No tears for him! (a monosyllabic prose)

By Jing Villamil

 

SHE, too, has her tales to pour out of her cup. Which, she says, is not half-full, but half-chucked. “Not all my fault,” she claims, “not all.” And she lifts her eyes up to the skies. She heaves a sigh; she shrugs.

She runs a nail through a brow. She flicks a lock of hair up and back of her head. She kneads the cleft of her chin. She could not keep still. “I did worse than her,” and she pouts; she points her lips to last week’s link. She goes on to tell her tale:

They were wed young. He was of rich veins, born and bred. She was poor but she had “the” brains. She was street smart, too. She worked hard her way from clerk to chief. She saved and loaned to build a house, a home for the loves of her life: he and their three kids. She had to. He worked for them from whom he owed his rich blood. And his new cars, and his friends. He had few to spare, for her, for their kids. He boasts to all, “my wife earns so much more than me and mine!”

He brought friends home. For days, for nights. For years! And the kids could not keep their eyes and mouth shut: “why does Dad and his friends act weird, talk weird, smell weird?”

So she went home not on sched. She called and called his name. She keyed their room. They were deep in sleep, bare as the day they were born. She got her cam; she took shots. She sent the girl back to where she came. She nicked deep his _ick. Their house was too far for help to come. He must have bled a lot.

She was not tried in court. He who was caught in the act lost his right.

I reach out to calm her sobs. But then I freeze. She sheds no tears; she shakes but she does not cry.

She laughs! “And till now they still search for the girl! I said and said and said: I sent her back, from where she came!”

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