FLASH FICTION
A Trip in the Park Hannah Marie Olanda
I tapped my fingers against the cold, rusty metal of a swing I almost outgrew. I went here as a child to swing endlessly and play merry go round until I was having double-visions. Being dizzy was my escape, now I come here to taste some fragments of my childhood. The park was abandoned and decaying. It stopped being a place for happy when I turned nine and no longer a child. I reminisce more. Being sad gets me throughout the day. Growing old, I often visit her to share our loneliness. I think we both want to become sentimental souls. It was almost August, the start of school. All I have in my pocket is a smooth stone and at least a four commemorative 5 peso coins my father used to keep. They will probably pay a one-way fare to school. My family is in jail. My mother for not paying the lending company for six months. She had a debt of five thousand three hundred twenty-five pesos. My father punched a barangay captain who said some really malicious things to me. Our cap’s argument? He was drunk. Drunk people with a crown over their heads can get away with anything. Only my drunkard brother is with me and I cannot find him at day, much less than at night. I asked him once, he replied, “Not your business. At least, I’m doing something to get my parents out.” My reverie was interrupted when I heard voices coming from a big Acacia tree a few feet away from me. My mother used to tell me the tree trapped disobedient children. I was not an observer, but I heard voices. No one can really cover the ears. “Quiet,” a voice rasped. It’s coming from the tree. I heard loud grunts and moans. I blushed, knowing I should go. I didn’t want to be named as a maniac for staying and listening. So I stood, the swing creaking. So much for solitude. The walk home was silent and cold. I couldn’t take the sounds off my mind. Before I crossed the unsecured gate of our house, my brother came out of nowhere. He perfectly stood under the streetlamp’s spotlight, revealing all of him. His hair disheveled, cheeks and neck flustered, eyes bright and red. Tiny beads of sweat were visible on his forehead. What did you do? I wanted to ask, but did not dare to. “What?” He glared, fishing something out of his pocket. “Here. Take it.” He thrusted a small brown envelope in my hand. “What is it for?” My brother shrugged. “Go. Enroll, shop, I don’t care.” He lit a cigarette and told me to scram. I opened the envelope. Cash, there’s cash. And a note in a scrawny handwriting. Definitely not my brother’s. I can’t get enough, can you?
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