Maria Alexandra C Gorne

Xandra Gorne The want to show the beauty and misery of the world, The desire to evoke expression and realization, To gladly work behind, so others can see ahead and that is all. if there are three things I adore most in this world; they would be writing, fashion and film A hundred days of mourning It was the 9th of September; I almost forgot I have to be somewhere. For the hundredth time I had been doing the same thing over and over again but the idea of disappearance, of absence, and of loneliness have not yet daunted on me. It was a weird feeling, terribly I was lonely but there is just that feeling I cannot quite articulate. I do miss her, every single fucking day. But I am well, I guess. I noticed it was pouring outside, I love it when it rains, so did she. Fuck. I struggled to get out of bed and searched for the glasses she gave me weeks before it happened. Relief, it was still where I had left it, where she usually finds it. Stop it. Stop doing this to yourself. I showered briefly she would have been proud of me, I thought. I put on the only suede maroon suit I had and hurried towards the door, grabbed my keys and left. Once I got inside the car I stayed still for a moment. They were rapidly pouring one after the other, we just loved to stay still and observe the raindrops. That was our thing. Most people found it silly and quite depressing, how we adored the rain, and how we found so much life in such bleakness. If only it would rain everyday without anyone having to be put in danger, I would not mind terribly, I would be completely satisfied and content, even jovial. My moment with the rain was graciously interrupted by my mom, she has been checking up on me unceasingly for the past twenty-eight decades but increasingly so for the past hundred days. She would always remind me to get fresh flowers and to say a prayer for her and to remind her of how much they miss her. I do too, mom! I could have stayed there, still, forever. Sometimes I just wish the earth would swallow me so I could be with her once more, this time for eternity, as I vowed. I knew I had to be on my way I was running late again, I darted through the foggy streets of Madeon, ultimately I reached her new home. It was more bleak than usual and I thought that was sad. How often do people visit this place, not too often I suppose. It was empty, it was not the second of November anyway, what was I expecting. It was just me with my maroon suit and her carnations. To be honest, I have gotten used to these visits but at the same it has grown quite exhausting. Sometimes I would find myself dragging myself and hoping that that would never have happened. I would not have to do this everyday for the past hundred days. Then she would still be here, with me. Her tomb was filled with flowers, just imagine one ornamented with a hundred flowers of all kinds, all dried but beautiful. I thought that would best describe her now, dried but beautiful. She was once beautiful and alive. There it was, Catalina Alonzo Ruiz, my Catalina, my Mrs. Catalina Alonzo Ruiz, cold, dried, and very dead. Accepting only to reject. There it is, right in front of you, screaming, " this is truth, you wanted truth, here it is." You begin to question once more, "is this really the truth." Somewhere deep inside you, wishes you had not known of it, not even the slightest bit of it--you detest it, truth is but a creation of your sentiments occurring accurately concurrent in reality. Man, naturally, desires truth—In fact man's ultimate end is truth which must be undeniably good. Once this most coveted truth is grasped, ultimately man acquires happiness—bliss. But do all truths make man at the very least pleased? Is it not that truth, being man's end, must give a certain kind of contentment? Then why do this one truth, this other truth, and another make you sick down to your core, making you wish you had never desired to seek for this foolishness? Asking prayers from the gods to turn the truth around, hoping it is not and was not at all true. A couple rounds of haunting trips to the clubs wasting the night away with booze, only to find out the next day that you have no memory or whatsoever of the night before, once you find yourself in a game of I-know-what-you-did-last-night, you begin to doubt, there it is— doubt, you wonder was I really capable of such, could I have possibly done that, doubt. Foolish people waste their time wanting to find out what had transpired that night, only to wish they had never ventured into such. Precisely. When its there, you disdain it, not allowing yourself to be swallowed by a possible fabricated truth. Imagine yourself put in a situation wherein you had just witnessed something odd, not necessarily crime related, but its mere happening is unusual something you had never thought of possible, but it did—and was screaming, "This is the truth." How would you have reacted? Would not your immediate reaction is to refuse to believe it? The contradiction of the desires of man, the dubious feeble minds of man; unwilling to accept yet so eager to know, how do we always end up complicating things. At a certain point in time, there is nothing more liberating than knowing the truth. Knowing every detail of it, such would be the case in crimes, but it is not so much true as to the whys of the crime because there is that vulnerability in man that clouds his sense of reason—emotions. Sometimes truth is relative, we create our own truths, as the common saying goes "we only see what we want to see and hear what we want to hear." Of conceit and its repercussions. 2012—He, Marc Solis, convinced himself he would win a photo-essay competition. He had the workings of a winner, but he instead took someone else’s photo on the Internet and claimed it to be his. Needless to say, he won only to have lost so much more. It is both amazing and haunting how our stay here on earth is very fleeting. One moment we live for invincibility and the next we fight for visibility. Man, in his pursuit of a meaningful life, strive to battle the transience of life through "living," that is to the fullest, he then saw how his life would unfold—living by having it all. Days before my meeting with Marc Solis, I had all the intention of knowing one thing, and one thing alone—that is, the 'why.' Quite frankly, the ‘why's are always the most delicate and personal, hesitation for liberally speaking of them are considered acceptable. But, such in all cases, curiosity trampled fear. Of interviews, they say, 'you ask the right questions; you get the right answers.' However, I did not ask a question, much less, the right question. I just got answers, I remember strongly, it started with—"This is what happened." I will attempt to recount, from my limited memory and from my genuine heart, the truth as Marc told me: At a very young age, he knew he was intelligent, and everybody else knew he had a promising future ahead of him. Graduated top of his class in Grade School, Class Valedictorian in High School, and Cum Laude in the University of the Philippines. I am quite sure there are more recognitions he accumulated, but he only meant to be humble. While in College, he was in his words "a triple scholar." He was a scholar in the University, one of the chosen few to be given an opportunity to work in Congress, and he received another scholarship that brought him to Japan. Being in a strange land, very alien to him meant no difference on his remarkable brilliance. Once again, he topped his classes in Japan. Despite all these or perhaps because of all these, he became even more ambitious and committed, he wanted nothing—but all of it. He knew he was extremely adept at academics; ultimately he wanted to branch out, to the world of Art, specifically in the field of—Photography. It was coincidental that that was the same time the photo-essay competition, Calidad Humana came out. With no knowledge of Photography, he nonetheless pursued, only this time the credit was not solely due to him. I interrupted him at this point, I was amazed at the situation presented somewhat seemed a 'meant coincidence,' of the many people who submitted their photos; his photo (not his, which is what this story is all about) was short-listed. He only said, he knew what a good photograph looked like, and "it was not just a photo competition but a photo-essay competition." I did not have to ask what difference it made; it was obvious. Weeks before the awarding ceremony, there was an interview, each of the Top 10 finalists had to give their sentiments on their photo and on the concept of 'Calidad Humana.' Marc recalled that he almost did not make it to the interview, for whatever reason I may have forgotten, but then 'meant coincidence' happened. He was last to be interviewed and he said, after he walked out of that room, he knew full well he was going to win—or so he thought. It was a call, not of a figurative one but of a literal call that woke him up from the deepest trench of his ambition. It said that he had won but had not won; the jurors discovered that his win was not of talent—but of plagiarism. No prize. No award. No recognition. Nothing. Soon he found himself in utter regret and devastation, that he; the man who won it all has for the first time, fallen to a point of no redemption. Indeed, he was ambitious; he almost had everything but at this point had nothing left but hope. There is a point in each man's life, wherein, they are bound to make a decision they will forever remember or regret. Most people at the end of the bargain plead to reverse the situation, vowing to do anything just to take back what had been done and to choose what could have been. Marc, still filled with regret and pain, continues to live his life managing a football team of 40 indigent kids, who he said is his life now. Before we parted, he added, “I will do anything and everything so that those kids will learn from me and from my mistake.” A story of ambition and of redemption–of Calidad Humana.     The space between him and I, is the distance between our two eyes Only separated by a bridge, the distance between our pointing Finger and index finger, the distance between Everything and nothing far and close. That is the space between him and I. His hands were inside the pockets of his knitted coat. He looked cold and solitary. His gaze was everywhere but it was blank, and remained so for the following hours as I stared at him from the space between him and I. He did however look restless as if he was contemplating something so confusing and terrifying yet you see pleasure somewhere in his gaze. I slowly pulled myself closer to him. I wanted to study him further, the tiny, miniscule imperfections of his face. Finally after an eternity of sitting, pondering, and gazing in one awkward attitude, the statuesque man moved this time, the space between us was diminishing. Inch after inch after inch he drew closer to me. He slowly took his left hand out from his pocket and with his right he swiftly unveiled what seemed like a knife. At that moment everything went quickly, I had no time to scream for help. There was nobody else there but the man with the strangest and blankest of stares. It did not hurt much when the knife pierced through me. Slowly I perished, with the man with the blankest of stares as my last vision. Dead love i I woke up. The sun shyly peeping through the white Bohemian curtains. I reach for my husband—relief, he was there. Eyes closed, picturing him smiling to me while I gently caressed his soft curly hair, and traced his scruffy chiseled face. I opened my eyes. He was dead. ii 'Why?' He paused, grabbed the rust-coated steel chair and quietly sat. He leaned; I backed away, glanced at his ring, took a deep breath and for the hundredth time asked the same question. 'Why? Why did you kill him…your husband?' This time his tone was different. Minutes of bleakness and silence transpired, disappointed, with much power he pounded on the table. I was frightened, the sound of his fist pounding on the table made me tremble. Before I could look the man in the eye and defend myself from his allegations, another man opened the door. A man probably in his late 30's stepped in. 'So?' inquired the new comer to his colleague. 'What do you think?' He stood up and continued. 'Nothing, she wouldn't say a single word. Traumatized maybe, and he let out a laugh. The newcomer tapped the man on his shoulder and whispered something which I could not clearly make out, only the words take and here were the exception. So he left. 'Forgive me. My friend's a bit rough. He's not really much of a patient person but he's umm…working on it' said the officer in a slightly worn out leather jacket. ' I'm not married but I heard its pretty crazy. Lots a' fight and lots a' sleeping on couches…' 'I--didn't kill him…my husband.' 'Of course you didn't. Unfortunately, evidences prove otherwise.' I stumbled with my words. 'But you have to believe me, yes we fight. But never has it crossed my mind, I mean killing him. I love my husband.' 'To me you don't exactly look like a killer, but evidence points to no one else but you. 'Look' his voice now much serious, 'there is not much you could do. Either you regret ever having killed your husband… in prison or try acting… He was cut. A lady in gray pencil skirt waltzed inside the room with her cherry red lipstick. Stupid. I thought, stupid girl, just when he was giving me another option. Judging by the looks of her, Slut. She first stared down at me and then to him. Walked towards him, handed him a folder, I could have sworn she winked at him. His right eye twitched, and so the Coca-Cola lady walked back towards the door. He seemed to have wanted to follow her; instead he stood up leaned towards me, as he was about to open his mouth I cut him. 'I have to talk to a lawyer.' I insisted. 'Well, we'll get to that, but this is a tough one, we have evidence you have none. The last time I checked the one who comes to court with substantial evidences win and those without lose.' Lose. No. I can't be put to jail. I'm innocent. No. I have money, yes money. I'll pay. Murderer. An unfamiliar voice uttered. I check the officer, no, it wasn't him he was talking to a police officer. No. I thought. Killer. The same voice said. No! Murderer. Now with another voice, duet, trio, I don't know. No. No. I shook my head, silently mumbling the word no, no, no. Killer, killer, killer! Now there were more of them. No! Before I knew it I let out a loud shriek. My head felt very heavy now, I was shaking my head back and forth, my hands were trembling, I felt cold. I was crying and begging for my freedom. My voice cracking, 'I-I-I beg you. You gotta' believe me…I'm innocent. P-p-please…I don't want to go to jail. I reached for his hand. 'I did not kill my husband! I don't know maybe I was set-up. I can't kill anyone, much more my husband!' The room was quiet except for my sobs. His voice shaking, he took my hand, 'Forgive me; there's nothing I can possibly do. I'm truly sorry.' He let go of my hand. Once more—I was alone.