Glass Splinters
By: RDV
A/N: This story is NOT originally mine; it’s based on the news story I saw one morning.
Alvin was one of those people who got no more respect than does a cockroach. He lived in the ghetto, among other things, and lived off through looted phones which he then sold to pawnshop owners who would pay him at a very low rate. He would stick a blade at the neck of any hostage of his choice and tell everyone who happened to be around to hand out his cell phone to him unless they wanted the knife Alvin was holding to deepen unto the hostage’s neck. Sometimes he just got enough to last him a day of slight hunger; other times, he was grotesquely hungry. In many ways unimaginable, he had procured goods to stuff his stomach with; those were the days when he was absolutely broke, when his hold-up procedures failed and when his days were made utterly destitute for want of vice. In other words, those were the days when he’d steal goods from his neighbors when they had their backs turned or when they so much as blinked their eyes.
On one of his greatest heists, however, he would treat his gang to bottles of beer, a whole case even, as they swam in alcohol, indulging on an afternoon of no hold-up and pure idleness. He lived in such a demoralized manner even his mother had stopped counting on his decency to arrive. It never did; she was right to presume so. The only thing she should be proud of was the fact that Alvin would go to any lengths just to earn money, most often in a bad way. Like all kids in that environment, he inherited the incapability to find better means of livelihood. Instead, he loved drinking, and it was for that purpose, solely, why he did what he did.
It so happened then, one time, when his gang had to return the favor. They just raked thousands after conducting a robbery on one of the passenger jeepneys journeying from Quezon Avenue to Buendia. They entrusted to Alvin a five hundred peso bill with which he would purchase several cases of San Miguel Pale Pilsen for them to drown themselves in as the night turned to morning. It was nearly ten in the evening. Alvin obediently folded the bill in his pocket, his gang looking delightfully at him, fantasizing his quick return as he carried on his back those cases of ecstasy. Alvin nodded at them and left. They would time him, they warned him jocosely. The store was fairly far from their venue and it would certainly take him no less than fifteen minutes to carry on. He ambled in the dark at the succeeding moments, adrift among nocturnal crickets that buzzed continuously. The thought, that dirty thought, had since then been flirting with his mind. It wasn’t until now that it’d been revealed to him to the full extent. That five hundred pesos, he could just pocket it and run off. Yes, his friends would hunt him down and eventually find him. But yes, there was always an excuse booked for them. They could feed on it all they wanted afterwards. He clutched the bill more tightly in his hand; looking ahead one last time, his fortune told, he turned the opposite way.
He made himself extra scarce the following days. The worst his friends could do to him was to try or fail to try to kill him with swear words, to which he had been used since time immemorial. He hid everywhere, every time, in every conceivable way. When he came home, it was only to change clothing. He no longer made a nuisance out of himself around the house; he now rarely witnessed his mother acting so abominably, which he suspected she only did when he was within her sight.
On the second week of his low-lying, he was spotted by one of his gang mates as he moved stealthily out of the house. He didn’t expect to escape their ballooning anger forever; rather, he believed, sincerely, that it would die down inevitably, that they would carouse again together someday as though bygones were bygones. Two weeks was still too early for the grudge to heal so it was still advisable to minimize his appearances. He didn’t look at his former friend when the latter called to him. Alvin could mark the unevenness of the other’s voice which very much pointed out to a threat. His friend told him to stop then, which only made him walk faster. Finally, he had been caught up with. He smiled to his friend as he wheeled around, not knowing what to hope for. Then, swifter than he could notice, a punch flew on his face. On it, where a smile had been, was one stain of redness as large as three knuckled fingers clumped together. Alvin’s nervousness skyrocketed further when, out of the corner of his eyes, were the betrayed others. They closed in on him immediately, their anger still very fresh on their expressive eyes. In the wreckage that ensued, he was ripped from limb to limb until he was left lifeless on the ground, bloodied like an unclaimed carcass.
He was right; their anger wouldn’t last long. It ended along with him.
On the day of the funeral, his mother couldn’t be seen shedding tears. She sat quiet, solemn and younger somewhat, the memory of his son’s face the only souvenir of his brief existence.
A/N: This story is NOT originally mine; it’s based on the news story I saw one morning.
Alvin was one of those people who got no more respect than does a cockroach. He lived in the ghetto, among other things, and lived off through looted phones which he then sold to pawnshop owners who would pay him at a very low rate. He would stick a blade at the neck of any hostage of his choice and tell everyone who happened to be around to hand out his cell phone to him unless they wanted the knife Alvin was holding to deepen unto the hostage’s neck. Sometimes he just got enough to last him a day of slight hunger; other times, he was grotesquely hungry. In many ways unimaginable, he had procured goods to stuff his stomach with; those were the days when he was absolutely broke, when his hold-up procedures failed and when his days were made utterly destitute for want of vice. In other words, those were the days when he’d steal goods from his neighbors when they had their backs turned or when they so much as blinked their eyes.
On one of his greatest heists, however, he would treat his gang to bottles of beer, a whole case even, as they swam in alcohol, indulging on an afternoon of no hold-up and pure idleness. He lived in such a demoralized manner even his mother had stopped counting on his decency to arrive. It never did; she was right to presume so. The only thing she should be proud of was the fact that Alvin would go to any lengths just to earn money, most often in a bad way. Like all kids in that environment, he inherited the incapability to find better means of livelihood. Instead, he loved drinking, and it was for that purpose, solely, why he did what he did.
It so happened then, one time, when his gang had to return the favor. They just raked thousands after conducting a robbery on one of the passenger jeepneys journeying from Quezon Avenue to Buendia. They entrusted to Alvin a five hundred peso bill with which he would purchase several cases of San Miguel Pale Pilsen for them to drown themselves in as the night turned to morning. It was nearly ten in the evening. Alvin obediently folded the bill in his pocket, his gang looking delightfully at him, fantasizing his quick return as he carried on his back those cases of ecstasy. Alvin nodded at them and left. They would time him, they warned him jocosely. The store was fairly far from their venue and it would certainly take him no less than fifteen minutes to carry on. He ambled in the dark at the succeeding moments, adrift among nocturnal crickets that buzzed continuously. The thought, that dirty thought, had since then been flirting with his mind. It wasn’t until now that it’d been revealed to him to the full extent. That five hundred pesos, he could just pocket it and run off. Yes, his friends would hunt him down and eventually find him. But yes, there was always an excuse booked for them. They could feed on it all they wanted afterwards. He clutched the bill more tightly in his hand; looking ahead one last time, his fortune told, he turned the opposite way.
He made himself extra scarce the following days. The worst his friends could do to him was to try or fail to try to kill him with swear words, to which he had been used since time immemorial. He hid everywhere, every time, in every conceivable way. When he came home, it was only to change clothing. He no longer made a nuisance out of himself around the house; he now rarely witnessed his mother acting so abominably, which he suspected she only did when he was within her sight.
On the second week of his low-lying, he was spotted by one of his gang mates as he moved stealthily out of the house. He didn’t expect to escape their ballooning anger forever; rather, he believed, sincerely, that it would die down inevitably, that they would carouse again together someday as though bygones were bygones. Two weeks was still too early for the grudge to heal so it was still advisable to minimize his appearances. He didn’t look at his former friend when the latter called to him. Alvin could mark the unevenness of the other’s voice which very much pointed out to a threat. His friend told him to stop then, which only made him walk faster. Finally, he had been caught up with. He smiled to his friend as he wheeled around, not knowing what to hope for. Then, swifter than he could notice, a punch flew on his face. On it, where a smile had been, was one stain of redness as large as three knuckled fingers clumped together. Alvin’s nervousness skyrocketed further when, out of the corner of his eyes, were the betrayed others. They closed in on him immediately, their anger still very fresh on their expressive eyes. In the wreckage that ensued, he was ripped from limb to limb until he was left lifeless on the ground, bloodied like an unclaimed carcass.
He was right; their anger wouldn’t last long. It ended along with him.
On the day of the funeral, his mother couldn’t be seen shedding tears. She sat quiet, solemn and younger somewhat, the memory of his son’s face the only souvenir of his brief existence.
posted by Ria D. at
12:29 AM
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