Grenade

Grenade by Carla Joanne Robles

Lights were blaring against my eyes and the loud, chaotic noise of the traffic jam drilled my ears. As the jeepneys stood motionless, these little impoverished kids filled the roads, handing out tiny, white envelopes with handwritten notes that barely formed comprehensible words. This one particular boy ran up to the bus that I was on, climbing the stairs. I was surprised at how desperate he looked. When he got up and straightened his posture, he quickly rummaged through his baggy, faded shirt down to his seemingly miracle pocket that was still intact, considering how his small, yellowish pants were torn at the sides and the seams. As he successfully got his hands on the envelope, he mustered a sad glint in his eyes – the same sadness that darkened the land with poverty.

As he held the envelope tight in his hand, he walked up the small platform to the seats up the front of the bus. After what seemed like a minute or so, he gathered his courage and poked the man sitting in front, nibbling on his biscuit that looked too sweet for his age. The man glanced at the kid and shook his head; a small understanding between them. The kid started to turn around to face the seat across the man but he was surprised when the man softly tugged on his large shirt to offer the remaining biscuits. Without thinking twice, he grabbed the small bag of biscuits and munched on them while facing the other seat.

Swallowing the last bite he had, he offered the envelope to a couple of teenagers. The one sitting near the aisle pretended to be asleep while the other one near the window had turned up the volume of her earphones; then again, an understanding was made.

Restlessly facing back then front and walking to the sides, the little boy who held the envelope was still empty-handed. The biscuits the man gave him was long gone, too. Then, he reached my seat.

I was sitting near the door of the bus on the left portion of the seat near the aisle when he handed me his tiny, crumpled, white envelope. Written on the envelope was, "Bless your soul for giving for the deaf."

I looked at the boy who probably thought I was taking too long to give him a response. He stared at me for God knows how long then scratched his head when I just smiled at him. For some selfish reason, I held my bag tightly and turned my head to the opposite side.

Before leaving, he looked at my lap where my bag was safely tucked and looked at me then looked at the bag again. His eyes went cold and beads of sweat formed on his nose. And, yet, he made large strides to the seats at the back to offer his envelope.

A man with thick, round spectacles reached for his wallet at the back of his pants and placed a 50 peso bill in the boy's envelope. After the man gave it to him, he quickly placed it back on his backpocket. But the man looked puzzled. His thick brows arched and he pursed his mouth because the little boy, after passing my seat, had looked scared and panicky.

The next second the boy realized his envelope had been filled with such amount, he quickly ran out of the bus and looked back at me. He stared at me long enough for me to notice his tears running down his cheeks. But then, again, I smiled at him one last time before the bus leaves for the green light.

After the engine started to move, I pulled the pin then dropped it just below my knees.

"The boy saw it on my hand," I thought. Lights were blaring against my eyes and the loud, chaotic noise of the speeding cars drilled my ears. Then, I let it go from my grasp and let it roll down to the back. If I can't get the love of my life to accept me, I'll get him to regret ignoring me.

"A grenade!" The bus went into chaos... BOOM.