bubog

Photo by Krisha Natividad

Content warning: This literary piece contains detailed depictions of abuse. Reader's discretion is advised. 

Cassie unlocked the door and looked around the messy apartment, feeling a sense of dread fill her as she assessed the mess. The place was cramped enough as it is, but she couldn’t even see the floor with the number of clothes, trash, and beer bottles littered about. The bathroom was similarly in a disarray and the kitchen counter was covered in more bottles, accompanied by ripped-open packets and cans of instant food, and a dull, unpleasant smell wafted out.

All reminders that she had to fix, weren’t they?

She was still standing in the doorway, and she heard someone clear their throat from behind her. She turned her head and saw an old woman look at her with concern. "Ah, iha, gusto mo ng…tulong?” She asked, gesturing to the mess of the apartment. But from Cassie’s frazzled nerves, she didn’t acknowledge the care the woman regarded her with, only being able to pinpoint the disheartening pity in the woman’s eyes.

Without so much as a word, Cassie quickly stepped into the apartment and slammed the door shut, not daring to think about the hurt in the woman’s eyes and only thinking about the pity the woman saw her with. Anything to help fuel her disinterest and distaste of the outside.

She woke up with a groan, feeling her back ache as she slowly sits up in the rickety bed in the apartment. It wasn’t much better than the floor, what with it being covered in stains and other trash, but she figured the illusion of a comfortable bed was better than anything.

Sitting up on the edge of the bed, she analyzed the work she now had to face; namely, the clean-up. Cassie could feel the skin at the back of her neck prickle, goosebumps forming on the surface, but she tried to will it away, gritting her teeth and steeling herself to be tougher than this.

She’s gone through worse, how bad can a messy apartment be?

She stood up and tried to tackle the easiest thing she deemed to clean up—trash. Giving the floor a quick scan with her eyes, she picked up the large plastic bag crumpled off to the side, the supermarket logo still imprinted on it and figured that it could serve as a trash bag. Without so much as a second thought (well, if she was being honest she was scared of thinking too much about this) she started picking up any trash she could find on the floor; half-burnt cigarettes, newspapers, old magazines, receipts, food containers, paper, plastic, anything she deemed as unsanitary. She was working on autopilot, forcing herself to not look and instead just clean.

However, just as she picked up what looked to be an empty food container, to her disgust she smelled something fierce and rotting inside. She let out a harsh gag and tried not to puke yesterday’s lunch out. She picked it up more carefully, holding it away at arm’s length, and looked, curious about whatever the hell was making that smell.

Her mistake.

It was one of the few non-instant food containers in the apartment bought at a restaurant. It was a container that previously held lasagna, and with the wicked remains of it, judging from the smell. Memories of laughter and shared meals came to her mind, and with a shocked sob wracking her body she dropped it to the floor, cursing out loud as the mess spilled.

She groaned and blamed herself for her carelessness, in dropping it or in remembering, she didn’t want to say. With a sigh, she started her way over to the bathroom, recalling that they had rags and what she hoped was bleach—

Knock, knock.

She raised an eyebrow as the soft sound upon her door stopped, as quick as it came. She felt apprehension flash through her as she peeked through the peephole but saw no one. Frowning, she opened the door and stuck her head out, turning side to side as she thought it was just some kids playing a prank until she looked down.

A small food container was placed gingerly in front of her doorstep accompanied by a post-it note. She wordlessly picked it up and read it, feeling indignant at the pity graced across the paper. Sana magustuhan mo ito. Adobo siya na may kanin :)

Well, at least it’s not lasagna. She thought bitterly, unceremoniously adding it to her trash bag without a second thought.

It was the second day, and she felt a groggy vigor course through her body. She was at least glad that she could start to see some semblance of the floor, and the smell improved somewhat. But she knew for herself that there were still lots to do, especially since this was a one-woman job.

Next on her agenda? The beer bottles.

Yesterday, amidst her cleaning the kitchen, she managed to scrounge up proper trash bags hidden in the cupboard. They weren’t the best quality ones, but she figured so long as she doubled up on them, then she wouldn’t have a problem.

Quickly pulling two trash bags and layering them atop one another, she started to pick up the bottles one by one and carefully, carefully placed them inside, hearing the telltale clink of the glass against each other. It was an all-too-familiar sound to her, and she hated how the feel of the bottle in her hands was familiar as well.

She had always hated drinking.

To her dismay, she found more than a few broken bottles littered across the floor, but she doesn’t have any indoor slippers; they never managed to buy them. They had always laughed it off and chalked it up to him being too stingy to—

She hissed between her teeth as tears suddenly dotted her eyes, upset with herself. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," she cursed, angrily rubbing away the tears with the ball of her palm. She’s not allowed to remember, not allowed to think.

She took a few shuddering breaths in, trying to regain her composure, when the telltale knock from yesterday sounded out again. She glared at the door for a moment before carefully making her way over, avoiding as many shards of glass as she could.

She threw open the door and as she thought, there was yet another container of food, attached with a note. She picked it up and slammed her door, upset at the audacity some people have, thinking that she needed charity. "I bet it’s that old lady," she grumbled, tossing the container and note in without so much as reading it. "If she keeps this up, I’m going to tell her to mind her business—"

It was an all-too-familiar quote from her, shocking her out of her anger.

Brushing it off and feeling the queasy sensation of guilt in her stomach, she got on her knees and started picking up the glass shards as best she could, careful not to break her skin as she picked up the bigger chunks of glass and dusted the rest into her hand. In her haste to distract herself, it was only an hour later did she remember they had a broom.

On the third day, she rose from her bed with a soft gasp, pulling herself out of a nightmare beset by memories. She absentmindedly rubbed her shoulders, her arms, and her throat as she sighed, trying to comfort herself. Glancing at the mess that still plagued her apartment, she was at least happy to note that she was making good progress. She smiled to herself as she felt an inkling of pride well up in her, glad that the past two days of total cleanup paid off.

But then her smile fell as she saw that what remained scattered about were clothes.

His clothes.

She bit back her lip as she held back a soft sob, trying not to think about him too much. With a shaky breath, she stood up and tried to carefully pick up his stuff, memories, and nostalgia wafting around her. She saw that so many haphazardly discarded clothes practically covered the other furniture in the room; the cabinets and drawers on the shelves were also filled. And it wasn’t just his clothes; his accessories, his shoes, everything in the apartment reminded her of him.

She remembered going with him to try on these jeans, laughing and teasing him that no, they did not make his butt look big.

This t-shirt strewn across the dining chair was a gift from her mom, wherein he proudly said that it didn’t suit him, only being worn in front of her parents.

These shorts were what he was wearing when he…took her the first time, coaxing her into a sense of security, however false.

He wore these shoes when he tripped her that one time, laughing and saying that it was just a joke and that he was glad she had a sense of humor.

This watch was a gift from a friend of his, and she rubbed her thumb across the scratch on top, recalling how she wasn’t able to move her arm for a few days after he found out.

And this cap…

She brought the cap to her face and tried to stifle a soft sob, finding how it reeked of him and the tumultuous emotions in the pit of her stomach twisting about in a horrid cacophony of shame, nostalgia, anger, and a void sense of love.

He wore this cap when he was arrested, one of the neighbors finally having enough and apparently calling the cops on him. She swore up and down that it wasn’t her that night, just around 4 days ago, but that didn’t stop him from trying to throttle her in his anger.

She missed him; she missed what he was—what they had.

Should she have tried harder to defend him from the cops when they busted the door down?

She recalled the sad sense of joy she felt when they, without question and with a quick glance towards her, cuffed him and took him away, him not helping his own case as he fought back. She remembered him making a lunge towards her but was again quickly intercepted, and again taken away. Just as she remembered the fear that shook her to her core, causing her even now, just like that night, to take a step back—

“Ow!” She cried out, feeling a sharp pain on the heel of her foot. She dropped the cap and hopped on one foot, leaning against the wall to support herself. She cringed as she saw a few glass shards embedded in her skin, apparently missing them from her cleanup yesterday. Blood slowly seeped out of her wound, not enough for genuine, hospitalizing concern but—

“Iha?”

She froze as she heard the familiar voice of the old lady from two days ago, just on the other side of the door. "Okay ka lang? Kailangan mo ng tulong?" She asked, her voice muffled and hesitant.

Cassie, despite the pain in her foot, quickly hobbled to the doorway and flung it open. There was the old lady, in her hands that all too recognizable food container with a post-it note attached to it. The old lady’s mouth opened up in surprise, assessing Cassie.

Around her throat were definitive hand marks, and her left eye was still puffy from the black eye it had. Cassie cleared her throat and looked away, eyes downcast in shame. "H-hello po.” She said softly, then lamely gestured to her still-bleeding foot. "N-nabubog po ako. Can…can you help?” She shrugged sheepishly, the request for help foreign on her tongue.

She had to admit, it was nice to be fussed over instead of being looked at with disdain as the old lady quickly ushered herself in, asking if she had any bandages and tweezers so she could help.