The Boy

I wrote this some time ago. It shall be published in this year's Scribe. This is not my best (defensive haha). It's crap. But some people this it's okay. That's enough reason for me to celebrate.

Philip never had headaches. It was a trait from a scrupulous father whose sole obsession was penalizing his only son for a limped wrist; whose homophobic tendencies due to Baptist beliefs had driven Philip to become the loser that he is now: a gay Physics teacher in his mid-40s with no sexual exploits whatsoever, whose existence became the example of a perfectly wasted life space.

That he never had headaches however wasn’t what even made him a bit special or extraordinary. As a kid, he stared at the sun till his eyes hurt (always hoping he would develop some special powers to strike down his father every time he sacks and beats him up); but his head never hurt. Bah! He read books in poor lighting till his eyes hurt (he read Nancy Drew); but his head never did. Baaaaahh! He dared coursing through Applied Physics in the Academy and studied the most mind-boggling of math problems. But it was always to no avail. It was as if his headaches were somewhat connected to his sexual preference, a strange and unusual occurrence.

He lived a life of boredom, in utter mediocrity, until one day, he gave up his ventures with headaches (and his gay-hood) and had completely forgotten about them—until that day he showed up.

His name was Jonas. Quite a shy boy at nineteen, Philip thought. Messy hair, tearful eyes, pale skin, poor posture, cute nonetheless. He knew the boy wasn’t from around.

Jonas unfolded a crumpled paper from his backpack and gave it to Philip. “Still have the room?” he asked him. Philip gave it a thought. He was supposed to ask him if he had work to pay the rent, if he was schooling; but he didn’t. The boy seemed harmless. “Five hundred just for this month. I don’t accept payments in advance.”

Philip was anxious of letting anyone enter his house (probably because he did not have friends or refused to have some or that to him bringing someone, especially a boy, to his home felt like going inside a motel with a callboy—probably because the gay community denied him for being an ultra-fag in the closet. Everyone including his students knew he was gay, but they never dared ask or even implied they knew).

The house was a small one with two bedrooms, a sala and a dining area; barely enough for a decent home. He was not particular with furniture and other fixtures, so much that the house looked as bland and boring as Goldilock’s porridge. If he was unsure of his desires, he was pretty sure his house was an anti-thesis to the word “gay.”

His study table was pushed to the wall near the sofa. On top of it were books and exam papers, cream-colored Post-Its that labeled every stack of paper, a white mug with a red cartoon hero known as “Super Dad!” printed on the side. The boy was amazed on how organized he was, to which he replied with a faint smile.

He showed Jonas the room where he should stay. The boy thought the room was just enough for him: a bed just about his size, a lamp, and a side table. (Philip was saving the room to be his love nest. But he abandoned the thought ages ago.) He lent him an electric fan for fifty pesos a month. Everything was a bargain for Philip’s first boarder. He wasn’t quite sure though why he sent out flyers for “Available bed space” a week ago. Anyway, he thought, someone had come (come, hmmm…), so he never again gave it a thought.

The first week was particularly awkward for Philip. He sometimes forgot he had a boarder and would freak out to find a stranger sitting on the sofa, staring at him. The boy did not talk much, Philip did not ask much himself despite the urges to know everything about the boy. But that was going to be the least of his problems.

On one night, while he was entranced in taking notes for his class the next day, he heard something grumbling behind him. A slobbering breath. He thought it came from a large animal with padded feet, running around behind him. When he turned his back, he saw nothing but the main door slowly closing and what seemed to be a bushy grey tail disappearing in a blip. He went back to note-taking and dismissed the thought.

The next day after class, he went to the library to check on some titles and read the periodicals. A book with a wolf for a cover illustration grabbed his attention. It lay alone on the table beside him. “My Roommate, the Werewolf” was written by some unpopular Italian author. The blurbs on the back cover did not say much of the book. He checked it out anyway.

When he got home, the boy was standing at the dining area boiling water. He was shirtless. Philip was completely dumbfounded to have seen the body of a god—that one he only saw in underwear models and construction workers; that his IQ dropped to abysmal feats; that he threw his things to the floor, rushed for the boy, drove him on top of the dining table, and kissed—more like licked—his well-contoured body until—“Phil?” The boy was staring across him from the dining area, with a confused look. “Anything wrong? You look flushed.” He told him he was sick and then quickly went inside his room, locked the door, and continued his newly-found fantasies while touching himself.

Weeks passed. Philip had mustered the strength to actually start a conversation with the boy. He learned he was not as dim-witted as he used to think. The boy was an old soul, a deep, mysterious presence in front of him; a Dalai Lama trapped in Victor Basa’s body. At times he would wear short shorts and would “accidentally” drop something in front of the boy while showing off his pear-shaped (hideous) ass, all in the name of seduction. The boy though did not even budge, much to his dismay.

One night, he planned a dinner-for-two, disguised as his birthday party with heart-shaped balloons and candles all over. It was past midnight and the boy had not yet come home. Giving up on his attempts, he retired to bed and found the newspaper for that day. He read the headlines: “Boy dies unusual death.” It was a news item detailing the bizarre incidence of a four-year-old’s death. His head was found a few meters away from his body, chest ravaged, internal organs missing, thigh muscles scraped to the bone. The report said the kid was attacked by a large animal the size of an adult carabao. Err… Philip dropped the newspaper. Eww… Disgusting. He found a book on the bedside table. It was the wolf book he borrowed weeks ago. He did not remember placing it there, however, he browsed through it. He was looking for the “good parts” as he was not that interested to finishing the novel anyway. One particular paragraph caught his eye though.

“Jose lay in bed reading a book Amarula lent him. She bet him it was the ‘scariest shit’ she’s ever read. But Jose was someone who couldn’t get frightened so easily. And so he read on without minding the empty bed across his—Ryan must have roamed the streets to find himself a good fuck. Horny bastard!

“Time passed by so slow. Jose paused for awhile to look at the night sky. It was a full moon, orange and odd, with rings of light—”

Philip opened the curtains, surprised to see the moon had waxed to its fullness.

“—He turned to the side table adjacent to his bed to check what time it was—”

Two o’clock in the morning, Philip had checked. Funny book, he mused.

“—Jose was about to stand up when he heard a rustling noise outside his window.
Someone or something was moving among the bushes—”

He peered outside. Nothing. Relieved, he continued reading and actually told himself that he was beginning to enjoy the book. On the next page, there was an illustration of Jose reading a book in his bed. Beside him was a window, the moon could be seen in it. However, one part of the illustration had struck Philip dead in terror. Outside the window near Jose, among the bushes, was a familiar pair of horrors one could only discern as monstrous. They were a pair of yellow eyes watching eagerly on Jose.

Philip threw the book and fumbled to close the curtains when the same hungry eyes met his. He didn’t move, not a muscle, for fear the beast might lunge towards him. And the thing came out of the shadowy bushes, coming at him face to face with only the thin sheet of glass between them. The devil. It opened its huge mouth with its yellow, sharp teeth; stuck out its tongue, and licked the glass. But Philip knew it was he the beast wanted to lick. The devil has come to eat me.

That morning, Philip woke up from the glaring sun’s rays that entered his room. He did not remember what happened last night. Every time he tried, all he could gather were dark, blurry images of him reading a book and looking outside the window. He felt tight and wanting to pee. It was a Saturday.

Moving listlessly towards the bathroom door, he noticed Jonas’ door was open. He slowly opened it to take a peek if he was inside sleeping—wishing he was in his boxers, that sort that covered almost nothing. He stuck his face inside and was appalled by the reeking smell. A dead rat lay on the floor. Immediately he closed the door. When he turned around, Jonas was there looking at him intently as if he wanted to eat Philip with his sinister eyes. He was paler than usual, an eerie lightness in skin color that nearly resembled a vampire’s.

He gathered every bit of himself and told Jonas about the stinking rat. But the boy seemed as if he was not listening. Slowly Jonas took small steps towards Philip who in shock of Jonas’ sudden change in attitude walked backwards, to find himself cornered near the door. The boy stood inches from him, his face far enough from his. Then, without him suspecting Jonas kissed him, torridly—sucking the air from lungs, pushing his tongue inside his. Philip pushed him away only to tell him that “I’m still a virgin.”

But Jonas did not seem to mind. Rather, like what Philip saw in his face, he seemed to be glad about it. Jonas’s hand snaked down Philip’s trembling body, down to his waist, and went for the door to open. Philip had completely forgotten about the stinking rat. He quickly rolled down his underpants and kneeled beside the bed. “Not too fast. It might hurt.” Jonas remained silent behind him.

Philip was too proud of what he was going to do. Rather, what was going to be done to him. He pictured the face of his father in his mind, cursing him, calling him an envious faggot—that he envied him because he could not accept his son was more beautiful than him. He was laughing so loud in his thoughts. He laughed like a girl.

And as Jonas towered over his body, Philip felt his head hurt as if a power drill was driving through his temple. It was for the first time his head hurt. Does it mean I have finally embraced my true nature? I’m gay! I’m out! Bah!

He turned his head to look at Jonas, congratulating himself for getting such a prized trophy. But what he saw struck him down with fear. He shouted. Father was right all along. He screamed like a girl, but it was not really for very long.