I pick at memories like scabs on juvenile knees. When I do, they never heal quite the right way. The scars they form turn deep and guttural and ugly. Last month, I started applying healing balm over the scars I made. Although it didn’t soothe the lumpy skin, I like to think that I’m doing something to take care of myself.

These days, when I rub circles over it, I find that I no longer get repulsed upon contact.

The wind is chilly. I hope the winds brought rain along with it. For raindrops to pitter-patter atop my head and drench my clothes until it plasters itself onto my skin. Ground me into thinking of doing silly things like dancing in the rain even when I have a perfectly-functioning umbrella tucked away in my bag. I would like to skip my way home and laugh and stray from the path to stomp over dried leaves. I’ll match my footsteps with strangers just to hear the solid sound of soles on dirt roads and liken them to marching. Marching until we separate paths and the cold of the rain and the yellow lights on the desolate street becomes my only company once again.

When I get home, the walls would have streak marks from where the rain has seeped through the patched up ceiling my grandfather used to pride himself with. A bucket would be placed right below the bigger holes and rags would be used to soak up anything else that spills. By this time, the happiness I felt from dancing in the rain would be gone, a cotton ball stuck into my cerebrum to block my memories with white fluff. Rain something, something. Chemistry equations. Dried leaves. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Hmm. Whose voice is that? Something loud. Laughter?

My mama would tell me to wash up and change into dry clothes and come help mop the floors. I’ll proceed to do none of that. Instead, I would watch as raindrops race down the walls, betting on which raindrop would reach the floor first. I’d daydream of having as much of a trajectory as raindrops do. For me to just follow gravity instead of traversing through life with no clear direction of where I want to go. That way, I don’t have to lie my way through career guidance weeks in school and “what do you want to be when you grow up?” questions from relatives.

Why do they care so much anyway?

I told more lies than I can keep up with. Why would I ever want to get drenched in rain when I have an umbrella? Silly! It would be cold and lonely and strangers would laugh at me for even attempting to skip and stomp through leaves when the last time I did that was in kindergarten. Watch raindrops race instead of helping mop the floors? Why would I do that? Perhaps, it’s the cotton talking. Why is that so? Hmm. What do I want to be when I grow up? Dried leaves. Rain. I need more friends. I want to go ride bikes together in the middle of the night. Wake up, wake up, wake up.

Why do I remember that? It is all too familiar. The downcast gaze, furrowed eyebrows, fidgeting
hands. Sometimes, even a small, upturned smile. Always, their eyes dripping with pity.

At times like this, I regret telling them my story.

Wake up, wake up, wake up.

What did I do today?

We learned about fires. Fires. I already know everything about fires. My research paper was about fires. My 2023 was about fires. Even my birthday, 11.9, is the hotline you call for fires. Fires. Fires. I don’t want to get up from my seat. Am I the last man standing? Oh. Yes. Wood is a fuel. Yes, I am correct. Wood burns easily when it is 6 pm. Hmm. Does Carpathia also does saving for fires? Rain. I would like it to rain. Rain would have saved our house from burning.

Bread is nice. It is filling and cheap, quite the contrast when paired with expensive cheese. Ugly. My scars are ugly. Where’s the healing balm? Hmm. Cotton, cotton. Cotton-filled dolls. Cotton-filled, button-eyed, lifeless dolls. Pretty.

Carpathia. Career guidance weeks.

I remember.

Itchy. My skin feels so itchy. My nails are hurting from scratching. I’m applying the healing balm
already, so why is it bleeding?

Still?

Oh.

I hope it rains.

Editor’s Note: This article was first published in the Banaag Diwa 2025: Nasaag Literary Folio of Atenews.