The Secret Beneath Her Name

Chapter 13 : 2008

St. Martha’s Home for Children. San Fernando, Pampanga. October 12, 2008. 2:47 AM.

INT. ROOM 6 - NIGHT

The lamp hisses. Gasera. It throws shadows that don’t match the room. Six cots, military straight. Five empty. One has a girl.

LILIA A. REVENAR, 36, paces. The floor is cold concrete. Her bare feet remember it. Same floor, 1972. She was six then. Now she’s the one watching.

She drags on a cigarette. Lights another with the butt. The smoke doesn’t cover the smell underneath: bleach, old milk, and something metallic. Fear has a smell. So does a bargain.

On the wall, a CLOCK. No glass. Just hands. 2:47 AM.

NYX DE LOS SANTOS sleeps in Cot 3. Six years old today. White dress Lilia bought from the palengke last week. “For her birthday,” she told Sister Agnes. Sister Agnes didn’t ask why an orphanage aide was buying birthday dresses.

Nyx doesn’t have a burn on her chin yet. That comes later. If Lilia does this right.

Three KNOCKS. Slow. Deliberate. Not a person’s knock. More like wood settling. Or a coffin closing.

DON SEVERINO (O.S.)

Lilia.

His voice cuts through the door. No muffle. Like he’s already inside.

Lilia doesn’t move to open it. She’s smoked two packs tonight. Her fingers are yellow. Her name isn’t really Lilia. Not anymore.

LILIA

You’re early.

DON SEVERINO (O.S.)

I’m never early. The clock is slow.

She looks at the clock. The second hand stutters. 2:47. 2:47. 2:47. Then 2:48.

He’s right. The clock is slow. Or time is.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

Lilia opens the door a crack. Three inches of darkness. Then him.

DON SEVERINO wears a black suit. Not dusty. Not wet. The hallway behind him should be dark — the orphanage cuts power at 10 PM — but she can see him clear. Like he brought his own light. Or his own dark.

He’s 60s, maybe older. Maybe younger. His face doesn’t sit right. Too smooth at the eyes. Too lined at the mouth. Like two men stitched together.

He holds a SKELETON KEY. Old iron. Teeth worn. It’s cold, and she can feel it from here.

DON SEVERINO

She’s six today. Our bargain.

Lilia grips the doorframe. The wood is damp. Everything in St. Martha’s is damp. Mold in the walls. Mildew in the lungs. Except Room 6. Room 6 is dry. It’s always been dry.

LILIA

She’s a child.

Don Severino smiles. His teeth are white. Too white. Not dentures. Not veneers. Just white.

DON SEVERINO

So were you. 1972. Room 6. You don’t remember?

She does.

Flash: 1972. Rain. No fire yet. A girl, six, white dress. Burn on her chin, fresh. A woman — not her mother — holding her hand. The woman’s name was Lilia, too. The woman said, “3:03, anak. They come at 3:03.” Then the woman pushed her out a window. The woman stayed. The house burned. The girl became Lilia. The name was all she had.

Lilia blinks. 2008 again. Her cigarette’s burned to her fingers. She doesn’t feel it.

Don Severino slides the key under the door. It stops at her bare toes. Cold bites her skin.

DON SEVERINO (CONT’D)

3:03. You know the rules. One life for the house. One name for the tree.

Lilia picks it up. The iron leaves a red mark on her palm. Not from heat. From weight. Some things are heavy without mass.

LILIA

What if I don’t?

DON SEVERINO

Then I take the house. And the five empty beds. And you. Again.

From Room 6, Nyx whimpers. A sound kids make when dreams turn. Lilia has heard it six times before. 1978. 1984. 1990. 1996. 2002. Now 2008. Every six years.

DON SEVERINO (CONT’D)

Or… you find another angel.

He turns. Walks. No footsteps. The hallway lights shouldn’t work, but they flicker on as he passes. Flicker off when he’s gone.

The clock ticks. 2:49 AM.

INT. ROOM 6 - 2:51 AM

Lilia locks the door. Two bolts. Chain. It won’t matter.

She kneels by Nyx’s cot. The girl’s breathing is soft. Lashes on cheeks. Lilia has done this five times. She buried five pairs of left shoes. All six-year-old girls. All named Nyx. All burned on the chin.

She checks the closet. Six pairs. Canvas. Leather. Plastic. All left feet. All burned black. She set the fires herself. Every six years. Don Severino takes the girl at 3:03. Lilia takes the shoe. Burns it. Buries it. Says a name that isn’t hers.

This is the first time she’s tried to break it.

The gasera lamp is full. She unscrews it. Kerosene smells like St. Martha’s. Like every bad night since 1972. She pours it on the shoes. The canvas drinks it. The leather shines.

Nyx stirs.

NYX

(sleep-voice)

Inang…

Lilia’s throat closes. She isn’t anyone’s inang. She was never allowed. Don Severino’s bargain: St. Martha’s stands as long as he gets a girl every six years. The girl gets a new name. The house gets another six years.

Lilia was the 1972 girl. She didn’t die. She became. Now it’s Nyx’s turn. Unless—

2:56 AM.

She looks at the skeleton key. Then at her cigarette. Then at Nyx’s chin. Unmarked. Clean.

LILIA

(whispers)

I’m sorry.

She strikes a match. The sulfur flares. For one second, Room 6 is daylight. She sees everything: the cracks in the wall shaped like veins, the water stain on the ceiling shaped like a swan, the six empty cots that will never be filled.

She drops the match.

The shoes catch. Fire is quiet at first. Then it roars. Heat slaps her face. Smoke rolls across the ceiling, fast.

Nyx wakes screaming.

LILIA (CONT’D)

We need a burn. A mark. So he thinks he took you.

Lilia grabs the skeleton key. Sticks it in the gasera flame. Counts: Isa. Dalawa. Tatlo. The iron glows orange.

Nyx thrashes. Six years old, but she fights like a woman. Like Lilia did in 1972.

LILIA (CONT’D)

Hold still, anak. Please.

She presses the key to Nyx’s chin.

Skin hisses. The smell is pork, hair, and kerosene.

NYX

(screams)

The burn is instant. Swan-shaped. The teeth of the key make the wings. Lilia picked this key 36 years ago from Don Severino’s hand. She didn’t know why. Now she does.

2:59 AM.

The door KICKS. Once. Wood splinters.

MATEO

(o.s.)

Lilia! Where is she?

Mateo. 19. The gardener’s boy. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be in the province, drunk, useless. But he’s here. Soot on his face. White shirt gray. Eyes wild.

He’s already been through fire. Lilia sees it. On his arms. On his shirt. He ran through something burning to get here.

LILIA

(throws Nyx and key at him)

Take her. Name’s Nyx. Nyx De Los Santos. She’s not mine. She’s not—

The CEILING GROANS. A beam, black with age, drops. It lands between Lilia and the door. Fire eats up its length in seconds.

LILIA (CONT’D)

(screaming over fire)

Run! The name! Don’t let him—!

MATEO

What about you?

Lilia looks at the burning shoes. Six of them. Six girls. Her. Her. Her. Her. Her. And now, not her.

LILIA

(smiles, bloody from bitten lip)

I was already bought, anak. She isn’t. Not yet.

She shoves him toward the window. No glass. St. Martha’s never had glass in Room 6. Just iron bars. Except tonight. Tonight the bars are bent. Like someone — like Mateo — bent them from outside.

LILIA (CONT’D)

3:03, Mateo. They come at 3:03. Go!

Mateo jumps. Nyx in his arms. He doesn’t look back. He lands on grass. The girl doesn’t wake.

3:01 AM.

INT. BURNING ROOM 6 - CONTINUOUS

Lilia should be burning. She isn’t. Not yet.

The fire parts. Like water. Like the Red Sea.

DON SEVERINO steps through. His suit is black. Not singed. Not smoking. His shoes are clean.

He looks at the six burning shoes. Nods. Like counting.

DON SEVERINO

Clever. A fake name. A fake death.

Smoke makes Lilia’s eyes water. Or maybe it’s not smoke.

LILIA

(coughing)

She’s free.

DON SEVERINO

No. She’s late.

He points to the wall. The CLOCK.

It stopped. 3:03 AM. The second hand is frozen. The minute hand is frozen. The hour hand is frozen.

Outside, the CLOCK TOWER behind St. Martha’s CHIMES. Once. Twice. Three times. Then STOPS.

3:03 AM.

DON SEVERINO (CONT’D)

And I always collect.

He opens his hand.

Six SKELETON KEYS. All identical. All iron. All cold. One for 1972. 1978. 1984. 1990. 1996. 2002.

He closes his hand. Opens it again.

Seven KEYS now.

DON SEVERINO (CONT’D)

See you in 2032, Lilia. Or should I say… Mireille?

Lilia’s blood goes cold. Mireille. She hasn’t heard that name since—

Flash: 1972. The woman who pushed her out the window. The woman who burned. The woman said, “My name is Mireille. Remember it. When you forget, they win.”

Lilia — Mireille — understands. She didn’t escape in 1972. She just got six years. Then six more. Then six more.

The bargain isn’t for the house. It’s for her.

The fire takes her. Not the flames. The heat. The light. The name.

Her last thought: Nyx has six years. Make them count.

FADE TO BLACK.