Cover photo by Jeia Jazul
I can hear the humans shriek from up above.
The sound is one the underworld has grown used to; background noise, and fuzzy static. Whenever I rise to the surface they come from each corner of the country: a man driving a knife into his loving partner, a child crying over his mother leaving him in a garbage pail underneath a flickering streetlight, a woman sobbing into her arms as she mourns over the innocence she has lost.
But tonight the cries are different, I realize, wiry wings lifting me up as I press my ear up against the surface. Tonight I feel inside me instead of anguish, I feel warmth.
I can hear a faint “choo choo” trailing around my head, moving around in circles and figure eights. As I move closer to the entrance to the other world my nostrils start to flare at the smell of gingerbread and cinnamon, peppermint and childlike innocence found anew.
My hearts start to beat within my chest a thrumming of ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum as I move closer and closer. In the back of my mind, I can see my mother carrying me from when I was a child–from when I was human–and I can smell cheese and ham, the way I could before my nose started to decay and my teeth started to sharpen and my skin started to crackle into ash and scales.
‘Ba-dum-ba-dum-badumbadumbadumbadum,’ there it is: the warmth of the human world wraps around my wings, pulling me closer in its embrace and whispering for me to come forth and smell the pine, stand underneath the mistletoe and once again feel like a girl–a woman–even if it’s just for one night more.
I let the darkness engulf me whole and my insides push and pull against one another, entrails warping around at my feet and keeping the rest of my body close to me, and then I am shot out into the human world, the normal world, the feeling world.
As soon as I am shot out into the light I hear someone scream; ditzy street lamps covered in scarlet and emerald flash angrily at me, with bodies dressed in white streaming around, avoiding me as if I am the plague. I can hear them murmur, hear them whisper; they call me “monster” and rush past me, going straight from church door to car interior as if I am not worthy of being noticed–not worthy of being seen.
I let out a shriek and it echoes into the night, ripples through the clouds, and blares out so loud that it breaks each window of this pristine chapel before flapping my wings out and rushing forth into the sky. I can hear the humans gasp from down below as I take flight and leave the rest of me behind but I am far too tired to bring luggage and baggage forth with me.
I end up in a small, dilapidated shack on the outskirts of Tondo, Manila. The windows are broken, jagged pieces of glass pointing outwards into the streets, ready to blind anyone unlucky enough to pass by. The doors have been torn down, and the roof has been stripped, probably to be sold to the nearest junkyard. In the wreckage, as I move closer, I see a photo frame. I pick it up, hair blowing away in the wind, and let out a sob as I realize that once, there was a photo of my mother and me in here. And now, just like I am, it is gone. Too far gone.
I am on my way back to the underworld when I feel a small hand tugging gently at my hair. I turn around, ready for the worst; my fangs are out, just as my claws are, and my hair has formed spikes around me. My wings are straight like steel—giant knives ready to dive in for the kill. But instead of disgusted eyes and a hateful sneer, I come face to face with big, innocent eyes.
It's a young girl, not more than five years old. She looks up at me with a kind smile before stretching out her dirt-laden hands. In it is a small, singular piece of cake.
"You have anyone with you this Christmas?"
I shake my head.
She looks at me and tilts her head to the side. "... No cake?"
I shake my head again. "No cake," I rasp out. I haven't used my voice in so long, it feels almost foreign.
With no hesitation, she reaches out and places her plate in my hand. "Here," she says, and then runs off. Not five seconds later I find her knocking on the door of a car passing by for change to spare; slowly the car's window rolls down, and as he hands her what couldn't be more than ten pesos, her entire face lights up. She screams, "You've just made my day!"
I hear the badum-badum-badum-badum going off again. There is heat on my cheeks and a smile that I can't help growing on my face as I head back to my own home. As I pass through the portal, I can feel my entrails wrapping around me in a loving hug.
When I get back, I am surrounded by my fellow monsters asking where I have been, what I did, and why I look the way I do. I can feel my mother smiling at me, and that little girl holding my hands in hers with no hesitation.
I say nothing—simply hand them my slice of chocolate. They consume it within seconds, but I don't mind. I let them eat cake and spend the rest of my Christmas watching over that little girl. Everywhere she goes, people seem to want to give her money as if they are being controlled to. How that happened, if you were to ask me, I would say that I have absolutely no idea.
