Dear Z,

Dear Z,

There was this New Year's eve when I was down with a flu. I was in 5th grade elementary, if I remember it correctly. Everyone was up and about, jumping and frolicking outside the house except me. They were all in their polka-dotted wardrobe with coins noisily jiggling inside their pockets.

Meanwhile, upstairs, I was under the bed covers, sniffing and coughing. At the strike of midnight, mom came up to my room and did her best 'let's-celebrate-the-new-year-even-though-you're-sick' merriment. She even encouraged me to jump, something old folks encourage you to do at the changing of the year. They say one will increase height because of it.

I got well soon enough after the New Year's celebrations and just in time when the school started again. At the first night after getting back to school. Mom asked me to go outside. Turns out everyone have already some sort of firework in their hands and ready to light up. It was a post-New Year, New Year celebration. I had my own, too. We lighted everything and acted as if it were still December 31st and it was just seconds into January 1. We also had a fountain firework.

She let me experience the new year celebrations after all. Mom was like that doing all sorts of things that even though you don't think is really of any consequence, it is. She's thoughtful like that.

Last night, when the year changed, all I did was utter a simple "Happy New Year," sadly, to myself. I asked myself, 'was that that?' It's very pathetic. I sometimes think I will get used to living alone and celebrating, or not, such holidays but I guess I never really took to that. Last year, I have decided to be happy and celebrate Christmas and the New Year. That went up in flames, obviously. I think I'll opt out again this year. These holidays, they're really nothing without the people who have shown you what being happy is.

Best,

A

Dear Z,

Dear Z,

It has been two years. Can you believe it? It has been two years and I am still here, wounds gaping. I don't think anyone I know--my closest friends, my aunt, my uncle, my cousins--know the gravity of the incident as I do. I still want to be angry at my relatives who have orchestrated the incident. I want to. But when you grow old, you get tired of these things. But I don't know if I want to forgive them because I want to stop hurting inside or because I just really do have to move on.

Something like that, it does not go lightly. Here in the Philippines, where people in high ranks sometimes toy with their power to manipulate small men, justice seems a pigment of one's active imagination. I want justice. I have been wronged. I have been broken. It should not have happened to me. I do not deserve it.

I have moved to the neighboring town to flee from the control and manipulations of my Machiavellian relatives. Two years of peace. I hope this continues. Because if this does not, I guess being overseas isn't such a bad thing.

Late night noises. Unknown people standing at my gate. Even the town officials. All of them cause anxiety. If I had my way, I'd take that incident out from my head. I just want to be normal again. But truth be told, I don't think my heart can ever muster forgiving my mother's cousin--my aunt--and her baby daddy--a policeman--from orchestrating that incident.

It has been two years since that policeman harassed me and illegally searched me, my belongings, and my house... and I have changed since--for the worst.

Regards,

A