𝓕𝓻𝓸𝓶 𝓶𝓮 𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾

My parents passed away 8 years ago.

Back then, I was lazing on my couch watching a cartoon, a superhero one with a man on the screen, costumed in a flamboyant golden cape and a glossy white suit, streaked with golden lightning patterns. He saved people from monsters; he held the power of words. Anything he said would come true, at the cost of losing something important. Every time he won, he suffered, and every time he suffered, he moved forward. As he broke apart, due to his own actions, he was a beacon of light for all. I wanted to be like him, shine brightly for my parents, and turn into a role model for my unborn younger sister. Elena. I had already named her in my mind. In fact, I had imagined a sweet, plump little girl calling me "Brother… Brother…” in a squeaky voice as cute as a baby kitten, following me around wherever I went.

A hero. I wanted to be a hero to her, a guiding light that she could count on anytime of the day, and therefore, just like any other day, I couldn't wait for my parents to return home. I couldn't wait to ask them about her.

Life was wonderful, oh, so very… very wonderful. But then again —

— Life was life, a road with never-ending misery.

On the same day, as I paced across the hallway, a piece of news arrived, turning all my aspirations to dust. It was a simple accident that tore through my soul.

“Baby,” a woman's voice trembled, almost as if she was frightened to say something. She tried to continue speaking, but she couldn't. As she gripped my shoulder firmly, yet with no strength, she tried her best to hold the saltwater in. Pulling me into her embrace, she mumbled, “I am sorry, baby. I am so sorry.” I couldn't understand what she was trying to say. What was happening? Was Mother sick or something? She had been vomiting quite frequently back then. I asked her, and she couldn't hold the salt water in. That day, the top of the backside of my black T-shirt was soaking wet.

She couldn’t tell me the news. She didn't need to. Eventually, I understood.

The next day my head hurt from dehydration, as I slept on the cold pavement of their warm graves, dried tears on my face and below; that is when the woman, my grandmother, picked me up and led me to a cursed home.

I was 11 back then, and today I am 19.

My dull eyes scan a scene similar to the one 8 years ago. Two graves, and now I am all alone. My grandmother had passed away a year ago, and the day before yesterday, my grandfather had visited her as well. I didn't feel anything. My grandfather was trash. I hadn't attended his funeral, nor did I visit him in the hospital; I had wandered around the streets with my friends, smoking and drinking as the old man croaked in the hospital. The old man, whom I called Abba, had lung cancer, the kind that killed him every day. He was a strict disciplinarian whom I had never gotten along with. Do that, do this, why aren't your bed sheets folded, study more, you are a waste, stop acting like a fool, you are not working hard enough, don’t sit on your phone, useless idiot can't do a thing on his own, blah, blah, blah... His complaints were as endless as the ocean. I too, not one to take an insult, would cuss with words that were never to be spoken with family.

Family. Was there anyone left? As I observed a few roses on the top of his grave, my body shook, and I almost lost my balance. I took a deep... deep breath, calming a heaviness within. It didn't work. Something watery started flowing down my face, giving the grass its fill. I tried to rub it off with the sleeve of my white shirt, but the water was never-ending. Why did this fountain of water never stop?

"Goddamnit..."

I hated him. I couldn't cry. Change. Change. Change... He asked me to change, as I wasn't ever enough, as if I were incomplete. I didn't need to change; I was perfect. With this resolution, I refused to cry. Despite his loss, I refused to do so as it would mean that I —

Biting my lips, I moved away from the tree that I had leaned upon. I walked to the metro station, which stood a kilometer away. In minutes, the ticket to my location was booked, and then I sat inside a metro, and before I knew it, the machine had led me to my destination. I soon reached our home, a humble bungalow, as my steps resounded in my ears—a monotonous melody.

When I put the key inside the keyhole, my wrist froze, as if it had been stuck to the metal.

"Roel, what are you scared of?" I questioned myself.

Nothing was the answer. I twisted the key and pushed the door forward.

Dim and silent was the hallway inside. Someone spoke, right at that second, "Why are you so late?" You useless bum! Cigarettes and alchohol? Will you never learn a thing? Look at—" I ignored the voice and walked in, my gaze as straight as an arrow. Old ghosts didn't need to talk.

As I proceeded towards my room, everything was the same as before; of course, everything was... I heard the voice complaints again, which brought an involuntary smile to my face and then a voluntary frown. Something... ached in my chest.

Ignoring it, I moved forward but then—

Stopped. A portrait on the wall in the living room, which I had seen multiple times, caught my eye. From this distance, it looked so tiny and as invisible as a mosquito in the dark, yet it was huge and as visible as the sunlight outside; it held the image of my deceased grandparents and me. They smiled so gently as I stood in between them, like it was their entire world. When had I seen them smile the last time? I didn't want an answer. My fist tightened for just a second before I let go.

But just then, as I was about to take a step, I noticed that there was a very large book, its exterior almost the same color as the wooden table it sat upon. It was thick, its width twice as broad as my forearms. Strange. Had I seen it before? I wasn’t too certain. Regardless, it should not have been there; the sight was slightly surreal, almost like a doll staring at you at midnight, its glassy eyes gleaming for whatever reason. Without wasting a breath, my body moved on its own. As the book turned larger, or rather, as I was closer to it, a memory flashed past my mind—one of my grandfather writing in a book, with a distant gaze. Yes, I remembered—it was his diary; my grandmother had whispered it in my ears when I was caught staring.

Standing before it, my fingers traced across its uneven, wrinkled wooden texture—just like him. There was no point in opening the book, was there? Why would it matter? I opened the book as my hand vibrated, and my breath hastened into an uneven rhythm all of a sudden. The lub-dub sound of my heart resounded in my ears as I read the past 8 years of his life. Grief, burning depression, how he missed them, and an oath to make sure I could blossom in the young man that he thought I could be.

And then —his curse, me, Roel Colorano.

Lonely. Have you ever felt lonely? The kind where you are surrounded yet you are all alone. I have felt it for the 8 years of my life. It is quite strange, like a void within that never fills. You smile, yet you don't; you talk, yet you don't. Anything you do is a facade, and the reason for the facade is unknown, for you don't care about anything, nor do you desire anything, other than being left alone. The contradictory part? You don't want to be left alone and desire anything that will fill you up with warmth... or anything that reduces the void.

Unfortunately, I had a grandfather. He tried to make me smile; I couldn't. He told me to do something about my life; I didn't desire to. I just wanted to sleep.

One day, a senior, one who rarely questioned me about my state unlike others, asked me to bunk school with him, as his usual partner was missing. I obliged; it was tiring trying to listen to a lecture anyway. He led me to an abandoned building where many like us lost souls were smoking and drinking various intoxicants I didn't know a thing about other than the fact that they were intoxicants. I was soon offered a cigarette; they told me it would feel good, relaxing.

That was the day everything, I truly mean everything, changed.

A month had passed by, and a single cigarette had turned to more than a dozen. I had smoked so much in that period that my lips darkened slightly, turning into a light purple. Alcohol, unfortunately, was unaffordable; I desired it, but I couldn't risk my grandfather finding out as he knew the money he had in his pockets. Everything was smoothly sailing back then, no lectures, minimal facade, a cigarette that somehow helped me escape reality.

My exams came by; I failed. My grandfather stormed inside the college, insisting that the teachers hadn't checked properly. They told him he hadn't checked his grandson properly. He learned that my attendance was around 25 percent. And since that day, he truly started complaining.

He stopped my pocket money; I grew desperate. I just needed that beautiful, angelic cigarette. Calm explaining turned into heated arguments, which soon turned into nothing but a rotten relationship. I stole; I begged. I did anything I could for the cigarette, for the money. He slapped me quite a few times, but I didn't care; I knew I would have a roof over my head, and what else did I need?

Time flowed by, with the streets turning into my home and my home turning into a prison. We argued every day, every moment, which turned physical quite a few times. Once, he even had a broken bone; I had dug my elbow into it. My hands trembled back then when I had heard his pained cry, yet I didn't do shit. I vividly remember the wicked smile I had back then, as I told him to die, lying there. As if by magic, my grandmother entered the house right then, looking at my half-dead grandfather and then me, with a horrified expression on her face, as if she could believe it. She shouted, "Roel, speak. Who did this?"

I said nothing; I walked away with my heart constricting all along. Thereafter, every relative, my neighbors, and everybody grew distant from me. My aunt, my father's sister, told me not to show her my face ever again. What a joke? As if I wanted to.

A few days later, when I was drunk, leaning against a concrete wall, my phone buzzed with a notification. My grandfather told me that he was awake and that I should return back home. I threw my phone hard against a wall; the resulting cracked screen I see to date.

I did go back when I was hungry; I tried to stay calm, but his incessant lecture wouldn't stop. Again we fought under my grandmother's disapproving gaze, scowling at me like she had smelled rotten fish.

In such a way, luckily without a physical scuffle, 7 years passed by. And now, I stood beside my grandfather, watching my grandmother's funeral procession. He had forced me to come. Why was I needed anyway? No one in the family and beyond wanted me around. These years had passed by unchanged, and somehow I had cleared my college entrance exams. I wanted to be independent in the future, move away from this place, from this city somewhere far away, unfettered by anything, or rather the only thing—my grandfather.

And it seemed my wish had come true. He had fallen right beside me as he clutched his stomach, growling in pain. I called the hospital; my hands had moved on their own. It turned out, he had lung cancer. At that moment, I remembered my grandmother's face, who had possibly passed away due to a heart attack I had caused. I walked away, toward the bathroom, and emptied my stomach into a pale white sink. I looked at the mirror in front. It revealed dark circles, a hollowed gaze, and tears running down my face.

It was fine. Nothing was wrong. That is when I met my aunt's gaze; she looked at me as if I had caused the lung cancer, her face morphed into such a disgusted, twisted frown, with such intense emotions that tears threatened to drizzle down her eyelids. The bile rose up again. Before I could release it again, I averted my gaze, turned my back, and walked away as my steps had a certain weightlessness. She didn't say a word; at least I heard nothing.

An hour later in my home, the abandoned building, as I smoked and drank, accompanied by my thoughts, a realization struck me, causing me to laugh. It wasn't my fault; they were old anyways; they would have croaked a few months later anyways. I laughed in such a manner for the next year or so, until the old man truly did croak. Not once had I visited him.

The next day, a call arrived on my phone. It was my aunt, begging me to attend the funeral. I told her literally to fuck off. She didn't speak any longer. I wanted her to.

And two days later, I visited their grave.

The pages flipped every second as I tried to find a single mention of his hatred for me. But all that was written was what I hated. My habits, what I liked, what I did every day, the gradual change in me, my deterioration as a person, his regrets, and his hope for me to change. And in between them all, especially towards the second half, were letters addressed to my parents, calling himself useless, begging for their forgiveness for the monster, the villain that I had grown into.

There were at least 100 such letters; it filled half of the book, all written in beautiful cursive handwriting.

Huh? Suddenly, my legs buckled, and I fell to my knees. Why? No, I did nothing wrong, spoke a sweet, angelic voice inside. But as I read his cries on the page, before I knew it, I myself was crying, like a river, so much so that my vision grew blurry. My head was hot, burning; it was on fire, almost as if I were having a fever, my thoughts scattered all over the place.

As memories flashed through my head, I screamed to the heavens above, the place where a man like him would surely have been.

“Abba, I am sorr..y… I am sorry…” I muttered between my hasty breaths.

Yes, it wasn’t that he was too strict, but that I was trash. The only time I was at home was when I wanted to masturbate to release some stress and annoy my abba. I smoked 20 a day, and how could I watch me die?

He knew. He tried to guide me. But I was foolish. I listened to my so-called friends instead, who led me to the worst of places, while growing distant from those who truly loved me. It had all started with a cigarette, which dulled my senses, causing my dopamine receptors to spike, the best solution to my problems back then. The solution had a cost—isolation from everyone, other than those who were isolated themselves.

After all, birds of the same feather flock together.

When my vision cleared, the world was much darker. Perhaps I only created misery for those around me. My resume would have said the same.

I looked below at the book that had fallen to the ground along with me. Its pages had ink smeared all over them, and perhaps only a line or two of each page could be read. Now, nothing remained of my grandfather for me. This was perhaps his final gift, which had been ruined by my own deeds just like always. Yes, I was pathetic, a curse for the world. I've been one for the past 8 years, no… I am sure I have been one since the day I was born. I couldn't even make things easier for my abba, even after he was dead. I wanted him to disappear, and now he truly had.

Silence. I just knelt blankly in the silence. I observed the ceiling fan above; it looked quite attractive. It took a deep... deep breath, almost similar to the one I had taken before; this time it carried a silent resignation within.

But, all of a sudden, I heard a devilish, cruel whisper in my ears. "Useless fool, can you not even try your best?"

As the voice resounded over and over again in my head, I looked back at the book. In a trance-like state, I reached out towards it, soon flipping through its soggy pages in the darkness. Some pages merged, others crumpled, yet the page kept turning, searching for something that I didn't know. And then, in this very darkness, I could see a single page that stood alone, yet surrounded. It was the last page, not soggy nor smeared with ink, with clear words and alphabets flowing through it. My left hand traveled to my pocket, slipping my phone out with unknown dexterity, while my right kept the god-sent page as far as it could from the rest of the soggy pages. I turned the torch on, then I placed it on the ground, with its back pointing upwards.

When I brought the book to the floor, in the dim lighting, I don't think I ever have or ever would be so focused. The letter, written in the most beautiful, elegant cursive writing I had seen, spoke in my ears in words.

Title - {To Roel}

{Roel, this is my final letter. I hope it does reach you. I can see the end of my road and your bright road ahead.

Perhaps it is my fault, the way I tried to bring you up. The strictness, constantly repeating the same words, was annoying, wasn't it? I could tell it, but I didn't change my ways, for I didn't know any better. Forgive me, I have only done what I thought to be the best, but alas, I was wrong; I could never fill the void left by your parents. I could never replace them.

Do you remember those days when we used to watch that cartoon? The one with that superhero, the golden cape, whom you desired to be? Oh, the smiles back then. Grandpa, I want to be like him. I want to fly. I want to punch bad people. Haha… I carried you on my shoulder as I ran and ran, accompanied by your unending chuckles. How I miss those merry days. How I miss the golden boy you were, with an unending smile on your face. A smile that I have never once seen under my care.

Roel, your deterioration... it was a never-ending curse for both you and me. It was a curse for the world itself.

I would never allow it to take root if I were to travel back to the past. I would never allow your joyous laughter to stop ever again. I would save your parents, no matter the cost. And I would hope that I could be a good grandfather then. But right now, above all, I hope you live a fulfilled life, the way you desire it, the way your heart wants. I now realize, as I look at the kids running below, with never-ending laughter, that your happiness is all I desire. All that I had ever desired.

I know you will regret not spending your last moments with me. You most likely won't visit my funeral. And I know deeply you will regret it, for you are a piece of my soul. It is fine; it is okay. These words won't solve the regret. But you will get through it, for you are my grandson. Roel, remember the past is the past; it is as true as it is widely used.

A hero? Isn't that what you wanted to be? I believe you can. You have always been one in my heart.

Sigh, I feel tired right now. I haven't slept in the last few days due to your stupid childish antics. And as much as I regret it, the letter must come to an end.

This is my heart, Roel. From me to you.

Lovingly,

Your grandfather,

Joel Colorano.}

As I closed the diary, uncaring for whether it was soggy and wet, my eyes closed shut, tears traveling down my face like a river with many tributaries washing off the ink of the last page. My heart thudded loud enough for me to hear as I thought deeply about my grandfather's words. I thought about them for what felt like days, perhaps even a month, but the truth was that it was just the next morning, a fact proven by the sunlight that drizzled in through the windows. This light hit my eyelids, causing me to wake up from the darkness. It was then that my opened with a blaze.

Change. I needed to change. How many people actually change? To me, it appeared to be a hard task, like a slippery mountain to climb. First of all, I needed to repair the bond with my aunt—the last member I had of my broken family. Perhaps I was crazy... it didn't matter. I barged directly into her house, knocking repeatedly against the door; I knelt on the ground with my head touching the floor. She told me to get up, and when I did, she slapped me hard enough for my cheeks to have a temporary tattoo, followed by cussing at me to go away. I did. The next day, I tried again; she almost called the police. I had to promise her never to come back again. Suprising myself, a few days later, I tried once more, and she slapped me again; this time, a little weaker than before. I tried and tried; every slap was a form of penance, the gravity of my sins settling in. I wondered how I could ever make up for all of this. The answer was a simple nothing, you fool. But, regardless, I tried; what was there to lose anyways? It was the only thing that made me feel like a human; perhaps one could call it purpose.

Meanwhile, I ate like a human rather than a pig who survived on a bag of chips. Now that I think about it, isn't it strange that I don't have a belly? Do I have a condition or something? Regardless, boiling six eggs every day and eating two every meal had turned into a constant. I tried making other dishes and realized that I would forever despise cooking. Alas, I had no option but to taste the subpar creation made by my own unflavorful hands.

Smoking. I tried to stop smoking as well, but I couldn’t—it was a part of my identity now; instead, I focused on the reduction of a single cigarette every week. Relapse, this cruel, treacherous thing, begged its own owner to destroy himself. Fortunately, the owner had a sudden burst of self-control the moment before the betrayal could take place. I was proud of myself. When was the last time I had this feeling? But then again, why did it matter?

I didn’t distance myself from my so-called friends; strangely, something inside me wouldn’t allow me to do so, but even more strangely, they turned out to no longer be so-called friends, at least some of them. As I grew closer to them, I learned that many of them had a past—broken families, domestic violence, hatred between child and parent, and trust issues due to various reasons. It was all so strange to me; perhaps I, too, had been a so-called friend. I apologized; they said nothing but rather smiled, the exact kind I would have if they ever apologized to me. Eventually, we formed a friend group and traveled in our free time, enjoying and discovering the world with a sense of fulfillment. Is this what the Greeks called Phillia?

Trying my best, persevering with all my heart, fixing myself, and then broken relationships turned out to be quite satisfying. It felt like I was living; perhaps this is what living meant—moving with a sense of purpose. The days turned into nights and the nights into days, and in such a way, time flew by as easily as the wind.

Inhaling the fresh grassy scent of the floor, I stood straight and tall, leaning against a beautiful tree. I observed the grave of my parents ahead; I had refurbished it, choosing a glossy black stone, quite suited to my taste. A few hours prior, I had visited my grandparents before, just like I had done for the past 3 years. Right now, I could see a flickering silhouette of my past self, sleeping on my parents' grave. Dried tears and snot covered his face as he was curled into a fetal position searching for their warmth. Back then, the grave was his warmth.

I spoke to him in my head, with a gentle smile painting my face, “Roel Colorano, of the past, this chapter is a letter from me to you. Life is life, and it may be cruel to you. But life is beautiful as well. Walk ahead, with your head held up high, always trying your best, always striving for the best. Stomp on the words "giving up," for giving up doesn't exist. For you, young Roel Colorano, and me, are the same."

As I observed the flowers below the boys' disappearing visage, an idea bubbled up in my head. I took a picture of the grave and sent it to my aunt. I was sure she would be happy.

Then I stretched my hands above my head as I thought about the day ahead. It would surely be exhausting, yet it would carry a sense of contentment. And so, moving away from my favorite tree, whose species I still didn't know of, I marched towards my future, hoping to be a hero—one greater than my grandfather. I chuckled. The child in me was still alive, more golden than ever before.