Manipulative. Materialistic. Wicked. Incorrigibly charming. Bad to the bone. He accuses me of — gasp! — trying to seduce him one drunken rainy night in the late 1990’s and I accuse him of historical revisionism (This I will say: I never, ever initiate seduction. I just, um, ratify it. Hehe.) Of course, it doesn’t help my case any that two years after, Mori came out of the closet, with a feather boa and a flourish. And this story is what he tells OVER and OVER, to RANDOM people.
That “thorn” in our friendship notwithstanding, Mori is one of my oldest and dearest friends. We couldn’t be living in more different worlds — he rubs elbows with Judy Anne and Piolo and wins stuff like the KBP Golden Dove and I, well, I guess I live a less showbizy life. We don’t meet often, maybe just twice a month, but when we do, things magically go back to how they were before. We get transported back to college, before the real world kicked in and when a tattered green tent in the parking lot of FC still held all our dreams.
Cheers, Mori. I love you, bakla.
I’ll Burn the Bridge When I Get There, by Carlos Mori Rodriguez.
I have been holding on to a delusion for more than two years. It isn’t any of the typical delusions that would lead one to stalk, maim, and go single white female over another. It’s more masochistic, actually. My unwillingness to accept the truth blinded me from the screaming red light. It was a messy fit from the get go. Worse, I was the last to know. Six months after it all began, everyone else around me knew where it was headed. Dogs knew it. Everyone knew about it except me.
It’s not as if the delusion was clinical — bordering the line, maybe, often times stepping on the danger mark — but hindsight being 20/20, I realize that I may have pushed the envelope too far. You see, this is absolutely atypical of me, which is why I consider this a life-changing experience. I have always been able to control my emotions and I knew when something had less chances of survival than an angler fish out of water. But this one really had me fooled.
You know how all your friends (mostly the married, kept ones, but especially the bitter and envious ones) tell you that despite your standards, you’re bound to end up with someone completely out of your league? And that when the big L word comes, you lose your sense of self and graciously give in to, well, selflessness? I believed them. True enough, this grand philosophy implanted itself in my subconscious and whenever I am faced with the opportunity to save myself from an eternity of isolation, it rears its ugly, amorphous, shiny-shimmering-splendid head. The delusion I speak of is the spawn of one such opportunity more than two years before today.
When you make it your daily goal to prove that you can rise from the ashes of a miserable, failed relationship, you unconsciously put your guard down. Suddenly it’s like Sudan with UN peacekeeping forces or the ‘tetanus’ phase of a really bad diarrhea attack. It really is a dandruff away from desperate. But, of course, vulnerable would be the word of choice.
Grand Philosophy X, which is how I will call my friends’ unsolicited advice henceforth, and ‘vulnerability’ are the equally promiscuous parents of my 2-year old autistic kid, aptly named Marty — short for martyr. And boy, was this kid spoiled. When he was barely six months old, he would keep me awake the entire night, make me skip work, and throw tantrums left and right. On his first birthday, he was already speaking in tongues — complete paragraphs of unintelligible ramblings that, quite suspiciously, sounded defamatory to my parental skills. At 2-years, he became curiously attached to alcohol, profanity, and bestial pornography. Quite recently, he would dress himself in otherworldly fashion — creating a wild ensemble composed of lingerie, silverware, Ziplock, and double-sided mounting tapes. This came before he started writing hieroglyphs on walls using chicken blood and leprechaun manure, declaring that the end is near and chanting the remaining hours until the next Heroes and Greys Anatomy episodes would be available for download on Torrent.
I predict that, in the next few months, he’d be surfing the internet for sites that promote hate crimes, instructions on creating a nuclear bomb, or maybe downloading the PDF version of the cult classic, From Anthrax With Love. It won’t be long before he grows into someone I will no longer recognize. It won’t be long before I start scheduling consults with Dr. Katz, or divesting my money in favor of psychiatric insurance.
Last night, while Marty comfortably sprawled on my favorite expensive shaggy silk carpet, I pinned him down, decorated his head with cling wrap (an entire roll), tied his arms and legs with barbed wire and sliced open his throat. I watched him die a slow, painful death. My tears (eight in all, I counted) fell on a thick pool of autistic blood. A few minutes and epileptic attacks later, he was exactly the way I wanted him to be — motionless and silent. Easy, I thought. He didn’t even fight for his life. No bites, scratches, or saliva-slinging like a retard on a birthday party parlor game. And just like Simon Cowell when Sanjaya was booted out of Idol, I was slightly disappointed.
I admit. I killed my own kid. I confess to a heinous crime… against myself. I ended the life of a two-year old problem child whose existence gave me much pain… but nonetheless negated any and all suspicions I had… on my potency.
Marty’s remains now lie three inches under the wooden laundry basket in the unused room of my three-bedroom home. Flowers and any such offering from friends, family, or loved ones, are prohibited. Visits are out of the question.
When the day of reckoning comes and people ask me what’s become of the son I so proudly called my own, I’ll tell them exactly what I hurriedly scribbled on his death certificate: Drowned in a Fire.