Third

I woke up at 1:42 am. This is the 6th time this month. I'm not really a fan of waking up in the middle of the night, it's wasted opportunities to rest and escape. I checked my phone to see if there are unread messages. Your name was first on the list, 3 messages were waiting for me. I typed in my reply and apparently you are still awake. We engaged in conversation. At a little past 2 am, we said good night to each other the 2nd time that evening.


Not more than 15 minutes after I decided to fall asleep, I heard my mother's voice down stairs, lined with panic and urgency. I listened in for a while and readied myself. I waited for her wails to come, that'll be my signal. Instead footsteps came and she called my little brother's name. I got up and roused him from bed. I peeked from my room and I saw the great man that I once knew, kneeling in an awkward manner a foot short from his bed. He couldn't stand alone. Deep breaths. I saw my mother and brother collecting his scrawny figure from the floor and laid him back on his bed. He is not responding. His eyes were half open. I remained from my position and took everything in. When I finally moved, I returned to bed. I took my blanket and covered myself. I coaxed back the disturbed slumber. I shut my eyes close, shooing all the thoughts away.

My mother came to my room at around 3:50, she shook my legs and I pretended to be startled, just like how I would if only I was really sleeping. I opened my eyes, she switched on the light at the far end of my room, her back against it. I couldn't see her face, but I knew she was crying. With a broken voice, "your father, he fell." She said this as a statement but she sounded like she's expecting an answer from me, an instruction, anything as long as it's from me. "Ask him if he wants to go to the hospital," I answered with a straight face and a calm voice. "He couldn't speak anymore," her reply came hurried, like saying 'you do the asking'. "Ma, talk to him. You know he hates me" and once again I am underneath the covers. She went out, leaving the lights on. She knew I can't sleep with the lights on. I stayed like that till my alarm toll at 4 am, the usual time that I really get up, The thoughts swirling in my head. I knew that if I enter his room, I wouldn't be much of a help. I would probably say something out of line. I'll just make everything worse.

"I told you so."
"You knew this would happen."
"Well, this is not a surprise."
"He brought it on himself."
"Serves you right."

These are monstrous words and I will dare not breathe it to another soul. I wish that I am much like those heroines in Filipino novels that would have rushed to their fathers' death bed upon the possibility of their demise. Those women who could forget every hurt and every detestable experiences they went through because of said men and just be there. I wish that with the prospect of death, forgiveness will come easier. But I am not that way anymore. Pain has this way of hardening one's heart and perhaps time will just have to do its magic and even with it, it'll never be the same.

Before going out the door, I said to my mother, "Bring him", I sneaked a glimpse of him.
They took him to the hospital while I went to work and went about my entire shift as if nothing's wrong.

At 5:38 am  he slipped into a coma, my mother needed to decide whether he should be operated on. They called me. They wanted my answer. I think they won't appreciate it.

At 10:24 am, you asked where I am and I said home. You wondered why I'm not by his side. I feel like a hypocrite standing there if ever. I am useless there.

It's not very Christ-like. I'm horrible. But this is how I feel. I can't lie.

I'm not so lost about this as people seem to think. I know what I'm praying for. My mother's heart will heal, I'll make sure of that. I hope that this is the end. I'm praying for an end.