The Death of this LJ.
76.
Sunday. We're visiting my grandmother in the province. She's the last grandparent we have left and her health isn't exactly the greatest. We have to spend time with her. My brother's shoot for the day is cancelled so he actually makes it out. We are sitting on the front porch of her house and I call my brother an asshole. An asshole because in the Philippines, he's somewhat of a "celebrity". Especially in the provinces.
"You're an asshole," I say.
"Why?"
"Cause a 60 year-old woman just walked halfway across town to get you some barbeque because you asked if any was around."
"So she's just being nice."
"She's kissing your ass and you're loving it."
He smirks. Asshole.
Four hours later, he has enough of the lack of air conditioning -- the humidity so thick it felt like you were walking through pudding. He kisses my grandmother goodbye and we hop in his Beemer and took off back to Metropolis.
It's a rather lengthy ride home from the province and he had already finished flipping through his "Philippine showbiz" magazines (to look for new talent, he says) and asks to read the book I'm reading.
"I should have brought a book, too," he states.
I fall asleep to the sound of an oncoming typhoon. He gets a headache from reading in the car. We go to his apartment and he gives me his cellphone. "I just got a new one," he adds. He's always getting new things. He's successful and makes good money. I am successful and don't make good money. I check out the phone and realize that he's got about 60 pictures of himself on there. And his alarm clock is his voice saying "Wake up, c'mon get up" for about 5 minutes.
Narcissist. Typical him.
We play Xbox and he asks me if I want to go to church with him. I decline because I have a birthday dinner to attend. He drops me off at my apartment and he comes up to because he has to kill time before mass starts. Plus, he had to "go number 2." I remember him rushing into my apartment. I remember that clearly. I have to remember that.
The next day, Monday, he texts me, "Wat r u up 2?" Nothing, I say. No reply back.
Tuesday. He texts me, "Wat r u up 2?" Nothing I say. Is he doing anything? He doesn't know yet. He'll let me know though.
I spend that evening at an awards show I had no intention being in attendance at. I spend an even later evening brining some balikbayans to a bar to show them a good time. I'm a good kid, though. I know I have work the next day so I leave the balikbayans at the bar. I walk home and I'm home by 1:30. I hop in the shower to wash away the extra filmy skin of sweat swallowing my body. As I get out I have two texts on my phone.
Text 1: "Yo, come out to the bar. Wer all her!" - Mark
Reply: "Man, I just came from there, I'm going 2 bed."
Text 2: "Wru?" - My brother
Reply: "I'm in bed already."
I set my cellphone alarm for 8:00 AM. I read more of the book that he started reading. I'm 200 pages ahead of him. The pages get blurry. In 15 mintues, I'm fast asleep.
BANG!
I look at my phone. It's 4:30 in the morning. Why is Mark calling me? I silence the phone and go back to sleep.
BANG!
Even on silent the phone rattles my nightstand. The buzzing probably even louder than my ringtone. It's Mark again. I reject the call and close my eyes.
BANG!
I start to think. There's only one reason that Mark would call me at 4:30 in the morning when he knows I'm sleeping. He got into fight. It had better be serious, I think. I call him back.
There are a few things you can say to a person to guarantee them go crazy and freak out of their heads. You could say, "Your house is on fire!" or maybe "There's a snake under your foot!" or maybe even, "There's an anvil falling from the 20th floor of a building and it's heading straight for your head!"
But there's one sure fire thing you can say to someone that's a lock to have them react by ripping their hair out of their heads:
Mark: "Dude, stay calm, don't freak out OK, but..."
Me: "What?! What the F&@K's happening?!"
You can prepare for a worst case scenario to keep you calm and steady. But what if there's a worst-er case scenario that you never even bothered to think of. That my friend, is called "hell". My hell came in the following words. Each one heard one-by-one. Slowly. Like an icicle forming.
GET-TO-THE-HOSPITAL-YOUR-BROTHER-WAS-SHOT.
Then that icicle falls off from the awning of fuck you and stabs you through the heart. And even in the midst of a tropical summer, when I hear those words, I never feel colder in my life.
In the car to the hospital, I talk to God holding tears back form my eyes. I tell Him that he can cash-in all my good deeds right now and completely throw away anything I've ever asked for and forget to bless me in the future just to make sure that my brother's OK. My face shivers. My bottom lip shakes. I drive. Aircon off. Windows up.
I park right in front of the ER. My friend Rich greets me. Greet is a crappy word in this situation, because all I hear is. HE'S GONE.
I probably go all telenovela at this part. Knees buckling. Wailing. All that jazz. But I don't remember. My friends who were at the club when my brother was there, are at the hospital. I probably looklike shit cause no one says anything to me. Then again, I'd hate to be the one to tell someone that their brother had just been killed.
Then I experience what is probably the hardest thing I've ever been through in my life. I look for my brother. And when I see him, I die. I die into mess of flesh and inconsolable slop that my friends can't keep me up.
But a minute later. I'm fine. My eyes are dry. I know why. Because I have to call home and tell my parents. This, is the hardest phone call I've ever had to make in my life.
...
I hear my mother scream like I've never heard. I hear my father wail. I never heard my father wail.
They arrive at the hospital and my other brother (12 years old) let's out a scream so heart wrenching I'm sure that someone in the hospital suffered a stroke. He didn't understand. He was just woken up in the middle of the night by his crying parents and brought to a place to see his oldest brother. Dead.
I, on the other hand, am a picture of composure and calm. I provide the hugs and back rubs. Burying my pain and loss deeper with each hand movement. I arrange to have his corneas donated. He's a director. He has great eyes.
My younger brother and I rub my brother's arms and head to keep his body warm. My mother has his head in her arms and talks to him. My father is at his feet.
We do this for hours. Family members and friends come and go. And at 8:00AM, my alarm on my cellphone goes off. I hear my brothers voice, "Wake up! C'mon, get up!"
I cry. And cry. And cry. I hug my brother's cold body and pretend I'm just sleeping next to him.
They take him to get autoposied. I mean he was... murdered.
...
I'm home. I have no one to talk to anymore. My eyes are cried out. I have no energy left in my body. So I'm here. Typing.
I answer phone calls from concerned people. I speak to the police about the investigation. They haven't found the shooter yet. Shitty police. Just put him behind bars. Please.
My hands are caked in his blood. My fingernails are red as I'm typing on this keyboard. His voice is on my alarm clock. The last book he read but never finished is by my bed. The magazine he browsed through while taking a shit in my bathroom is still sitting there.
I now know what it's like to have someone close to you die. It's a pain I wish on no one.
He's in a better place now. But he's not here with me.
Luigi. My brother. My best friend.
A huge part of me died today. And so does this journal. This is my last entry.
76. I figure I'll live to that age. But seriously Luige, how am I gonna go the next 50 years without you?
Luige. I love you. I love you more than I ever let you know. Why'd you have to go?
Please answer me in my sleep.
Sunday. We're visiting my grandmother in the province. She's the last grandparent we have left and her health isn't exactly the greatest. We have to spend time with her. My brother's shoot for the day is cancelled so he actually makes it out. We are sitting on the front porch of her house and I call my brother an asshole. An asshole because in the Philippines, he's somewhat of a "celebrity". Especially in the provinces.
"You're an asshole," I say.
"Why?"
"Cause a 60 year-old woman just walked halfway across town to get you some barbeque because you asked if any was around."
"So she's just being nice."
"She's kissing your ass and you're loving it."
He smirks. Asshole.
Four hours later, he has enough of the lack of air conditioning -- the humidity so thick it felt like you were walking through pudding. He kisses my grandmother goodbye and we hop in his Beemer and took off back to Metropolis.
It's a rather lengthy ride home from the province and he had already finished flipping through his "Philippine showbiz" magazines (to look for new talent, he says) and asks to read the book I'm reading.
"I should have brought a book, too," he states.
I fall asleep to the sound of an oncoming typhoon. He gets a headache from reading in the car. We go to his apartment and he gives me his cellphone. "I just got a new one," he adds. He's always getting new things. He's successful and makes good money. I am successful and don't make good money. I check out the phone and realize that he's got about 60 pictures of himself on there. And his alarm clock is his voice saying "Wake up, c'mon get up" for about 5 minutes.
Narcissist. Typical him.
We play Xbox and he asks me if I want to go to church with him. I decline because I have a birthday dinner to attend. He drops me off at my apartment and he comes up to because he has to kill time before mass starts. Plus, he had to "go number 2." I remember him rushing into my apartment. I remember that clearly. I have to remember that.
The next day, Monday, he texts me, "Wat r u up 2?" Nothing, I say. No reply back.
Tuesday. He texts me, "Wat r u up 2?" Nothing I say. Is he doing anything? He doesn't know yet. He'll let me know though.
I spend that evening at an awards show I had no intention being in attendance at. I spend an even later evening brining some balikbayans to a bar to show them a good time. I'm a good kid, though. I know I have work the next day so I leave the balikbayans at the bar. I walk home and I'm home by 1:30. I hop in the shower to wash away the extra filmy skin of sweat swallowing my body. As I get out I have two texts on my phone.
Text 1: "Yo, come out to the bar. Wer all her!" - Mark
Reply: "Man, I just came from there, I'm going 2 bed."
Text 2: "Wru?" - My brother
Reply: "I'm in bed already."
I set my cellphone alarm for 8:00 AM. I read more of the book that he started reading. I'm 200 pages ahead of him. The pages get blurry. In 15 mintues, I'm fast asleep.
BANG!
I look at my phone. It's 4:30 in the morning. Why is Mark calling me? I silence the phone and go back to sleep.
BANG!
Even on silent the phone rattles my nightstand. The buzzing probably even louder than my ringtone. It's Mark again. I reject the call and close my eyes.
BANG!
I start to think. There's only one reason that Mark would call me at 4:30 in the morning when he knows I'm sleeping. He got into fight. It had better be serious, I think. I call him back.
There are a few things you can say to a person to guarantee them go crazy and freak out of their heads. You could say, "Your house is on fire!" or maybe "There's a snake under your foot!" or maybe even, "There's an anvil falling from the 20th floor of a building and it's heading straight for your head!"
But there's one sure fire thing you can say to someone that's a lock to have them react by ripping their hair out of their heads:
Mark: "Dude, stay calm, don't freak out OK, but..."
Me: "What?! What the F&@K's happening?!"
You can prepare for a worst case scenario to keep you calm and steady. But what if there's a worst-er case scenario that you never even bothered to think of. That my friend, is called "hell". My hell came in the following words. Each one heard one-by-one. Slowly. Like an icicle forming.
GET-TO-THE-HOSPITAL-YOUR-BROTHER-WAS-SHOT.
Then that icicle falls off from the awning of fuck you and stabs you through the heart. And even in the midst of a tropical summer, when I hear those words, I never feel colder in my life.
In the car to the hospital, I talk to God holding tears back form my eyes. I tell Him that he can cash-in all my good deeds right now and completely throw away anything I've ever asked for and forget to bless me in the future just to make sure that my brother's OK. My face shivers. My bottom lip shakes. I drive. Aircon off. Windows up.
I park right in front of the ER. My friend Rich greets me. Greet is a crappy word in this situation, because all I hear is. HE'S GONE.
I probably go all telenovela at this part. Knees buckling. Wailing. All that jazz. But I don't remember. My friends who were at the club when my brother was there, are at the hospital. I probably looklike shit cause no one says anything to me. Then again, I'd hate to be the one to tell someone that their brother had just been killed.
Then I experience what is probably the hardest thing I've ever been through in my life. I look for my brother. And when I see him, I die. I die into mess of flesh and inconsolable slop that my friends can't keep me up.
But a minute later. I'm fine. My eyes are dry. I know why. Because I have to call home and tell my parents. This, is the hardest phone call I've ever had to make in my life.
...
I hear my mother scream like I've never heard. I hear my father wail. I never heard my father wail.
They arrive at the hospital and my other brother (12 years old) let's out a scream so heart wrenching I'm sure that someone in the hospital suffered a stroke. He didn't understand. He was just woken up in the middle of the night by his crying parents and brought to a place to see his oldest brother. Dead.
I, on the other hand, am a picture of composure and calm. I provide the hugs and back rubs. Burying my pain and loss deeper with each hand movement. I arrange to have his corneas donated. He's a director. He has great eyes.
My younger brother and I rub my brother's arms and head to keep his body warm. My mother has his head in her arms and talks to him. My father is at his feet.
We do this for hours. Family members and friends come and go. And at 8:00AM, my alarm on my cellphone goes off. I hear my brothers voice, "Wake up! C'mon, get up!"
I cry. And cry. And cry. I hug my brother's cold body and pretend I'm just sleeping next to him.
They take him to get autoposied. I mean he was... murdered.
...
I'm home. I have no one to talk to anymore. My eyes are cried out. I have no energy left in my body. So I'm here. Typing.
I answer phone calls from concerned people. I speak to the police about the investigation. They haven't found the shooter yet. Shitty police. Just put him behind bars. Please.
My hands are caked in his blood. My fingernails are red as I'm typing on this keyboard. His voice is on my alarm clock. The last book he read but never finished is by my bed. The magazine he browsed through while taking a shit in my bathroom is still sitting there.
I now know what it's like to have someone close to you die. It's a pain I wish on no one.
He's in a better place now. But he's not here with me.
Luigi. My brother. My best friend.
A huge part of me died today. And so does this journal. This is my last entry.
76. I figure I'll live to that age. But seriously Luige, how am I gonna go the next 50 years without you?
Luige. I love you. I love you more than I ever let you know. Why'd you have to go?
Please answer me in my sleep.