I love you, Jack and Bonus

On June 15, 2015, one of our dogs gave birth to five puppies. The last to come out of the womb was noticeably frail, but he survived. We named him "Bonus" as a shoddy attempt to play with the Filipino word "bunso". Five days ago, he passed away.

My childhood desire to have a dog had been fulfilled eight years ago when a mischievous little brown puppy found himself under a neighbor's rooster cage. Days later, we named him "Jack." Today, he passed away.

Both of them died of a fatal disease.

The more important the bond, the more we seem to take it for granted. Such a consistently essential element of our lives, like the air we breathe, only makes its presence felt through its absence. The reality has to become a cold phantom; only then it will become more substantial. It is the cruelest of ironies. A touch is warmer when it is no longer at our grasps. A voice is louder when it is no longer heard. We would only realize that their traits which we found annoying were not character defects, but their character.

No amount of regret will be able to overcome the border of life and death, but this truth does not stop me from desperately conveying to Jack and Bonus that, up until the end, I cared. I had the opportunity when their pleading, love-longing, alive eyes lit up at my very presence, but there were times when I consciously ignored them. They showed me through their energetic, wagging tails that they were glad to see me, but I was not able to appreciate those sincere gestures all the time. A pouncing approach of love and respect was oftentimes reciprocated only through half-hearted head-patting and belly-rubbing. For humans, life is about competition, busyness, and social niceties; for them, it is only about affection.

The selfish part of me keeps saying that Jack and Bonus should have held on a little longer. It keeps convincing me that seeing them getting thinner and thinner, having difficulty in breathing, and not being able to stand up is better than seeing them in a pain-free peace. Despite that, I told them my last request: rest if they could not take it anymore. They had considered our feelings up until their last breaths, letting go of life when we were preoccupied with our dreams.

Jack and Bonus' eyes that used to be sparkling then stared at nothingness, unmoving and vacant. Decomposition took over, stiffening their formerly eager legs. Still, I was in denial. When I called their name, I could have sworn that their tails had wagged for the last time. Their mouths were open not because they had died a painful death; they were just sleeping. Their lungs were full of life, expanding and contracting in a healthy manner. I was tempted to stay in that blissful fantasy forever, but the reality of my grief eventually freed me from my delusions.

I weep because I expected Jack and Bonus to experience a painless, un-premature death. I weep because, even if they tried hard to hide it, their suffering was evident. I weep because them being liberated from agony meant that they had to die. I weep because three years and eight years are not enough. I weep in the realization that, tomorrow, next week, next year, and the year after that, I will never see them anymore no matter how hard I look at their usual spots.

What saddens and frightens me the most is the notion that, in time, my capacity to recover will make me forget about Jack and Bonus. Their deaths will just be another of the many inevitabilities of life. The land where we rested their bodies will just be another place I will step on without remembering them. This post will just be another blog entry where I had expressed my grief. Their names and their stories will just be another piece of discussion in times of reminiscing the past.

Eventually, I will accept that Jack and Bonus are no longer with us. I do not want that. I have accepted the most meaningful eventualities of my life up to the point that their normalcy makes me ignorant of what their significance is anymore; the thought of Jack and Bonus belonging with them sickens me.

I love you, Jack and Bonus. Sleep well. 

In re: "Anarchism has changed my life"

Recently, I have stumbled upon a thread in which the OP (original poster) tells how anarchism has changed his life. My thoughts provoked and my desire to express myself stoked, I have decided to write my own:

In accordance with the current system, one has to amass money through wage labor to be successful. If one works "hard" enough—which is to say, to sacrifice a lot of his time, health, and freedom—she could earn enough to even start her own business. However, if the pay is "good" enough, she could decide to settle with the job that she already has, providing for her needs and wants sufficiently. It is a life where most of her consciousness is spent on working for 8 or so hours a day, a life tunnel-visioned entirely on selling her services and person to a corporation and earning money. Money. Money.

I simply do not find meaning in that kind of life, and this is even before I had discovered that there is such a thing called "anarchism."

In a world where obedience and conformity are virtues, I am too "stubborn" and "proud." It prefers competition over cooperation, declaring that an economy and lifestyle based on "mutual aid" are unrealistic. People's voices are reduced to a single count of a vote to elect representatives who in turn make their decisions for them. The majority are poor because they are "lazy," and the minority deserve the state they are in because they have worked "hard" for it—in reality, it is only the case because of labor exploitation. The justice system blatantly turns a blind eye for individuals that are "too big to jail," and instead judges that stealing a loaf of bread is a more major offense than plunder. Hoarding private property is not being greedy; it is being a business genius. It is a world of grave inequality, preferring to always have the "right" sets of beliefs and ideologies instead of respecting the uniqueness and the freedom of thought of other people.

Somebody convince me that that kind of world is meaningful.

Anarchism has changed my life because—to borrow a sentence from the book of cliches—it made me realize who I truly am. I have always thought that there is something rotten in this world, and I am so fucking glad that I am not alone on this one.

And as a man that is incapable of "extreme" direct action, I have and will rely on my writings to give my readers a different, creative, and fresh perspective on what is currently happening. If you would allow me to share, I am currently working on an adventure fiction set in a fantasy world with anarchistic elements. One of its major components is the accurate analogy between the story's antagonists and the current system. Frustrations and brain-wracking aside, I have hopes of at least writing my story's first chapter by the end of the year. But that is beside the point.

Based on the current system's standards, I am an "unsuccessful" man. But if being successful means to be a mindless drone that chases money—a processed paper, a modern slave, ruthless instead of empathetic, and wealthier instead of wiser, then I would rather be unsuccessful.

Franco and Jack, Why Are You Leaving?

I'm discontinuing Franco and Jack because the reasons to stop outweigh the reasons to continue writing it. Such a big talk, this, but kindly excuse the mistake of a rookie who is still trying to learn. Honestly, I'm embarrassed for writing such an entry promising myself that I will complete a novel in 30 days. It's the classic cockiness of an ignorant who thinks he knows everything—or I'd like to think that it's just a result of an overeager, misguided kiddo who got too excited doing an engaging activity that he spilled the beans way too early.

Why continue?

1. In terms of word count and commitment, I'm doing excellently.

Word count: 13,604 in 7 days (20,287 including Character Profiles, Outline, Summaries, etc.)

Needless to say, I'm on fire in terms of writing prose, dialogues, and ideas. That a solid reason to continue. At this rate, I'm going to have written 50,000 words when Nov. 27 strikes. One can only wonder what kind of reason would overweigh this.

2. Franco and Jack is still a good idea at the end of the day.

The story has two perspectives: a man's and a dog's—and the dog thinks and speaks like a dog. It is set in the streets of Metro Manila. In effect, it discusses cultures, traditions, and habits that are unique in Filipinos. Heck, I even termed the paresan na nasa motor "sidecar eatery," not having the slightest idea on what it is actually called in English.

3. It's freaking fun writing it—especially the parts where I break the 4th wall.

If there's anything that came out almost perfect in what I have written, it's the comedic parts. If you're interested, kindly message me and I'll send you a copy. Please note that it's only my first draft.

Caveat: Jack is adorable.

"Oh, so ya think your work is great, yeah? Why discontinue, then?"

1. It's not a novel; it's a series of short stories.

Even if I didn't include the other four reasons why I decided to discontinue, this reason alone would still be enough. It's in the title itself: The Street Adventures of Franco and Jack. There's no plot; it's a series of short stories in which Franco learns a valuable lesson every end of an arc. Eventually, he will decide to come back home because of these lessons. Have you noticed that it is all about Franco? I will expand this in #2 and #4.

2. It got too personal—the protagonist has become me and my ideologies.

It's a given that a writer will sooner or later connect himself to his characters, but there are limitations. The moment that made me think about whether I should continue or not is the scene where a central character tells a story about her parents. The scene is clearly about that character. Franco's response? My ideologies. The transition is so absurd that the story is not even about anarchism nor anti-capitalism. I even tried to force the story to have anarchism elements, but it turned out to be more ridiculous.

3. Not even my friend Edith could make a novel without a plot have a plot.

4. Jack's (the dog) character and the fact that he has a perspective makes no sense.

In my defense, the story was going to be about Franco AND Jack. But then, reason #2 happened. Jack has a past, by the way, but like Franco's situation, it doesn't have a plot. Think of it this way: they both had painful pasts, but the present isn't connected to them in terms of cause and effect. They just... realize that the present moment is better than what happened in the past.

Jack was supposed to have a story, but it was clear right after Chapter 1 that the story is going to be about Franco. The only thing salvageable about Jack having a perspective is that it is hilarious.

——

With all that being said, I didn't feel the same way as I did when I had scrapped my past unfinished novels. I had given up on them either because their ideas were out of my league or I simply couldn't generate ideas any longer; Franco and Jack, however, has a lot of potential. This is the first time in my writing endeavor that I believe that my idea is worth exploring further, both because it is within my mental grasp and because writing comedy is natural for me. It is just that my approach has been wrong from the get-go.

Let me correct what I wrote on the last entry:

The Street Adventures of Franco and Jack (UNFINISHED)

Participating in NaNoWriMo has been fun, challenging, and exhausting. I'll develop my craft even further until I can finally write what I can call a finished novel.

Pain in Wisdom. Wisdom in Pain. 

The Street Adventures of Franco and Jack: A NaNoWriMo Entry

National Novel Writing Month
My NaNoWriMo account

After a month and a half of taking shelter in short stories and personal narratives, I finally have the guts to write another novel. 

I'd like to introduce: The Street Adventures of Franco and Jack.

The Street Adventures of Franco and Jack is a slice-of-life comedy-drama novel (with light novel elements) that tells the story of a miserable tramp and a sick dog finding an unusual friendship in each other for the sake of betterment. Their adventures are set on the streets of Manila, some of which tighten their bond and some of which test it.

It is going to be available on RoyalRoad.

I started outlining and planning out Franco and Jack a week ago. So far, I have outlined 4 chapters and the first 2 story arcs (7 short chapters per story arc) and have created 7 characters (I'm planning to add 3 more before I get started). 

One thing about creating characters is that the author has to assume different personalities to accurately explore the uniqueness of his characters. An author is a storyteller, a creator, a researcher, a psychologist, and a method actor at the same time. His personalities range from that of a detective, a student, a bystander, a professor, a struggling husband, a drug dealer, and even that of a lamppost's. One thing is consistent is a reader looks carefully: a part of the author's soul resides in every character that he makes.

I digress, but I would like to digress further by paying homage to my unfinished works. These dead pieces led me to Franco and Jack, screaming at me to never let this upcoming novel die along with them.

I will do my best.

SEARCHING FOR HOPE 

Word count: 134,390

Last words: He sighs. “That’s way too cynical… but your answer is somewhat similar to my point. It’s safe to assume that he didn’t become a pilot because he wants to fly an airplane that would keep his passengers as safe and as comfortable as possible. No, he became a pilot because he has a family that needs to be taken care of."    

My first-ever unfinished novel. It is about AM, a man with severe depression with psychotic features that is in search of a white-haired, white-dressed young woman who has somehow successfully convinced her not to jump off the building. AM has no clue as to who she is except for two that the woman uttered: "I'm Hope."

MILDRED

Word count: 1095

Last words: Unsurprisingly, the first one to talk was Toby, the muscular man. He had brown skin and was bald. His strong facial features and physique made it look like he was a soldier. Loud-mouthed, he talked like he was always mad at something. “I want to believe you man, but all of this just doesn’t make sense. I mean, we don’t even know how you ended up on our boat. You could have fallen from the sky, but our boat doesn’t have a hole in it. And, might I add how crazy it was that we triple-checked everything before setting sail, only to find a stranger naked when we were already fishing in the middle of the sea?”

Mildred is heavily inspired by Kimi no Nawa, and it is about a man who wakes up naked on a boat with no memory of his past. A thought-provoking concept, but it was too much for me at the time.

THE REAL DEAL

Word count: 1390

Last words: I was a victim of a human-trafficking organization called “Lopez Group”, and they specialize in harvesting organs to sell to the black market. It’s said that 1 in 100 of the missing person cases could be attributed to them. They are some of the most heinous criminal organizations in the country, but exposure to media has been significantly reduced to prevent public fear and the fact that the authorities couldn’t find any clues about them.

This is about a man who was saved by a vigilante, and he searches for him with hopes that he would be accepted as the hero's protege.

THE LOSERS' CLUB (3 attempts that I fused into one novel)

Word count: 4665

Last words: The car feels empty the second she gets out. Her house—I assume it’s her house—is a bungalow made of red bricks; though I can’t see it clearly because of the metal gate blocking the view.

This is about a group of colorful personalities (a family driver, an heir to a prestigious broadcasting company, a struggling salaryman, a streamer-gamer, and a daughter of a revolutionary leader) with similar views and ideologies. At some point, they named their group "The Losers' Club", a reference to how the society labels "different" people as losers.

Again, the whole concept is out of my league.

MILDRED (2nd attempt)

Word count: 2245

Last words: "I was the one who created that luck, Migs, and I didn’t mean that to make you feel bad. I’m saying that as a matter of fact. I dislike junk food and instant noodles. I have always kept a healthy lifestyle since I was a child. Prednisone messed both our bodies. I, too, was unaware of it. But I decided that I would avoid anything that would trigger my asthma."

This piece is about "Migs" who has somehow, in his desperate attempt to change his life, made contact with a voice that calls itself "Mildred."

MILDRED (3rd attempt)

Word count: 2158

Last words: I forced a smile as I thought of the name again. My insanity was telling me that sooner or later, Mildred would reveal itself or herself to me.

Evelyn and I shook hands, and I didn’t even look behind as I walked towards the nearest bus stop.

Into the unknown.

MILDRED (4th attempt)

Word count: 988

Last words: So much for intuition. I did not even have the slightest of fragmented dreams about what happened earlier in my life. I was like an empty shell just before I woke up in the Sayers’ home. I felt like an outsider who didn’t belong in this world; I felt like my life started right there and then.

I know, right? Mildred Mildred Mildred Mildred.

[UNTITLED]

Word count: 1486

Last words: Ignatius came up with a self-improvement project called “Operation Redemption”. He decided that regular jobs were not for him, and for him to make an impact with the world, he must do something that was socially relevant. Therefore, he decided to take up Law. When he began that project, he felt that he had found his purpose. His mind was constantly challenged by a lot of readings and questions that tested one’s intellect. His hard work paid off when a prestigious law school sent him an e-mail informing him that he was admitted.

Wow, so much personal aspects.

To the Amazing Sharpie, my Brother-in-Arms

Word count: 36,660

Last words: “What does being close to a place where Dom got jumped have to do with this?” Quentin protests. “I live in EMS, so of course I’m going to be close to where it happened!”

“I followed those two with my eyes until they went out of sight,” August says, “and they’re heading towards EMS’s direction.”

Novac nods.

“It could have been anyone from that area!” countered Quentin. 

·  About: “Everybody who knows me has always seen me as that type of person, and I’m quite sick of it.”

·   My book tells the story of Ignatius Stone: a detached, unemotional, and fierce teen often seen as offensive and problematic by everyone who knows him. Although Ignatius doesn’t care about what other people think of him, he is peeved that even the select ones who are fond of him believe that he’s someone capable of doing everything in his power to get what he wants, even at the cost of hurting others. Knowing himself better than anyone, his conviction firmly stands: he is not a fiend.

      However, a series of bizarre incidents will force him to take a second look at his character.

Sharpie is about a non-violent psychopath who is blamed for wrongdoings that he knows he didn't do. Worse, he keeps receiving letters that imply that he meticulously orchestrated these actions.

——

Someday, I will write these words in the next entry:

THE STREET ADVENTURES OF JACK AND FRANCO (COMPLETED)

A Terrifying, Horrifying, Horrific Ghost That Possessed a Guttural Scream and Grotesque Features

I love horror stories, but  I can't help but notice that some writers tend to overuse/misuse the mandatory "horror" words and phrases. This isn't an attempt to make a mockery out of them—if anything, I, too, am guilty of this particular writing sin as well. 

I had fun writing this. 

——

It was a terrifying, horrifying, horrific stormy night, and the winds howled terrifyingly, horrifyingly, horrifically. In front of me was a terrifying, horrifying, horrific house that was terrifyingly, horrifyingly, horrifically haunted house. The whole structure and the stench of terrifying, horrifying, horrific death gave me goosebumps. Someone from the inside screamed at me with its guttural scream, and it was terrifying, horrifying, and horrific. It also gave me goosebumps, because I'm terrified and horrified.

Its guttural scream pierced through my body, giving me goosebumps. I was frozen with fear and pure horror, because everything was terrifying, horrifying, and horrific. Fear took over my body, giving me goosebumps. [insert something about how terrifying, horrifying, and horrific it felt.]

The grotesque ghost bathed in its own blood, and it gave me goosebumps. Its guttural scream I could hear in all direction, giving me... guess what? Goosebumps. Paralyzed, frozen in fear, utterly terrified, utterly horrified of this grotesque ghost with its guttural scream, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Because everyone does that when they're terrified and horrified.

This entire horror was nightmarish, and I couldn't do anything but have goosebumps because of the ghost's... guttural scream. I knew I was going to die a terrifying, horrifying, and horrific death if I stayed, but I couldn't move; I was frozen in fear, and don't forget about the goosebumps.

The Tramp with the Questions

This short story is supposed to be a prologue of a comedy-drama novel I'm planning to write, but the prose turned out to be not at all humorous. Instead, it became a short story about a vagrant who finds it difficult to believe that he has gone insane because of his inability to adapt to society.

In search of wisdom, he has forgotten what it means to live.

——

In the busy, filthy, unforgiving streets of Metro Manila, there are those who are more ignored than jeepney barkers who convince people that they could still ride along and sit comfortably; more invisible than condominium promoters who give away brochures; and more avoided than a pile of shit excreted by a stray dog with an upset stomach.

Tramps. The rejects of society.

It is a riddle as to why some people collapse to the point of vagrancy. Gambling problems? Predisposition to mental illnesses—and the lack of support thereof? A personal choice?

Has society failed them, or was it they who had not fulfilled their roles?

These are questions that nobody contemplates about—not even the tramps themselves. For what makes clawing a garbage bag and offering services to a capitalist company a different activity from one another? Both are a struggle to put food in their mouths. The two only seem different because one is socially acceptable and the other is “embarrassing.” But if one looks at it fundamentally, then there is no distinction at all.

But no one wants to see the rawest version of themselves. “To interpret our behaviors as nothing but acts of survival? That is animalistic.” The tendency of humans to resort to pretense just to look “good” is what makes them a slave for the system. It is just as well, for the ones who are stubborn enough—but not brave enough—to rebel against the world just end up miserable.

Go pretend. Continue being ignorant. These attitudes will serve you better, and this is not an attempt at sarcasm. In fact, I—

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Yugo, a fellow tramp, interjects. He adjusts the cardboard box he is lying on as if his slumber is going to be more comfortable. “Shut up. I’m trying to sleep.”

He can read minds? I am having an intelligent conversation with myself only in my head. How come he hears it?

Yugo grunts. “No, I don’t do that black magic shit. You crazy. You talking to someone I can’t see?”

I clear my throat. Perhaps he could make a contribution to my contemplations. “What… what do you think of my conversation with myself?”

He rubs his reddish wide eyes, the dirt on his hands being engraved on his eyelids. “I think it’s full of shit. It’s not “intelligent”; you’re just complaining. Rationalize all you want, dude, but it’s not gonna get us out of here. You know what we all need? Money. Not some attempt at making sense of what is happening around us. It’s useless.”

I see his weak legs as he rests his elbows on his knees. The way his greasy hair does not sway according to the direction of the night breeze tells me how dirty it is. Touches of crude cover the severe acne scars on his cheeks.

I can see why he thinks that philosophical discussions are useless; he does not look smart. But then again, I do not want to admit that he has a point. I am afraid that I, too, am starting to think that I am just rationalizing to deny what is in front of me. Once I start to accept that notion, then I am officially a failure.

I am not a failure… This goes without saying, but I am not insane as well.

“You’re all obsessed with money—literally a piece of processed paper with some chap’s face on it,” I remark. “But, ‘A man’s gotta eat! We gotta pay the bills!’ What mat—“

“Look, man.” He looks annoyed. “Can you offer a better alternative? And don’t tell me that ‘Let’s Discuss Stuff for Five Minutes’ crap,” he points at my poorly-made poster, “actually makes your tummy full.”

Ah, yes. I do not know why, but I hunger for stories more than food. There is that distinct innate wisdom in every people, and with the hopes of turning my life around, I began to beg for their unique knowledge, not money. Food? I can just go to the nearest Jollibee to scavenge some chicken bones.

“And what have you achieved from begging for money?” I look at him questioningly.

“You ask me like people like us have a choice. I have a family in Zamboanga, trying to push my like here in Metro. Man, screw knowledge and wisdom and all that intangible shit. I have to provide for my wife and kids, and silly words aren’t gonna help me.”

“Are you… happy?”

“Hey, as long as my kids graduate and my woman satisfied, I’m cool.”

Sometimes, I envy the poor. They are lucky in the sense that they do not have time to ask unanswerable questions. They just… live.

“You?” he continues. “Where did asking questions get you?”

I point at myself. “Here.”

I think more than I do. My life has not been a struggle; my mind is. Where did I go wrong? When did this start? Would my family embrace me back if I decided to come back?

Years of effort on suppressing harsh memories prove useless in times like these. They just pour down like the waters in an overloaded dam, and I cannot do anything to stop them.

All my life, I have been striving to be the best version of myself. But every day, the opposite happens. It all went downhill after I graduated college, with me having to conform and do my role as a salaryman. A self-imposed from-riches-to-rags process, if you will. Or was it?

One thing about denying is that the longer it has been going on, the more convincing the lie. Hey, it was not like I did not try; I just have not found my purpose yet. It is this lifetime confusion that brought me from our cozy home in Pasig to the rat-infested alleyways of Ermita. People like Yugo, no matter how odds do not favor them, have the capacity to continue onward. On the other hand, people like me are not yet ready to admit that we, too, are just ordinary people who have to bow down to what the times dictate.

I have no idea what is wrong with me, but I cannot go back even if I wanted to. 

“For the last time,” Yugo says. “Shut the hell up.”

75 Kilometers Later, I Still Can’t See the End of This 25-Kilometer Straight Road

r/NoSleep version

Not once have I failed to visit Grandma on her birthday. Today, no matter how busy I’ve been with work, I’m not about to break this special, intimate tradition that she and I have. For years, nobody in my family has bothered going to her house anymore, saying that **** Province is too far and that they’d visit if they just had enough time. Honestly, I think they’re full of shit. No matter how much they post fancy, “sincere” greetings to her on social media, they simply can’t back it up with their actions.

She is very understanding, but I know that she’s hurting even if she does her best not to show it to me. That’s why despite my stressful, depleting work shift, I've packed up my stuff and set out to drive to her place. As a surprise, I haven’t told her that I’m heading over there.

It’s a 3-hour drive—give or take—from the Metro, and about thirty minutes of the journey will be spent traversing the Road: a narrow, unpaved dirt road that stretches up to 25 kilometers before reaching a T-junction. Three or so kilometers from the start of the right turn is where my grandma’s home stands along with other old, humble bungalows.

The Road doesn’t have an official name. It is actually an uncharted shortcut to the neighborhood where Grandma lives. I had discovered it a year ago, and since then, crossing it has been significantly shaving off my travel time.

Although she would reprimand me every time I told her I had driven there. Assertive in her point, she would always tell me not to go through the Road again for the path was haunted and “alive.” I kept my counterarguments to myself; proving my point just wouldn’t get us anywhere. The fact that I’ve been there for four instances already is proof enough that the road isn’t cursed, or something.

Old people are mostly superstitious to the point of irrationality. If I was in Grandma’s shoes, considering the gap in era and education, I would probably believe in paranormality as well.

That’s not important. I love her, and nothing can change that.

One thing about driving in the middle of a forest is that you have to keep going until you reach your destination. As long as I keep that in mind, I’ll never be a victim of desperate bandits and their traps. If anything, these kinds of outlaws are what I have to worry about, not some spooky ghost.

Fifteen minutes after I exited the expressway, I reach the familiar beginning of the Road. I like to imagine that this passage is actually a path to heaven; the sight is simply hypnotizing during the day. The forest around it is so dense and overgrown that the leaves of the nearest trees overlap with each other above it, as though serving as a natural roof against the sun.

This is my first time to set my wheels on this natural path in the middle of the night. Presently, the Road can’t be described simply because there is nothing for the eyes to describe. It would be pitch black if I were to turn off the headlights. Not even the moonlight can penetrate the leaves that shroud the road from above.

The straight path doesn’t feel ominous nor scary; it just feels lifeless.

With only my headlights illuminating the darkness in front of me, I drive at the speed of a steady 60 km/h, chuckling mockingly as I pass by a limping farmer at some point. I’m not falling for that.

.

.

.

Yawning for the umpteenth time, I grunt as the accumulation of sheer exhaustion kicks in. I should’ve reached the junction already. Whatever. Perhaps it’s just my tired mind perceiving the time imprecisely.

Wait.

It’s that farmer again. With the same straw hat. With the same face towel around his shoulders.

With the exact same limp.

I slow down as I look at the GPS. It says that I’m still at the one-third of the straight road. That’s impossible. The speedometer registers the fact that I’ve just driven for 36 kilometers more.

What the fuck is happening?

My location in the GPS moves as I continue to drive forward. I look at it and at the road simultaneously, making sure that my device isn’t malfunctioning.

.

.

.

I stop as the GPS shows that I’ve reached the end of the Road. But where the fuck is the T-junction? I’m supposed to make a right turn already, but the road just continues straight ahead.

I accelerate forward, trying hard to search for the end where it’s supposed to be. Several meters later, my location restarts at the beginning of the road.

Worse, the speedometer registers that I’m driving for 50 kilometers now. No signal. No internet connection. Nothing but darkness in every direction I look.

I think I’m lost. A sinking, frightening feeling of being trapped and imprisoned in an unexplored place washes over my entire body. There’s no way this is fucking happening.

But I have no choice but to move forward.

61-kilometer mark. I gasp as I make up an outline of the farmer in the distance. This time, he isn’t walking.

He stretches his long arm as though waiting for someone to pick him up. Why do I keep seeing him over and over again? There’s no way I’m driving in circles; this is a straight road, for god’s sake!

Shall I stop? Maybe he knows the way. But Grandma’s incessant reminders prevent me from doing so. Never pass that road ever again. Never trust anyone and anything you see there.

Honestly, I’m starting to think that she’s right because the current bizarreness makes it difficult to prove otherwise. I pass by him once again, seeing him putting down his arm and following me with his gaze. Deathly thin-built, he looks severely malnourished. His cheeks are so deep that he looks like he’s pouting his lips even when he's not.

At this point, I’m more terrified to die than to get robbed. Every ounce of fear invades me all at once as the skeptic in me completely opens up to the frightening ideas, no matter how irrational they are.

75 kilometers later, the junction is still nowhere to be seen. I stop, breathing deeply to compose myself. What do I do? What the fuck do I do!?

I start to cry as I slam the steering wheel and everything else that I touch. The gear shift goes to “Reverse.”

I have an idea that I find stupid the moment it comes into my mind. But I‘m at my wit’s end. If this doesn’t work, then I’ll talk to the farmer the next time I see him. I’d rather take the risk and trust him than be trapped in this darkness for another minute.

I fix my eyes at the rearview mirror as I start to accelerate backwards. The faulty GPS reads my movement as going forward as though I’m still heading for the junction. I scream out of fear and frustration, but a booming trumpet-like sound completely suppresses my voice. To say that it’s coming from a portion of the forest would be incorrect.

The forest itself seems to be screaming.

It’s difficult to set the steering wheel straight. I’m shaking uncontrollably. I just want to get out of here. Please, let me get out!

86-kilometer mark. I’ve noticed that the farmer shows himself for every 11 kilometers of land I cover. But now, I don’t see him neither limping nor hailing for someone to pick him up.

Instead, a car behind me accelerates towards my direction, its headlights slowly getting bigger and brighter.

We’re going to crash.

I furiously honk at the driver, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t plan to stop. Me, too.

Tensing my muscles, I brace myself for the crash. I close my eyes when the car is merely inches away, but the crash never comes.

No, the car phases through me. The same car that I’m currently driving. Is that… me? I stare at it until it is out of sight, utterly confused as to what the fuck is happening here.

97-kilometer mark. The forest becomes noticeably louder as I go back further and further, and I take that as a sign that I must be doing something right. I can’t describe the sound properly, but it seems that it the trees are wailing in resentment and disapproval.

99-kilometer mark. At this point, I’m starting to feel relieved, beginning to feel almost thankful to the amount of mocking statements I had gotten after I bought this fuel-efficient car. I can only shudder in anxiety as I think of the circumstantial alternative—that is, running of out gas in the middle of this road.

Loud footsteps.

Every positivity escapes my body as a figure emerges from the darkness, running faster towards me than I’m accelerating backwards. My heart threatens to burst out of my chest as he smacks the hood, destroying it like it’s a piece of paper.

Oh, my god. It’s that fucking farmer.

The car turns 180 when he slams the left headlight. Luckily for me, my car now faces the direction I’m heading at. He seems to have realized it too; he screams, his voice belonging to that of a blasphemous church choir, with every single tune reverberating through my skull. Flooring the gas pedal, I manage to completely lose him.

I’m wrong.

The roof of my car crumbles in protest as something outside tries to force its way inside.

There. I can see the junction!

But not before the farmer finally puts a hole into the roof. The icy breeze makes me shiver more, and the forest has become more deafening. His disgustingly veined claws, fortunately, cannot reach me. He then forces his head to fit into the small hole, and I completely regret looking at him. His stone cold eyes pierce through my insides, and if looks could kill, then I’m afraid that I might die of extreme shock.

“YOU. BELONG. HERE.”

I plead for my life incoherently as I make the right turn without breaking. Then, silence. I’ve reached the T-junction. No monster. No darkness. Just that familiar asphalt road. Holy shit, I got out!

I desperately want to believe that everything that happened isn’t real, but the damage that my car has sustained and the horrible state of my mind and body make it hard to do so.

No. Please, let this be a dream. Please.

The rest of the drive is uneventful, but I keep remembering every detail of the events that just transpired a couple of minutes ago. I park in front of Grandma’s house and head towards the door, cake in hand. Its yellow box is full of claw marks, mocking me further that everything that just happened is neither the result of an exhausted mind nor a morbid imagination.

This is fucking reality.

She’s quite the comforting sight. I hug her as soon as she opens the door, releasing all the tension and terror I’m feeling. She kisses my cheek as she pats my back. I tell her everything, and she assures me that she perfectly understands everything I went through. The endless straight road. The unsettling darkness. The wailing of the forest. The deadly farmer. The T-junction that had somehow moved itself to the other end of the road. I pinch my arms as hard as I can, but every pain is a reminder that this is actual, physical existence.

“What… what would happen if that monster reached me?” I ask miserably.

“No one has come back to tell the tale. They say everything he touches belongs to him,” she answers matter-of-factly.

YOU. BELONG. HERE.

Somehow, a wave of fear passes through me when I hear her words that are eerily similar to the farmer's. Why do I feel like… she’s mocking me? I did manage to come back. The monster had never reached me. The Grandma I know has never failed to comfort me, but perhaps this is just paranoia.

“I’m so sorry for not listening,” I cry out loud.

She faces me, smiling as she tightens her grip on my shoulders. “No. I’m glad, child.”

Her calling me “child” feels… unfamiliar. I ask her what she meant because the way she responded seemed that she’s happy that I didn’t heed her warnings. No, I have to set my mind straight. Who would scold someone who has suffered enough because of their stupidity? Surely she must be glad that I’ve survived such a horror.

But I’m uncomfortable. I can sense that there’s something terribly wrong, that the Road isn’t finished playing with me yet. Experiencing such trauma, I don’t know what to think anymore.

Grandma has always been happy to see me, but tonight, her happiness seems… exaggerated, almost to the point of ecstasy. Her smile calms me down, but I can’t help but feel that it is somewhat out-of-place.

She shakes her head, her timeworn, wise beam never leaving her face. “Let me clean this up,” she says, pointing at the shallow scratch on my right shoulder that stings when she touches it. “How did you get this?”