5 pulis sangkot sa pagpatay sa estudyante ng UPLB — Pahina 3 Philippine Collegian Opisyal na lingguhang pahayagan ng mga mag-aaral ng Unibersidad ng Pilipinas - Diliman 15 Marso 2012 Taon 89, Blg. 30
End of the road Terminal Cases Delfin Mercado
Y
Crude gestures Lathalain
Artwork by Marianne Rios
8
our bag was bulky, and it completely filled the space separating you from the backside of the chair in front. We were at the third row, and you asked to sit by the window side. I obliged; I didn’t want your bag to trap me in my seat during the 4-hour bus ride. The trip was your idea. You even bought the tickets in advance, so that you could eliminate one of my potential excuses to refuse you. You know I don’t have the money for a surprise visit to the North. I had already emptied my ATM account weeks before, and you even lent me money to help me last the rest of the semester. I should have known my debt would haunt me—you were quick to cite ‘return of investment’ when you asked me to accompany you on this particular trip. We have known each other for a long time, so it was easy for me to detect your anxiety. You were troubled, excited, and pensive in the days leading to our sojourn. And during the first hour on board, you kept on trying to engage me in conversation, displaying interest in things that originally repelled your interest. How’s acads? What happened to that mutual friend of ours who got pregnant? What’s on TV right now? I answered each of your question, pondering what was going through your mind. You’re tense, I remarked during the short cigarette break on the way. You puffed on your stick, and rubbed your eyes. Smoke and lack of sleep, you told me. I knew, and I’m sure you did too, that it was something else. These past few months, I observed deep changes in you—your gait, your appearance, your disposition. You were never one to reveal your thoughts, but it was obvious nevertheless. The rare times we bumped at AS, you always wore that wary smile, as if you feared I knew what was happening with you. You were right. I knew. I heard about your plans, from people close to you and people I barely knew. This is how the news about you spread— in whispers, in discreet messages on Facebook, in letters that passed from hand to hand. One of them got passed to me. It was against protocol—reading somebody else’s letter—but how could I resist? I sensed it before, when you told me about your first march on the streets, that one time you were coerced to join by someone you were flirting with. The next time you joined a rally, you were holding banners and flags, while I scribbled notes for an article my editor asked me to submit that night. You napped a little during the ride. You woke up seconds before the bus pulled to a stop. This is the last stop, our stop, you said. But it was only yours, for days later, I returned to the Collegian office, submitted my last column, which I knew, from the day you asked me to join you on a certain trip, would be about you. You have chosen your path, and here I am, still searching for mine. ●
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