Murderous Thoughts

I know it was wrong, but there were countless times I wished someone dead. Indeed, as Elizabeth Kenny said, he who angers you conquers you. But normally after a few minutes when I have calmed down and got over things, I’d realized that I had been mean in thoughts. I’d forget, and move on.

However, there is a particular incident which, no matter how many years had passed, did not make me forget and did not assuage that fervent wish for someone to die.  In fact, whenever I recall it, I would be filled with renewed loathing and that urge to stab the person involved could get so overwhelming that I scare even myself.

It was the 8^th of May around a decade ago, during our annual celebration of the town fiesta in Pototan.  The plaza was festive in every sense of the word. People riding the Ferris wheel were screaming as if being butchered and you could hear them even at a distance. Everybody seemed to be talking at the same time, not to mention moving in opposite directions at the same time too. The air smelled of popcorn, pan cakes and fish ball.

And there was the scorching sun, especially more merciless at high noon, but apparently I did not care much because I could not recall having brought an umbrella. I was a short, skinny girl of 12 (give or take a year), wearing a gray blouse which I matched with worn pedal pushers. Maybe I was on the way to meet some friends, but I remembered stopping in one of those stalls in front of the astrodome to idly look at printed 1x1 and wallet-sized celebrity photos vendors sold cheaply. 

Everybody at the time was gaga over A-1, Westlife, and Britney, and stalls adorned with photos and posters of them were practically everywhere. I am not sure if I ever purchased anything but I left right away and headed toward the corner of the plaza, where cheap plastic toys were laid on the ground next to bracelets and necklaces and jelly slippers. 

Then… I felt it. A hand was running on my right thigh, as I heard a man’s voice saying “Hi, sexy legs.” Before I could react, he was moving away already. Shocked, speechless, I followed him with my gaze and he looked back that for a brief moment, our eyes met and he grinned like the bastard that he was.

I was still unable to speak, but I could tell you my exact thoughts at the time: I thought of running after him, punching his face, scratching his eyes out and screaming until a police would intervene and lock him beyond bars. I wanted to kick him hard in the groin over and over again for the dirty thing he did. But I was not able to move. I thought, “What if he had a weapon with him?” The idea of having to die young in his evil hands was repulsive enough. I swore under my breath, and he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

My memory had blocked out how he looked because the experience (like himself and his black soul) was too ugly. I never felt so powerless as I did at the moment.  My passivity shamed me that I never told anyone about it. And yes, probably I just saved myself from being potentially killed by a molester, but all these years I wished I have done something. Anything at all, to at least convince myself that I did not just let it happen. If only I screamed maybe? Someone could’ve run after him and turn him over to the police. Then I would make sure he’d rot in jail before he could do something worse to other girls.

The only consolation I had is that it did not happen at night, in a darkened alley when there was only him and me. Something much horrible would surely have happened and I could have died before my life even started. At some point, I was lucky. He did not hurt me physically, and I walked away with my purity intact.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

from Saw

But call me whatever name you fancy for saying so: I still want that man dead. Dead…buried under the ground along the likes of him...killed painfully and slowly, in the fashion of Saw. Maybe, just maybe, in time I would learn to at least forgive, because definitely I would not be able to forget. Until that time comes, my refuge is Karma.