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