down exaggerately, an attempt to imitate me.

“Who are you?” She adjusted her voice, lower like mine.

“Are you copying me?”

“Yes, it’s funny,” she said with a playful smile.

I stepped to the right, she copied with glee. I stepped to the left, she followed triumphantly.

I laughed, amused at how she tries to copy me with such fulfillment. 

Then, I twirled around twice. She twirled around thrice too before stumbling to the ground.

“Awh,” she gasped, her knees scraped.

I instantly knelt to reach out to her but the window glass blocked my hand. It reminds me of how she’s only an image in the sliding door.

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” my mouth moved on its own.

“Why are you sorry?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to feed her curiosity.

“You also have those?”  She pointed out at my arm.

“What?” I looked to where she was pointing. The knitted sweater slipped off my arm as I kneel, revealing the patch of bluish-purple on my skin.

“I have that one too,” she said. “My mom said to put ice on it so it will be gone.” 

She rolled up her sleeves, showing her yellowish-orange bruise almost in the same area as mine. “See, it’s now orange! It will heal soon,” 

“Where did you get this?” I asked almost like a command. 

She looked down, shaking her head. 

“It’s okay, you can tell me,”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s just that…they’re always screaming and shouting and… throwing things,”

“Who is this person?” It was almost a demand.

“They live here so you better be quiet.” She whispered as if the floorboards were the ears of whoever she was talking about.

“Does… Does he hurt you too?” I hesitatingly asked.

Thud. Thud.

The child gasped at the heavy sounds of the footsteps. She stared right behind me. I looked behind. The door was closed but the stomps roared through the walls, the picture frames shivered, the washed utensils clattered. 

Thud. Thud. Thud. 

I clutched my sweater…my womb as the door slowly opened. The throbbing of my chest heightened with every step. The creaking sound of the opening wooden door lingered across the empty quiet room.

Then it was silent. The door was wide open but there was nothing. Not a soul nor a shadow.

Cold needles crept through the back of my neck. It felt like there was a figure looming over me from behind. 

I carefully turned my head. The child was gone.  Replaced by a figure standing still. It was wearing the same clothes as mine. The long green dress faded and crumpled through time. The cream knitted sweater covered in dust. Its eyes protruded in heavy exhaustion. Its hair was gray as smoke, face and hands wrinkled in age and mouth agape before it spoke.

“WHERE IS MY GODDAMN PHONE!” It was more of a scream not a question.The dishes rattled, cabinets quivered and the floors trembled hearing its growl. Its mouth moved in an unnatural manner as if it was purposely dislocating its jaw. 

I shrieked, horrified at the form I saw. My feet moved on their own towards the door to another door and another other out of the house. And as I walk out, I see the same distorted form in every mirror, in every picture frame, in every reflection inside the house.

I looked back and saw the young child alone at the entrance watching me run away. Its face entrenched in the lack of emotion as if she was dead. 

My feet carried me away from the house, down to the alley and into the busy streets. The screeching vehicles, eyecatching billboards, and murmurs of the people ignited the gray landscape. 

The sudden honk of the car tore my fatigue apart. I looked inside the car and saw a man furiously mouthing words. The outlines and movements of his face were similar to his.

I took a step back, glanced at the bus releasing passengers. A man in a trenched coat went down, he was looking at me with judgement. Both his demeanor and confidence resembled him.

The feet of mine carried me further to the benches where three construction workers sat down leisurely near the pavement construction. Each of them watched me intently. Each of their eyes looked like his, digging what’s beyond the surface of my skin. 

I stopped, slowly examining where I was. The billboard lured my attention. It was a woman smiling for a toothpaste brand. Her gigantic smile plastered on the billboard. I sighed in relief until I realized how her smile was akin to his. The glint in her eyes changed into something more familiar.

He was the city. He was the people. He was the highways and the roads that will be built. 

He is the congressman’s favorite pal, the dog peeking under your skirt. The voice of the past, and the echoes of the present. Everyone liked him, everyone wanted to be him, everyone followed him, everyone’s enamored, even the girls.

I hailed the bus and entered. I only looked at the floor finding my way to the middle section. There were less passengers, less to look at. My eyes traveled to the front mirror. The driver fixated on the road, glanced at me. 

I looked down and held my womb. Closing my eyes, tears running down my weary face. A lump in my throat further blocked the ache.

I covered my face with my hand as more footsteps arrived. The cold ring brushed my hot wet cheeks, the stinging difference opened my eyes.

A child can run to her mother but a woman can only refuse.

Upon seeing the pawnshop, I pulled the cord of the bus and looked at the driver one last time before stepping out. 

I can only refuse.

—Adriene Cole Seridon