F.P. POV Story

The icy breeze keeps blowing my hair. I can feel the coldness it renders as it kisses my skin, causing the hairs in it to slightly rise. How long have I been here really? Two weeks? Three Weeks? I didn’t even take
hold of the date.

I gently and slowly slide my hands in the metal handle. Even the metallic surface cannot deny the chill from the ambiance. My eyes rolled into its rubber wheels, moving back and forth and observing how the entire thing works out.

“Maybe it’s better.” I sighed deeply as my wheelchair sits idle on the infirmary’s park. Its okay, I guess. Maybe it’s just fine to have these wheels as my feet, rather than be isolated inside those claustrophobic doors.

The wind kept blowing and I noticed the yellow daffodils, being partly swept by the gust. If not for the sturdy stem, it would have probably been blown away. The sounds of the birds chirping. The sky partly cloudy and blue. The quietness and stillness of the waters in the pond. Such a peaceful day.

I pushed the wheels into the right direction, cherishing each scenery the outside gives. At this side of the Hospital lies the playground. The sound of the hinges of the seesaw. The squeaks from the swing. The children running…

I noticed a group of young boys running – chasing each other probably – while bursting out of laughter. There is something with their smiles. Something different I can’t explain. Was it because of the innocence they have? But then, I am surprised. I found my lips a smile.

From a distance, I can see the façade of the building painted white and green on its concrete walls. These walls- known to heal and give hope to people- have trapped me into an endless despair I cannot escape. I have no choice.

At the same direction, I can vaguely see an image of a woman walking, going to the same place where I am. As the space between us decreases, I start to see her clearly. Orange-short hair and yellow eyes, emphasized more by the bandage in her forehead. Slender body, I think. With not so high, or small in stature.

She manages to walk gracefully to my direction. Right then, I thought she would be just passing by, but it has been a surprise for me to see her stop and sit at the bench beside the exact position of my wheelchair.

I tried to evade her eyes- and her body as well- as best as I could. There are times I could catch a glimpse of her. I can see her eyes being preoccupied by the children dancing in the playground in front of us.

Suddenly, a powerful gust of wind blew from an opposite direction caught us. Forcing the both of us turn our heads to the left, preventing the chill and dust it would inflict.

As soon as the wind settles down, I try to fix my hair. But the moment I tilted my head, there she is. Our eyes finally met. Just by then, I realized the rim of the colors. The shades of oranges and yellows in her bright, sparkling eyes. Sunset. I think.

Our eyes are glued to each other for a second, but I had a quick grip of myself and managed to smile. A smile creeps onto her lips and a sweet face of a southern sweet girl was revealed.

“Hi! My name is Peter. What’s yours?” I introduced in a very decent manner.

“Hello! I’m Penelope. Nice to meet you.” While tilting her head, exposing her smooth-straight hair.

“Penel… hahaha.” I burst into a small sound of laughter comparable to a giggle. I don’t know why. The name reminds me of the cook I have never seen before in the Hospital Canteen.

“What’s the matter?” She asked curiously.

“Nothing really. I just remember the old chef in the Canteen Yelling that same name.” I paused with a grimly smile, and then mimic the chef. “Penelope! Penelope! Wash the grease or I’ll wash your face with it!” I almost shouted as I did my best to imitate the old woman’s voice.

“Yeah. That’s my grandma.”

“Oh! Haha! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“No. I’m fine.” I was cut off by her appealing voice. I don’t know if she was offended or she just totally ignored. And I’m betting on the latter.

Then, a moment of silence resounds. The chirping of the birds dominated our ears. Their tweets are so harmonious, as if they were singing a piece of a classical song. I wanted to hear more from them, but Penelope was bold enough to break the silence.

“So, how long have you been here?” She asked intently. She probably noticed that I’m glued to my wheelchair. No feet. No legs. She could be pitiful for my situation, but I focused to her question.

“Not that long. I was carried here like a couple of weeks ago?? Guess I’m pretty fast in recovering, they say.” I replied in my most humble tone.

“How about you? How long have you been here?” I asked.

“Oh… Who would have known…” She burst into total disgust. “I was born here.”

“Really? “

“Yeah. I’ve seen it all. From handicapped grannies, children were gasping and clinging to life, people bleeding to death, to families grieving.”

I came to a fact that this girl right beside me can be fully aware of the solitude I am feeling right now. Most likely, there is nothing to be ashamed of, since she said that she has seen it all.

“So, what made you come here?” She asked.

“Naahh. Just a stupid van barely managed t control his wheels, and accidentally bumped into mine… ” I replied in a quiet voice, expressing my melancholy of losing both legs.

“Oh.. I’m sorry.. .but,” She paused. “But I think you handle things pretty well. Not like the Bastard drunkards I have seen who lost their fingers and came out of rage.”

“Maybe… I’m just keeping all the pain inside.” I exposed to her honestly. “You know it’s hard to lose something you stand with. Damn. I can no longer drive.” I sigh deeply, expressing my disgust on a comedic manner.

“And what were you driving?” Asked her lightly, trying to cheer me up.

“Harley Davidson Sportster. Fifty-five Horsepower. One thousand C.C. High Compression!” I imitate the voice of the man advertising cars.

“Oh.” She reacted in amusement.

“Smashed!” I shouted. “Inside of a milk van. I was driving, real smooth. And then came here the Milk Van and his drunken driver, and…” I paused. “Boom!” I exclaim at my loudest. “My legs are gone.”

Our bitter-smiles are so noticeable. Right then, I can feel her senses. As if imagining the things I narrated. I can almost see the images of the accident reflecting on her very eyes. We both pause for a quick break. Thinking of what to say. Thinking of other topics to talk about.

“Uhmm.. Penelope, right? How can I address you shorter?” I asked- with a guilty smile. I can’t help but to remember what happened earlier. What a shame…

“You can call me Nel.” She smiled.

“So.. uhmm.. You’ve been living here huh? Did you ever get to go out? Study? Or some sort, to do something else?” I asked to keep the conversation going.

“Oh yeah. I took education. Secondary education to be exact. Probably, you expect me to take nursing or medicine or care giving, aren’t you?” She accused in a very charming expression I can’t help to smile at.

“Haha. I… I do. You live here. There’s a lot of opportunities for nursing students here, I guess. It’s a pretty good course. Why not take it?”

“I don’t know. I just… I just feel like I’m guarded. Like I’m a bird inside a cage. I wanted to go somewhere. To someday inspire, and to be inspired as well. And my love for children fueled my dreams.”

We both looked at a small girl picking flowers. Her last words are hard to absorb, then its whole weigh fell upon me. We are the same…

I turned my head to her. Her eyes, deadlocked. As if in daydreaming. It must be, probably about teaching…

“So, what subjects you wanna teach?”

“English. Literature. Language... I don’t know. Maybe anything about that field.” She said with a tender smile.
“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I used to write poems before!” I said as my interest bursts up.

“Really? Good! I wouldn’t mind if you would share some…” She said. A bit teasing. A bit charming. She’s cute.

“Oh no… that was like a couple of years before! I don’t-” I was cut off. Again.

“No! You would share one!” Then smiled, putting her hands to my cheeks, then pinching them. “Please!” As she squeezes my gums. Painful. Delightful.

“Okay! Okay!Fine!” Brushing away her hands, leaving a fingermark on my cheeks, causing it to swell, turning red, “Here we go.” Then I started to articulate the poem from Neoro~n …





As I end the poem, another gust of wind blew, keeping our hairs aloft. The wind suddenly settled down, and we faced each other.

“That was good.” She said.

“You know Nel, you should have been our teacher…

She smiled. And we sit here, talking briefly as the coldness of the wind kisses our face…

NOTE: I know, it had a lot of grammatical errors... at least I tried =)

I opened my eyes in full circle, and found myself screaming to hell again. I am always consumed by these frantic nightmares every night. The sweat starts to slide down my face, my heart pounds - as if exploding inside my chest. It has been 8 years since these dark dreams greet me.

When I sleep, I found myself running to an endless space. Pitch Black. That's all in the place. I kept moving and moving, though. Even if there is no one chasing. Nothing to run for. The urge of running has a good grip on me. I ran fast, on overdrive, only to find myself stuck on the same ground.

At the moment, a ball of light sits from above. A piece of light. A piece of hope. I want to take it. I raised my arms, reaching for it. I'm taking turns in running and jumping as the light moves away, too. I fasten my pace, but as the speed keeps increasing, the least the distance, the dimmer it gets. The moment I can touch it, the light is as cold as dead.

Then, all of a sudden, in a blink of an eye, everything turns to blood. The sound of the screams and cries and bombs alter in my ears, as the blood sways in the droplet of my tears. I kneeled down, hands covering my ears, screaming. I closed my eyes tight shut. Afraid of seeing the gross blood again. I want this nightmare to stop! Please! Anybody! The smell of rotten body ventures in my nose. The grief of people wailing. Somebody! Help! Help me!

Suddenly, the mood changes again. Now, a deafening silence. A moment of relief captures me. That I am now in peace and in calmness again. Did anyone hear my cry? My muscle relaxes. I put my hands down. I gradually and slowly open my eyes, expecting things are over. There, I saw the pure whiteness of the place. The eternal brightness. From a distance, I vaguely saw an image of a man.


Tall and fit. I rub my eyes in disbelief. My legs are moving on their own, going to his direction. Through the light, I can see his face, his smile. A tear starts to fall again. My father. My best friend. The one I loved the most. The one I cried for every night for his lost. The one that left me eight years ago, grieving. Oh how I long for him. How I wished this day would come. The day I could see him again.

To play chess with him again. Talk about girls, or how Mother badly cooked the fish. To tug with him for the remote control. To watch Jordan shoot for the win in basketball. A few steps more, I'm face to face with him. His smile- while I sob badly because of my cry- is relaxing. "Papa, I love y-"

Then all of a sudden, my body starts to fall out of nowhere, as if falling in a cliff. I tried to scream once, but no sound escapes me. My hands and feet are free, searching for something to hold on to. Nothing. There is nothing. I cried to God or to whoever people believes in, but these won't stop until I'm dead.

Tears starts falling instead of sweat. I hate this; my hands are shaking as I try to breathe deeply to calm myself. Instead, I found myself crying even more. I don't know. Every night, I found myself curled up on bend, mourning for my father's death. That I fear of closing my eyes and meet those nightmares again, only to find that there is no relief in opening them. That there is no hope in it. Because every time I think of it, I'm shouting for my father's name again. Begging for him to come back. But there is no one coming back...

How long has it been really? 8 Years... I try to accept the fact that he is gone. But the memories are as fresh as blood. And nightmares have their ways to sink in me.

I prop myself with one elbow, there is enough light to see the whole room. I can see her.
My mother. I can vaguely see her through my tearful eyes. In sleep, she looks younger, still worn but not so beaten down. My mother was very beautiful once. Or so they tell me. If not for the fire that burned half of her precious skin. Her golden-blonde hair is outstanding, though. That's what my father liked about her the most. The veary patient, charming, understanding girl he loved. That's what he told me. My mother loved my father so deeply before. I try to remember all of that, well in fact, all I can see now is a woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while I scream out to death every night. The woman I dear once, now uncaring, ignorant, and dysfunctional. I try to forgive her for my father's sake. But to be honest, I am not the forgiving type.

I let myself rest for a while- my body fell free to the soft bed- but I don't dare close my eyes. I stare at the old ceiling. I remember the light in my dream. The unreachable one. It's like the ceiling. You can see it's there. I can almost feel it. As if it is an inch away. But the moment you lift your hands, you'll know it's unattainable. That there is no hope in trying. Like stars. Like dreams. Like father.

I remembered when my father used to clean the ceiling. Well, obviously, it’s a pretty rare case to see your father standing on a chair and scrub the ceiling. Of course, my father never wanted to do that, but my mom told him to do it. What a stupid slave, I thought of him with a slice of sarcasm.

My father loved my mother so much. That is why he always ends up going in desperate measures just to prove his passion for her. Doing the laundry. Washing the plates. Sweeping the entire house. He does that all the time, and my mom? She sits on the couch and watches her favorite soap opera.

My eyes rolled for the ceiling again. I can visualize my father using the bubbly cleaner then scrub the dirty-white thing.

“You know pop, you don’t have to do that!” I yelled.

“Why? Because it’s funny to see me brushing the ceiling?” He said while irritatingly pushed his best efforts in striking the brush.

“Well, sort of. But you know, ceilings are not meant to be scrubbed.” I informed him with a little mock.

“Just… shut up.” He said. Embarrassed.

“Hey Jude! The plates won’t clean themselves! ” My mom shouted out of nowhere.

“Urghh.. Yes! I’m coming!”My father replied back.

I can’t help myself but to laugh. No. Literally blow myself out of laughter. The two of them are so hilarious together. So happy and jolly. But those memories are now just a piece of the past.

My eyes are trained on the ceiling. Oh how I wish my father would come to scrub them again. Or on how would mom treat her like a pet. For those days to come back so that after my dad end his homework for mom, we would order double size pizza and watch Oprah. I missed them so much.

It’s so difficult to stand on your own after losing the foundation that makes you stand. That makes you smile, and continue life. Tear starts to form in the corner of my eyes.

At the corner of the room, lies there waiting for me. Mom will follow soon, I bet that for a buck. I sigh in happiness. In the joy of meeting my father again. In the relief of escaping this disastrous life. I wipe my tears and smiled.

“Soon, father, soon”. I whisper as my eyes stare on the rope hanging in the ceiling…