“I wasn’t enough for him to stay—was I?”
I find his presence in any way I can. Carrying the weapons he used, his favorite snacks, and his writings.
I had a lover.
We grew up together—but he died, a willing sacrifice.
An enthusiastic sacrifice to this dome.
We were part of this small group of people validated for this sacrifice. The common denominator among us—a disease.
Our bodies contain an exorbitant amount of mana—the lifeblood of this world. When the time has come, this disease plucks us at the ripe old age of twenty.
We are gods in the eyes of normal people, gods with a pitiful amount of years, yet that amount of time is enough to damage this world as we know it.
People have a set amount of mana to spend and recover, but us? We had an unlimited amount—enough to kill us as we turn twenty.
It is incredibly rare, but in the blood I carry, one person every generation receives this curse. My mother succumbed to the same disease. So did I.
Our lives revolved around this dome created to house us—years passed, yet the tradition remained.
A sacrifice to power the dome—not only that, it had to be a willing sacrifice. They learned early on that the sacrifice had to be willing.
The exile of the instigators—and the willing audience that let it happen. The people saw how they were exiled, slowly yet painfully, by the dome.
The haunting faces painted by artists, still intact in museums and on walls of many public establishments. One by one, an unseen force pulled them by their feet. Families tried to help yet were unable. They were dragged day by day, slowly—yet the dread and the horror came. We learned why the dome was created and why we maintained it.
Even countries were damaged
After an incident where a country known for freedom tried to puppet multiple individuals situated in their country, half of that country seemed to disappear—now it sits as fractured states.
There was a politician, paraded around, known for his manipulation and his threats. It all came to naught in the face of the dome’s anger. People laughed as he was dragged by his ankles. His family, in shame, abandoned him as he was slowly and painfully pulled. No one seemed to help him—lest they be dragged too. I heard the most painful thing for him was the humiliation. He wished the dome would exile him faster, to escape such torture.
His victim—canonized and held as a hero.
It seems the gods have justice given to them, and the common people not given any at all.
Well—what do I know? I’m a god myself.
——————————————————————————————————
The child
I always wondered why my nanay—mother—always had this sorrowful face whenever she looked at me. She immediately changes her expression to one more appropriate for a mother seeing her child.
I was named after my tito—my uncle. My biological uncle. I heard he died before I was born. I have always heard about him—compared to him. How I look like him.
We have a painting hanging in the hallway. The man in it looks just like me. I always wondered what kind of person he was. People tell me about his life, but I never really understand what made him so important.
Nanay always tries her best to be strong in front of us. But sometimes I see her standing in front of the painting of my tito. I can never really pinpoint the feelings she has while staring at it—anger, sadness, longing. She shuffles between those three. I sometimes think the emotion she feels when she looks at me is longing.
My other tito—well, he is not really related to us. I heard he lived with Nanay and Tito when they were younger. He and my dead tito had a special relationship, Nanay said. He hides his feelings with a smile. But when you look into his eyes, there is this deep sorrow that fills his whole being.
He visits once in a while, but he leaves almost immediately. He once lived with us for a long time, but I was still a baby then.
I have a brother—a younger brother. He seems older than me. Every year he grows taller and bigger. And here I am, stuck in a three-year-old body. Unable to develop. I see children my age grow and mature past me. I feel this sense of grievance.
Nanay told me not to worry—I was a late bloomer, she said. I can immediately sense past her lie. I feel her uneasiness whenever this question comes up. I let it be.
I heard from Nanay—my tito is coming back tomorrow. It seems he will stay long. She mutters as she looks at the news. It reads: “Change to New Government.” Some country I barely hear about
——————————————————————————————————
A girl, cute in stature, a toddler—with her skirt called patadyong, in a checkered pattern, while she wore a shirt in plain white that somehow made her skirt pop out more. Her long hair blowing in the wind, while her skin sun-kissed.
She made her way toward me.
“Tito, why didn’t you tell us you came home? Were you planning to wait until midnight to come inside?”
She said in a tone reminiscent of her mother—whom she looked like. People say she looks like her uncle. I don’t see that.
“I didn’t notice the time. I just needed to rest a bit after the long journey.”
She looked at me, eyebrows raised.
“In the middle of the field? Not inside the house?”
“You know what that place means to me.”
“I thought, with the fatigue from your travels, you’d want to sleep on a bed.”
“I guess I was feeling a bit nostalgic.”
She shrugs it off and immediately bounces on me. Me, being a good tito—her uncle—let her, knowing full well the hurt that would come.
“I missed you!”
I entered the house—small, yet lived-in. The walls all looked the same. The arrangement of the furniture unmoved. The new additions may seem minor—paintings of the family I call my own litter the walls of the hallway.
I stopped to stare at the painting that was created before the death of my lover. His skin was the same color as my niece’s. His body toned underneath the shirt—I would know. I slept with him. His eyes smiling with an expression that seemed to convey love. The painting was created with me in the room, waiting for my turn, but it seemed all we did was stare at each other—the painter was sick of it.
I was interrupted by a voice behind me.
Natividad.
My confidant.
My sister from another mother.
One of my childhood friends.
“You look like you never aged at all—like him.”
Pointing to the painting of her brother, complaining about how it seems that as the years go by, I never seem to age—while fully knowing why I never do. I humor her.
“And you seem to age faster than I realize.”
She dramatically gasped, acting like I killed someone.
“I’ll have you know that everyone my age is jealous of my skin.”
“Yes, yes—the beauty of the village, still the same as always.”
I never really understood the attraction people felt toward her. I never really felt it myself, but I understood: who wouldn’t want to be with someone of her personality and stature? I mean—I wouldn’t want to be with her. After all, who would want to be with someone they deem a younger sister? I mean, I may be biased—after all, I am attracted to men. Specifically her older brother, whom I grew up with.
The furniture and the look of the house are still the same. Although the items are moved around from here to there, it is still the same house I grew up in. I never really noticed the ambiance that used to calm me down—but now I do. As my travels keep fleeting me from place to place, I imagine this house I grew up in as my comfort whenever I yearn for home.
“Natividad, I missed you.”
She smiled at me, weary of the years that passed—but for me, still the same as when we were young.
“I missed you too.”
She hugged me. I barely know what she went through. As the only family left of a sacrifice, in the years I grieved—unresponsive and angry at the world—she kept this house, our home, running. She took care of me—a barely adult man, I know. I really wouldn’t know what I would do without her. Any wish and request, I am at her beck and call. After all, the safety of this family is what keeps her drive. And if eliminating and mitigating the harm that came the way of the family she built—I would destroy it.
She knows why I left. The threat, left untouched, would sooner or later destroy this house. She understood—she let me go and deal with it—knowing full well what it took. She did discourage me. But with how much I owe her, and with how much I think of her as the family I have left—I went.
I missed her life milestones—her wedding, her pregnancy, this family she created. I did stay once, for a long time, to complete a request of hers. The urgency that was. But I did it, and I had to go back. Her luck with lovers is tragic—one died early, the other left her. After the last one left, she swore off romance entirely. I was never really there. I had to commit to my mission, even if it meant losing out on the life she was building. I do not regret it.
“Tito—Tito, are you staying for long?”
My niece asked, with her little brother who looks older than her now. He looks exactly like Natividad. I do not know how she keeps popping out lookalikes, but she did a great job—I can never see the faces of their fathers.
“I’ll stay long—until the next sacrifice. So, two years.”
“You’ve done it, haven’t you?”
Natividad said, looking a bit shocked.
“I did.”
I replied, playing with my niece and nephew.
“It is done.”
