Good Friday

By R.A.B.

The water was already boiling when I dropped the three packets of instant noodles I was going to have for breakfast in the pot. It was a Good Friday and, because I was a Catholic in a pre-dominantly Catholic country, I was obliged not to eat meat of any kind except for fish until Black Saturday. I hated the Holy Week; they always keep me off my regular diet. I dropped-off the noodles into the pot, emptied the sachets of artificial flavoring into it as well, stirred the mixture a little bit and lowered the fire of the stove before putting the lid back on. It would be done in 3 minutes or so, I thought.

Radiohead’s Fake Plastic Trees was playing on the component melodically as I felt the sweat dripping off my face from the heat emitted by the stove and the pot. It felt like a wet, slimy slug was crawling on my face. I wiped the sweat off with the apron I was wearing and took out four eggs from the fridge.

“Igan!” I heard my mother’s voice calling my name.

“Yes?”

“What are you cooking?”

“Noodles.”

“For the two of us?”

“Yes,”

“Good.”

At first, I planned on having the noodles only for myself but, now that mother wanted to eat some too, I took out another two packets of it from the cabinet and put it into the pot together with the four pieces of eggs I scrambled a while ago, minced Oregano leaves and sesame oil.

“Mmm, that sure smells good, Isagani—just like what I used to make,” my sister said as she suddenly appeared from nowhere. Her head stooped in front of the pot as she whipped a smell on what I was cooking, her shoulder-length hair hanging almost near the steaming soup.

“Do you want some?” I asked, taking off the apron and shutting off the valve on the LPG tank. The fire on the stove died a few seconds later—it is, what I was thought, to be the safest way of shutting-off the stove.

“Nah.”

She smiled at me—a sight that I would always welcome every time.

·

“Mmm, this is great, son,” my mother said as she slurped hungrily on her noodle soup. “Kind of reminds me of what your sister used to make.”

“Yeah. I got the recipe from her,” I said, blowing on the steaming soup on my spoon before gulping it in, I could feel the warmth of the soup passing through my throat and down to my belly.

“I see. I miss her,” she said.

“Me too.”

We ate quietly after that. It would be two years this May since my elder sister died.

·

I washed the dishes before going out. I wanted to stay in the house and read Murakami’s Norwegian Wood all day but somehow I found it too good of a day to read a depressing Murakami novel no matter how excellently written it is.

The sun was shining from above, the sky was crystal-clear and I could clearly see the lush green grass outside the house, swaying, as a slight, cool breeze blew over them, birds chirping a tune that seemed like a melodic Ska piece. I hurried up with my Dishwashing. I couldn’t wait to take a nap. When I’m done with all these, I’m going to find myself a huge, shady tree outdoors, take a nap under it and feel the wind brush lightly on my face like a masseuse’s hand gently trailing every nerve on a body, leaving behind a relaxing sensation. I just couldn’t wait.

I was careful not to break the dishes as I washed them rapidly. I’ve broken too many plates already before and it is quite a headache eating on new plates every now and then. It feels like your sense of familiarity gets thrown off—one time you’re already getting comfortable eating on this plate, the next thing you know you’ve broken it and eating on a new one. I always feel like a playboy when that happens—it’s like changing girlfriends here and there almost every week, which is both expensive and high-maintenance. It’s just not right for me. I cleaned them out, and left them to dry on the dish holder before setting out. Thank god nothing was chipped or cracked.

I decided to call Carlo, a friend of mine, to accompany me to the fields. Again, I changed my mind as I washed the dishes. I realized even further that it is too good of a day for me to spend sleeping under a big old tree. I guess I should go out and play basketball or something with somebody to work-off some sweat. The sun’s not that hot anyway and I feel all pumped-up and ready all of a sudden to do anything physically demanding

I made up my mind. I’m calling Carlo and asking him to play basketball with me. He won’t be able to resist—he’s been itching to beat me since he’d lost three in a row against me and a total of 150 pesos in wager between those games. The way I’m feeling I don’t think that streak’s going to end.

·

I went to the store first to buy some cigarettes before I call Carlo. I’m hopelessly hooked on it. That soothing feeling you feel every time you take in smoke, hold it for a while inside you and then release it like a long anticipated orgasm is just awesome. God, I won’t be able to live without cigarettes I tell you. I would surely be the first guy to leap on a motorcycle packed with C4 and drive it off straight to the heart of the Malacañang Palace if ever the government decided to ban it. Of course smoking is never healthy for the lungs but I guess I’d rather die doing what I want to do—at least regrets won’t follow suit that much minutes before your death saying you haven’t done this and that.

“Hello Igan,” said Dona, the storeowner’s daughter, from beyond the counter. She was tending the store and was wearing a wickedly sexy, green spaghetti-strap. She smiled at me, her chinky eyes appearing as if they were shut as I stared at her beautiful, round face.

“Hi. Great day isn’t it?”

“Yep. My laundry out back is drying up pretty fast. It’s really a good day.”

“Glad to hear that,” I said. I usually don’t bother for small talks like this but I love looking at her. She was the kind of girl you’d marry if you’re looking for the girl-next-door type: sweet, naïve, attractive and is quite gifted up front. Too bad I’m not the type to go after her. Still, I loved looking at her lovely face.

“So, Marlboro lights again?” she asked. She knew that the only thing I buy from their store is cigarette.

“Yep, a pack please.”

“Ok,” she said as she took out a pack of Marlboro Lights from underneath the counter. I tried to sneak a peek on her breasts as she stooped down. She was wearing pink, lacy bras.

“That would be 30 pesos,” she said.

I handed her thirty pesos, gave her my thanks (more for the “sneak peek” rather than for the cigarettes) and off I went to Carlo’s house.

·

“Naughty boy, you turned out to be,” my sister said as she bounced gleefully beside me while floating on air.

“Nah. I’m just growing up like any other normal Heterosexual male out there. I even sneaked peeks at your breasts when you were still alive, you know,” I said, a naughty grin forming on my face.

“Meh. I’m not that gifted. I had childish breasts,” she said, riding on my hormone-driven talk. “You could hardly see any mounds up here.”

“They’re fine. I like your body. You’re quite sexy you know and very beautiful.”

“Really?”

“Really. I don’t lie when it comes to things like that,” I assured her.

“Thanks then, I guess—in a weird sort of way.”

·

I meant every word I said. My sister would have hit me with a broom or something really hard and painful if I talked to her like that while she was still of this world. She was never this loose and friendly when she was still flesh and blood. In fact, she was quite the opposite of what she was then compared to now. Becca (that’s her name) was quite melancholic and uptight when she was alive. She would always lock herself up in her room at night, listening to Joy Division and Ian Curtis’ heavy downer songs with lights turned off. She would then stay in the middle of this darkness and lay down on her bed; still and quiet like a desiccated corpse, which the sight of brings nothing more than melancholia. No amount of comfort could ever bring her out of that.

I would often catch her sobbing in that darkness when I go up to her room to call her out for dinner. It drew me in like a mouse seeing cheese lying on a mousetrap. It drew me in and wrecked me. Up to this day I still can’t put into words the sadness that I felt every time I saw her like that. It was like sitting in the middle of Antartica, where you could feel nothing but coldness and see nothing but darkness, slowly engulfing you until the day comes that the cold takes your life away. I’m the loneliest man on Earth every time I see my sister like that. All I could do then was hold her in my arms as she cried in the dark. Both of us would sit in the darkness of her room, Becca crying on my chest while I held her in my arms. We would be like that for thirty minutes or so until she calmed down and was ready to eat dinner.

She started behaving like that ever since my father died in a car crash when I was 14 and she was 16. They have always shared a special bond together. She was the ultimate Papa’s girl and even Mom, at times, got amazed at how close they were to each other—Becca couldn’t even sleep alone in the dark without dad until the age of 14 and dad gave her almost everything she asked of him.

After dad died, she would go on sitting in the dark and cry like that until my first year in college. After which shortly she stopped going out of the house altogether for months. My mother got extremely worried by that time; Becca already dropped out of school, seldom ate and stared at the window all day. She didn’t take a bath either and her room stunk as if there was a dead animal rotting in it.

One day, my mother decided to take her to a shrink. The day before they were to go to the shrink, a Friday, she hanged herself.

She went out of the house earlier that day and went to the local hardware store where she bought a half-inch thick nylon rope. She slipped it into the house unnoticed and tied it to a support beam underneath the ceiling of her room. After which she took a stool, stepped on it, put the noose she tied on the rope around her neck, and kicked the stool down. I was the one to discover her body; her feet dangled a few inches off the floor like a pair of socks left to dry on a clothesline in a gloomy afternoon. I ran down the stairs screaming. It was a scream I thought that deafened even the ears of the Sto. Niño statue in the house.

My sister was an extremely attractive girl when she was alive. She had a shapely body, piercing doe eyes, beautifully rounded face and skin as white as chalk and as delicate as porcelain. Every single man in the neighborhood wanted her to be his girlfriend. But, by the time the stretch where she didn’t go out of the house began, up until to her death, her looks deteriorated. She grew thin as a stick and her eyes bulged out of their sockets like hollow china dolls, black circles forming around them. Her eyes alone seemed like black holes sucking the life out of me and I couldn’t bear to look at her at that point, both of grief and of disgust.

However, a week after her funeral, she appeared before me in a dream. In my dream, we were walking on the sea as if the water was something solid and I could clearly see underneath me, fishes swimming in lively zigzag fashion. I reached out my hand to them, my arm passing through the water but my feet remaining firm and well supported, as if I was walking on concrete.

“Isagani, heaven won’t accept me,” she said as we continued walking. I could see a school of jellyfish swimming underneath me.

“Is it because you killed yourself?” I replied. I could clearly smell the salt water as if it was real.

“Yes.”

“Oh. So that means you’re going the other way,” I said with a sad face.

“Hell you mean? Nah. I won’t be going there, hahaha!”

“Then where are you going?”

“Here. On Earth,” she said. “The belief that bad souls end up in hell is a myth. It’s not real—at least that’s what an angel told me. I’d be staying here until someone offers me salvation.”

“Oh? How’d you get salvation?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But is it okay if I hang around with you? They say I could only let two people see me. I chose you as one of the two.”

“Ah. Okay. You could hang around with me—you’re my sister for crying out loud.”

“Thanks,” she said, smiling. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse—I am your cutest sister after all.”

“Hahaha! Says who?”

“Me,” she said smiling.

It is then that I realized that I haven’t seen her smile for years. It was a soothing picture to look at. After which I felt a warm sensation around my face and everything began to glow bright red—it was the sun showering my face, urging me to wake because morning has arrived.

When I woke up she was there. Sitting beside me, wearing a pair of khaki jeans and a tight, black sweatshirt. She was beautiful once again—the horrid decay of sadness now traceless on her face. Her lips broke into a wide smile as she saw me staring at her. We hugged and, if I haven’t seen her being lowered six-feet below the ground in a coffin a week ago, I would have never thought that she hanged herself.

·

I put a stick of Marlboro between my lips and lit it in one swift motion with my blue Bic lighter. Smoke quickly invaded the hollow of my mouth. Becca watched me exhale a jet stream of the white mist from my lungs.

“Can you spot me one of those?” she said.

I handed her a stick. She put it between her lips and I lit it up with the lighter. Seeing her smoke a cigarette was quite weird. She didn’t really like the stuff when she was alive. But now that she’s an otherworldly being, she’s been chain-smoking like there’s no tomorrow. I guess lung cancer is not a problem for the dead anymore.

“Thanks. That feels better.”

“Man, do all of you ghosts really smoke, or are you just an exception?” I asked. “I don’t know,” was all that she said as she continued puffing on her stick. ·

I ringed the doorbell beside the front gate of Carlo’s house. He came out of the front door wearing an orange shirt and blue basketball shorts. He was barefooted. I asked him if he wanted to play basketball with me. He said that he was not in the mood to play.

“Come in though,” he said. “I’ll show you something.”

“Ok,” I said. I threw the cigarette butt clamped between my fingers to the ground. My sister did the same.

Carlo’s parents were not home. He said that they left for Cutud, in Pampanga, the other day to watch the annual Penitensya and would be coming back on Easter. He was the only one left at home. He told them he wasn’t feeling well.

“Are you really not feeling well?” I asked.

“Would I ever lie about something like that?” he said.

I kept quiet. He didn’t look much too sun-shiny and I knew for a fact that he doesn’t lie about those kinds of things.

We walked pass the living room where their dog, Klud, a cute golden retriever lay sleeping on a rug. You could barely hear the dog’s breathing. Good Friday has always been boring for him. I saw him doing the same thing last year and the year before that. Carlo is grateful for that however, because it means that he won’t give him a bath more often unlike ordinary days wherein Klud would always run amok outside and come back into the house all stinking and covered with dirt. Still, I felt sorry for him—I know how it feels like to be bored out of your mind—it’s one of the most annoying feelings you could ever have.

We went into his room. Inside his room were two shelves, a TV set, a mini component, an electric fan, a personal computer, a queen-sized bed, a computer chair and a desk. On the first shelf, which was located beside his bed, stood his toy collection. A bunch of G.I. Joe action figures complete with accessories and vehicles stood on the topmost half of the shelf. I could feel Cobra Commander’s stone-dazed eyes gazing at me from behind his mask as if I am the only being in the room. On the bottom part of the shelf lie different kinds of Lego sculptures: a castle, a galleon, a police station and a space station. They glittered as if they were taken straight out from the box. He really loved collecting toys and maintaining them in top condition—talk about having too much money.

I could smell a familiar sweet, organic odor and I saw, on top of his bed, a bunch of familiarly rolled, high-grade wrapping paper. A huge economical box of match lay beside them.

“Marijuana? I taught you stopped using that stuff?”

“Heh. Who told you?”

“Nobody. I just presumed you stop. Where’d you get it?”

“You know Kenneth, my classmate? He went to Sagada and bought a bunch of them. Gave me a generous amount when he came back.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Want some?” he asked.

“Nope. You know I don’t smoke that stuff.”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

·

He began smoking the joint on his bed. We sat on the floor. It had a carpeted finish and was quite comfortable. He opened the fan. He puffed on the joint burning on his hand in quite a rapid succession. I took out another cigarette, pressed it between my lips and lit it with my lighter. I exhaled the smoke from my lungs. It felt good.

“Are you sure you really don’t want one?” he asked.

“Nope,” I said.

“I want one,” my sister said, suddenly appearing in front of Carlo.

“Whoa! Goddamit! Don’t do that Becca!” Carlo said, perspiring profusely and with an obvious shocked-look on his face.

“Sorry,” Becca said apologetically. Carlo was the other person Becca chose that could see her. Why he chose him over my mother, I do not know the reason.

“Man. When you’re going to appear like that warn me or something; ring a bell, work the alarm clock or move things before you do that. I’m still not quite used to you popping out of nowhere just like that. I will never get used to you popping out of nowhere just like that.”

“Sorry. I thought your quite used to it. I mean, it’s been a month or so since I allowed you to see me,” my sister said, picking up a roll of weed and lighting it with the matchstick. She gave it a puff. She closed her eyes and held the smoke long before exhaling it.

I remember the first time Becca let Carlo see her. It was exactly a month and four days ago when she first appeared in front of Carlo and gave him a huge scare. Carlo was convinced that I was already going crazy because it appeared that I was talking to myself every time I talked to Becca since he can’t see her. He peed on his pants when she suddenly appeared and greeted him. We were in a bar in Makati when that happened. The girls all around us laughed as they saw Carlo wetting his Nautica jeans. I puffed on my cigarette laughing as well. We never went back to that bar again and he won’t talk to me for three straight days after that. Eventually he learned to calm down every time he saw Becca beside me but he just can’t seem to handle it when she suddenly appears out of nowhere. I guess it’s just hard getting used to seeing a ghost doing her thing even though the ghost is a hot chick like Becca.

“I wonder why you ever smoke that stuff,” Carlo said to Becca. “You don’t get high nor do you get stuffy with that. It just doesn’t have any effect on you.”

“Meh. I guess I grew quite fond with the site of smoke since I died. The way it slowly moves up the air and slowly disappears. Kind of makes me think about ascending to Heaven.”

“But you won’t go to heaven. You killed yourself, remember?”

“Nah. Everybody goes to Heaven—it just takes an extra-longer period for those souls who made an extra-grave offence.”

“Oh yeah. You told me there was no hell, right? So then, that means that Devils don’t exist too, am I correct?”

“Nope. There really are Devils. But there’s no Hell. I mean, they are the bearer of the Force of Evil but wherever they are staying, we aren’t ending up there. We are God’s greatest and most beloved creation after all. His masterpiece. Tell me, if you are a sculptor and created a masterpiece would you want to let your greatest enemy get a hold of it?”

“Hmm, maybe so but, if my masterpiece has gone bad I would not mind giving it to my enemy. Let him have it for all I care. I don’t want a reminder of how bad a thing I created could get. Just like the guy who invented the gun—he would have disowned his invention if he found out that billions have died because of it,” Carlo counter-reacted while puffing some more of the joint pressed between his fingers.

“Well, I guess he just doesn’t think of it that way—I heard even Hitler and Polpot are in heaven although I guess it took some major salvation for them to be finally allowed to enter it,” Becca pointed out while puffing on her joint as well. Smoke filled the room. I put my hand over my nose. I didn’t want to get high—not on a Good Friday.

They fell silent after that. Both concentrated on their weed. When the sticks burned out into roaches they both took another one and lit it with the match. I did the same with my cigarette.

“Could I put on some sounds in here,” I said to Carlo, standing up and beginning to make my way towards his CD rack located on the bottom half of the other Shelf that stood beside the component.

“Suit yourself,” he said.

I took out his record of The Cure’s Greatest Hits compilation from the CD rack and put it on the component. I chose track no. 14, Friday I’m In Love. It began to play and The Cure’s quirky, synthesizer-dominated sound filled the room accompanied by Robert Smith’s melancholic voice and words.

“Yes, Friday I’m in Love,” Carlo muttered under his breath. I pretended not to hear it as I focused on smoking my cigarette.

“Ah. Troubles of the Heart,” Becca said. “Is that why you’re smoking weed right now?”

“Yep,” Carlo said. “Goddamn Yasmine—I just can’t take her off my mind.”

“Well, you do look good together,” Becca said, smoke coming out of her mouth. “When I was alive and depressed, the site of you together was the only thing that could stir a little bit of happiness in me. Of course it still wasn’t enough to make me cough out a smile and it was definitely way far off from putting me out of my depression.”

“Glad we could make someone happy,” Carlo said.

“What happened between you and Yasmine, anyway?” I interjected. I crushed the cigarette on the ashtray I took a while ago from the top of Carlo’s desk. Small pieces of amber flew into the air as the fan behind me blew hard. It disappeared just like smoke a few seconds later.

“Oh yeah, I haven’t told you the reason why we broke up. I guess I haven’t told anyone why we broke up. I don’t know if I could tell you though. I really don’t want to go into all the details. All you need to know is I have it pretty bad because of that—really, really bad. I feel like a horse with four busted legs lying in the middle of a desert. I feel totally empty and useless.”

“I see,” I said. I haven’t seen him this depressed before. I guess breaking up with someone you’ve been serious with for close to five years can really do that to a guy. Plus, Carlo is a very, very emotional guy. I remember seeing him crying profusely when we saw the film Before Sunset. We were on a double date then. I was with a classmate from school I really liked and he was with Yasmine. We walked out of Glorietta with his shirt drenched by his own tears. I could still remember vividly what Yasmine was wearing then too. She wore a tight pink tank top and a very short white skirt. I remember it clearly because I kept looking on her ass. Yasmine was quite nice to look at and was really smart as well being a Dean’s lister from her school but somehow I never really took her seriously, not while I see her C-cup boobs bouncing softly as if basketballs are stuck on her chest as she walked whenever I see her with Carlo. I would always compliment Carlo on how huge his girlfriend’s boobs are whenever we’re on a drinking session or something and he would always respond by saying: “yeah, she really does have big tits,” and immediately follow it up with a laugh. I would laugh with him while I picture Yasmine in my mind as a stiff erection formed in my pants.

No matter how I see Yasmine as a sex object though, I know that Carlo really loved her and that she also loved Carlo genuinely that’s why it came as a shock a couple of months ago when he told me, over a bottle of Chivas (courtesy of him), that they’ve already broken up.

“But why smoke pot?” I said. “We could always talk about this stuff while drinking. I mean, Alcohol is a better medium to take out depression than Marijuana.”

“Alcohol’s not my poison. I just don’t like getting drunk.”

“Oh well. To each his own I guess,” I took out another stick of cigarette and lit it. I chain-smoke when I start getting depressed. Carlo’s depression was contagious—I could feel it creeping on my skin, trying to get into my pores and I could smell it along with the fine scent of Marijuana in the air.

After that we fell silent. Carlo fell silent. He gets like that when he’s getting high. A slight awkward occurrence though, like seeing a Sponge Bob gag, would surely send him straight into laughter heaven. He likes to laugh hard when he’s high.

“Can I have another?” Becca said as she began to reach for another joint.

“God, Becca. Stop taking that stuff if you won’t get high. It’s a waste of weed,” Carlo said, his eyes were now deep red in color as if they were burning.

“You want to see me get high? I could get high.”

As soon as Becca said that she began floating on air. She rose steadily, like a jet rising slowly from a runway only hers was vertical and not horizontal. When she reached a certain height, almost near the ceiling, she spun, slowly at first, doing a barrel roll, then she spun faster and faster until both Carlo and me couldn’t see anything but a long rotating object floating on air.

“Hey that’s awesome,” I said softly under my nicotine breath.

After a minute or so she suddenly stopped, stood up (still while floating on air) and did twenty cartwheels or so all over the room’s ceiling after which she ended with a full vertical back flip. She raised her hands after that and yelled out a quirky “TADDA!” She looked like a gymnast doing a floor exercise on air. I clapped my hands with amazement and Carlo began laughing really hard—laughter I’m sure that could be heard all the way down to our house.

·

We left Carlo’s house as the sun began to go down. He was till laughing when we left. Becca and I couldn’t make him stop so we finally gave up and just left. He’s always like that when he gets high and the next day he would rant at us for leaving him. I would always tell him how hopeless it was trying to make him stop and he would grow mad at me like how a girl always goes mad at you for leaving her in the middle of a date. I swear his temperament is like a girl’s.

Anyway, we left and on our way home I couldn’t stop myself from complementing my sister on how amazing she was in floating and putting on a show like that.

“Man you were amazing, sis,” I said. “You should do that while naked in a strip club. You’d earn tons of money for that.”

“Eww! Don’t get horny on me boy. I’m your sister,” she said giggling while giving me a slap on the shoulder. It hurt like hell. I began laughing as well despite of the soreness I felt on my poor shoulder blade.

“Anyway,” my sister broke the laughter. “I did that because I could really empathize with Carlo’s depression. I mean, I felt the same depression although the reason was far from his.”

“Stop saying that,” I told my sister, my voice incurring a serious tone. “Last time you felt that depressed you hanged yourself. I wouldn’t be able to bear another funeral.”

“Well, prepare yourself for another funeral because I know for sure that he’s going to die. We ghosts can smell death, you know. And our friend Carlo is definitely reeking of it.”

“What? Nah. Carlo won’t kill himself. I mean, it took you months of not going out of the house before you killed yourself. Carlo hasn’t done that yet.”

“It took me two months of not going out of my room. How long has Carlo not gone out of his room or his house?”

“I haven’t seen him outside for about a week or so.”

“And he just smoked some doobie a while ago. I didn’t smoke any weed during my period of depression that’s why it took quite a little longer for me to loose my hold on life. His situation is a bit different. He would kill himself soon.

We fell silent after that. I didn’t know what to say and so did my sister. I arrived at our house before the sun set. I quickly took out the pot and pan from the cabinet in our kitchen. I felt like cooking. I always feel the urge to cook whenever I felt uneasy.

·

I cooked Adobo. I was proud of how intricately delicious my cooking tasted. The blend of all the ingredients (vinegar, soy sauce, garlic, etc.) was just right. The delicious taste of finely cooked Adobo played on my tongue as I ate it. Long after I finished it all up, it was then that I only realized that I just ate meat on a Good Friday. It was fine with me but mother, who is a devout Catholic, worried about it.

“I don’t think you should have done that. I’ve already lost one child to hell. I clearly don’t want to lose another one to that place,” she said.

“Becca didn’t go to hell, mom,” I said.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I don’t believe in hell.”

“Nonsense. And where do you suppose do the bad people go after death? Heaven? That’s insane,” she bickered. Sometimes her close-mindedness is a pain in the ass.

“They linger here on Earth,” I said. “I’m going out for a while. Don’t bother waiting for me. I’ve got a key.”

I went out of the house without bothering to explain my thoughts (or the things that Becca always told me) about the truth of the other life. I had no energy to argue with my mother. As the saying goes: You can’t teach old dogs new tricks.

“Where are you going?” my sister asked as she suddenly popped out of nowhere. She followed my now fast-paced walking by floating beside me.

“To Carlo’s house. I want to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid or something,” I said.

“I don’t think you would be able to stop him. Once you reach that point in life, there’s no turning back. The next step you would be taking is appearing in a dream before someone who you want to help you find salvation and tell him you’re coming back. Just like what I did with you.”

“And what makes you say that?” I asked. I was growing quite irritated with my sister’s pessimism—I clearly don’t want Carlo hanging around with me as a ghost. I could almost hear the bickering and the cussing waiting for me, twenty-four hours a day.

“Because you failed to save me…” she said monotonously.

I stopped dead on my tracks. I was stunned by what she said. I have blamed myself a thousand times before on the fact that I couldn’t stop her from taking her own life, on why my comforting her in the darkness and putting up with her every need wasn’t enough for her to change her mind on killing herself. I blamed myself and secretly cried over it for nights after her funeral. However, it was incredibly shocking to hear the blame coming directly from her mouth.

“Damn you Becca! I could have saved you! You were the one who didn’t want to be saved!” I said. I was amazed with what came out of my mouth. She floated beside me motionless and wordless. For the first time since she came back from the other world she looked like a ghost.

“You were never too far lost back then,” I continued. “You were just selfish and afraid. You didn’t want to face the world head-on. You were afraid to go on!”

I fell silent after that. We stood there in the middle of the street for God knows how long I didn’t know. All I know is that I was looking at the ghost of my sister who just recently blamed me for not saving her from death.

Tears began to fall from her eyes.

It was the first time I’ve seen her sad since the day she came back from the after-life almost a year ago. I felt like an asshole. Never in my life have I screamed at my sister.

“I think you should go save your friend—our friend,” she muttered softly between sobs. “I feel something bad is going to happen to him soon.”

“Becca, listen. I’m—”

“You don’t need to say that,” she said softly. There was a tone of realization in her voice.

·

Carlo was about to slash his wrist with a razor when I arrived. He was in the bathroom. I lunged at him as soon as I realized what was happening. He tried to struggle, kicking me in the face and going after the razor but I caught his foot, pulled him towards me and punched him in the gut. He was knocked out cold. I left him on his bed and stayed with him all night—this was the stupidest thing my stupid friend ever did.

·

“Don’t ever do that again, fool,” I said to Carlo the following morning as we ate breakfast. I made us toast, cooked some bacon and eggs and mixed a liter of orange juice.

“And what would you do about it if I do it again?” he said with a scowl on his face.

“For starters, I’d kill myself, go to wherever it is we would be going and look for you there, and then, when I find you, I would kick your ass so hard you would be landing on the moon.”

“Kick my ass so hard that I would land on the moon? HAHAHAHAHA!” he began to laugh.

Soon I also laughed and we both found ourselves laughing so hard that I grew afraid that the moon would fall on us.

·

My friend Carlo never attempted suicide after that. I guess I literally knocked some sense into him when I punched him in the gut.

Also, I never saw my sister’s ghost again since. That image of her crying in the middle of the street while floating on air was the last I’ve seen of her. It made me quite lonely for a few days but it eventually dawned on me that I was never going to see her again and I had made my peace with it. I could remember vividly the look on her eyes that day—at first they were truly sad but as I finished speaking they changed, first into amazement and then into a portrait of deep realization. I didn’t know why her eyes turned out that way. Not until Carlo asked me over a bottle of Chivas (still courtesy of him of course) that I realized what had happened to her.

“By the way,” Carlo said. “Where the heck is your sister? Haven’t seen her for over a month now. I kind of miss her popping around out of nowhere and flying all over the place and, of course, her beautiful face.”

“She found salvation,” I said, surprised as a Cat who’s seen a rat bigger than him.

“Really,” he said.

I paused for a while. I took a sip off my glass, the warmth of the Chivas traveled through my throat and down into my stomach. I looked at Carlo, his face now scarlet.

“Really,” I said.

“So, she’s in heaven?”

“I guess so.”

“Damn. I won’t be going there, at least not how I used to”

·

That night I looked out the window. I saw the stars shimmer brightly like aesthetically scattered dots of light on the pitch-black back draft of the night sky, my gaze fixed upwards, extending to as far as the darkness could reach. An airplane passed by. I saw its light cutting across the sky. As I saw it I suddenly missed Becca, how she floats as she follows me around and how her face lights up every time I give her a cigarette. I like her more as a ghost. She was more cheerful and fun to be with than when she was alive. And now, now that she’s gone, everything seems a lot duller and I’m chain-smoking again. What’s worst is that it still bothers me up to this day that, even though her eyes had a glint of satisfaction in them, she left this world once again without a smile on her face.

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