Chapter two: Goodbye
1337 Words
I clutched the small brown envelope bearing my name: Henry James Dixon. It was my paycheck—five thousand pesos in crisp cash. A bitter smile crossed my lips, knowing that I’d have to kiss it goodbye. Because I already knew what was waiting for me at home.
"We don't have groceries."
"You need to pay the internet bill."
"Your brother needs tuition money."
Same old songs, and same old tunes.
"This is the last time," I kept telling myself, only to end up in the exact same spot over and over again. A harsh, ugly laugh barked past my lips. "Last time, my ass. You're just a coward, Henry," I muttered.
The thick, humid air felt like standing directly in front of a frying fishball stall. Cars sat bumper to bumper, blaring their horns in an relentless wave of noise. I swiped a hand across my damp forehead. "People have no common sense. Like honking is going to magically clear the traffic."
Thinking back to when I turned fifteen, I couldn't help but wonder: What would have happened if I'd been smarter? What if I’d hidden the money somewhere else—would they still have found it?
Back then, my heart was still lit with passion, and I had actually tried to leave. I saved up every spare cent for a bus fare to Manila, dreaming of all the possibilities and opportunities waiting for me. My heart was so full of hope. I didn't care about sleeping in cold alleys or starving to death. Staying meant surrendering my entire life to parents who only ever cared about one child.
I remembered coming home from school that afternoon, humming to myself, convinced that tonight was finally the night I'd rid myself of the leeches.
Then came the blow.
The moment I saw the brand new shoes my brother was wearing, panic sent me sprinting into my room. My heart sank into my stomach as I pulled out the empty tin can from beneath my bed. They had tracked down my secret stash and spent every single peso on him.
"He needs them more than you do. Stop being so selfish," they had scolded without a hint of remorse.
I could still vividly picture the smug grin plastered on my brother's face, and I remembered clenching my fists so hard my knuckles turned white. Slamming my bedroom door shut, I sobbed into my pillow until my eyes were raw, red, and stinging.
Remembering it now, the memory still felt raw—as if the whole thing had happened just yesterday.
I didn't stop trying after that. A few years later, as high school graduation approached. I convinced myself there was still another way out: college. A university far, far away—somewhere beyond their reach, where a dormitory could be my sanctuary and a degree could be my ticket to freedom.
So, I tried. I really, truly tried. I stayed up past midnight every single night, studying until my eyes burned under the dim flicker of a desk lamp, memorizing formulas, re-reading chapters until the pages blurred. But reality is cruel. No matter how many hours I poured into those textbooks, my grades barely nudged. Average. Always just mediocre.
Watching classmates breeze through exams while my endless grinding yielded nothing broke something inside me. The realization hit like cold water: effort alone wasn't enough. I wasn't smart enough to win a full scholarship, and my parents certainly weren't going to pay a single peso for my tuition when Daniel's future was the priority.
Eventually, the exhaustion won. I gave up on university, surrendered the dream, and went straight into manual labor, trading my sweat for cash that wasn't even mine to keep.
I walked in a daze, following the familiar route home. A sudden ping snapped me back to reality. Fishing out the worn phone from my pocket, I stared at the rectangular screen. This damn thing only ever brings me dread.
It chimed once, then twice, before settling back into silence. Unlocking the screen, I found four unread messages. My thumb hovered over the smooth glass. They were from Mom—and just as expected, my brother needed something again.
There's always something, I thought bitterly. It's always Daniel this, Daniel that. Do they ever ask how I'm doing?
"They treat you like garbage, yet you keep coming back," a harsh voice dripped with venom said in the back of my mind. But refusing them would only be met with sharp words and bitter criticism—words that cut deep, words that left me questioning whether I was a Dixon.
So, I stayed. What else could I do? Mom and Dad were aging, Daniel was still in school, and deep down, a foolish part of me kept hoping that maybe one day they’d finally see me. But that day was never coming. They had already set their minds on labeling me the "capable" son.
"You don't need us because you're capable," they’d say—as if that were a valid excuse for years of treating me like second best.
"Does Daniel want any snacks?" I texted back, my fingers dripping with sarcasm.
"No, he already ate. Go buy yourself a snack." Her reply came a minute later.
That was the trap. That was what kept pulling me back—those rare, subtle crumbs of kindness that made me question if they truly cared or not. Even through a glowing screen, those simple words managed to reach in and warm my cold chest.
Tears silently slid down my face. Fate is so damn cruel. How was I supposed to hate them properly when they did things like this? It would be so much easier if they were completely awful, but moments like these filled my heart with a dangerous, foolish hope.
A sudden flash of light blinded me from the left, accompanied by the blaring roar of an air horn so loud I felt it shake the pavement beneath my feet. I turned toward the noise, watching helplessly as a massive truck sped straight toward me.
My eyes widened, a gasp catching in my throat. I must have blindly stepped into the road.
This was it. My end.
The white glare engulfed me, and I closed my eyes, bracing for the impact—waiting for the pain, and then the sweet, glorious freedom that would follow.
Funny how fate works. How it plays with human lives. But as I faced my own death, a strange thought crossed my mind: maybe this was a gift. Maybe this was fate's twisted compensation for everything I’d suffered. It wasn't the reward I would have asked for, but at that point, who cared?
A violent wave of agony shot through my body as a sickening crunch echoed in the air, drowned out by the chaotic screams of bystanders. It all happened too fast to comprehend. Yet, for a split second, I felt completely weightless. For a fleeting moment, I saw my eight-year-old self—arms stretched wide, face bright with pure joy, pretending to fly around the backyard while my parents watched and laughed.
A single tear slipped down my cheek. "I'm sorry, Mom... Dad... I can't take care of you anymore," I whispered into the void.
The sky above blurred into a smear of gray. A female medic leaned over me, her voice frantic, telling me to hold on. I wanted to tell them to stop, not to waste precious time on someone like me, but my body wouldn't obey. I closed my eyes, and the darkness took over. The noise faded into a muffled hum, then gradually dissolved into absolute silence.
Then... nothing.
BZZZZZT.
A sudden spike of white noise tore through the silence. A high-pitched, digital ringing vibrated right behind my eyes, crackling like an old television losing its signal.
Whirrrrr… PINNNGGG..
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