WORK IN PROGRESS

Superstition / Supposition

Swathed by his blanket as if inside a cocoon of uncertainty, Ridley clutched the telephone, refusing to accept that the call was about to slip into its inevitable end. All he could do was lean his head on the wall beside his mattress. Not long before, it was beads of joy he was welcoming, reminiscent of the times when his mother brought home Parle's candy after work. Now, he had to embrace and brace for reality - an Eden governed by Judas, Brutus, wolves in sheep's clothing, and those in-the-making.

The dichotomy of accepting the same call an hour ago and the mere thought of hanging up was painfully apparent.

"Ma, I know you've heard of this superstition---"

"Oh, which one?" Ridley's mother interjected, but he did not mind. He had grown accustomed to her marginal deafness, both in the literal and the metaphorical sense.

"The one about dropped utensils. Forks would signify a male visitor, and spoons would mean that it's a woman. Well, it might vary depending on the country, but you... you've heard of that?"

"Ah, yes."

An unprecedented pause was about to squeeze itself into the conversation, but Ridley swiftly amputated its appendages, allowing himself to be a deity of conception and breathe more time into this dwindling reel of a chat, granting himself more time to enjoy the veil of his mother's affection albeit auditory.

After all, this will be the closest they will ever be.

"Well, yesterday, I was eating the food I prepared for you---"

"You prepared?"

"Yes, Ma," Ridley grinned at his mother's disbelief. An expression that is registered on his lips as a foreign stranger. He resembled a child using rhetoric to convince his/her/their mother to buy him/her/them a gem necklace. "After all, I really don't trust fast food. Who knows what burgers are made of? Who even knows what siopao is made of?"

"And that's good too; cooking is a life skill."

Ridley craned up, almost severing his neck in the process. He stared at the ceiling as if the tale he was about to tell was etched there; however, it was solely the all-too-familiar vacancy that gazed back at him, accompanied by quietude. He clutched the telephone tighter just to quench the longing, envisaging that it was his mother's palms, "I just wish you were actually here with me... to celebrate your birthday."

Ridley paused. He knew that what he was about to utter was puerile, but he could care less.

"But the main reason why I started talking about that superstition is that... the spoon I was using fell... unintentionally. Yes, I might sound stupid, but I... really waited for you, Ma. I'm still waiting."

"Ridley, I love... you, but I'm never coming back."

Just the somber sound of her surrendering to the inexorable, submitting to the injustice, devastated Ridley. The way his mother's voice cracked cracked Ridley's heart. The way she broke the news broke him. His eyes were once again clouded by a shroud of tears. Delivered by Melpomene herself, the meandering melancholy became his heart's tenant. A staccato of reminiscence was glimpsed by his cheeks.

He did not even want to visualize the heartbreaking expression plastered on his mother's face. (He wanted his mother to always glisten like her miraculous medal.)

Veering into a different discussion, Ridley spoke, "No. No. Do you remember when I used to wait for you with that candy---"

"Parle's?"

"Yes, Parle's! And like back then, I will wait for you to get home... and... and... and..." A lump of gloom in his throat thwarted his ability to speak. He was unable to constrain the waterworks from exiting his lashes and lids. "I will prepare you a feast. Don't even worry about the price."

"Ridley, I know that the last time you saw me I was crying, being arrested. I don't want that to be the last image you remember. I want you to forever picture me...us, just happy... zero worries... just us."

This bombshell of a statement rendered Ridley paralyzed.

Silence.

Just silence.

And it was not the silence he coveted.

"I should've asked more about you. I should've talked more about your mental health... your welfare as a whole," his mother spoke, urgency burrowing its way into her tone. It was as if she was being taken away in exchange for thirty pieces of silver; her existence was plummeting into memory. "Just... don't forget to take your Arple Acid and wear a mask. I'm sorry---"

"You're about to go?"

This was extremely akin to his youthful years wherein he would cling himself around his mother's legs, coaxing her to cancel that business meeting and lull him into the Land of Nod instead. This time though it was only the telephone he was clasping on.

"You're about to go."

The realization bludgeoned him and the next thing he knew he was scrambling to recover his senses. He could not welcome this denouement. Not yet.

An hour had already passed, but it seemed like a 29-second breath was what all this phone call took.

Instinctively, Ridley questioned if he has successfully condensed to her everything that has happened in the country. Was the recap good enough? Has he told her about the time a cacophony of sirens thundered across the AH26 highway? How about the frantic ambulances racing to the quarantine facilities and how those served as a testament that the pandemic was still flourishing? What about the tanks and the soldiers that snaked their way in this wonderful city of Agirre? Has he even mentioned the restless bombing of schools and the ceaseless crossfires? Also, has he emphasized the therapeutical significance of Dolomite to her? How about the toxicity mushrooming in social media and the fact that it was that, together with the deterioration of the art of trust, that finally pushed him to abandon his accounts?

How about the amazing truth that murderers like Pemberton can now be pardoned whereas his mother is still incarcerated, wilting like a parched bougainvillea, just because she defended herself against a r****t?

Concurrently, Ridley scurried into his mind to brainstorm more topics just so that they could still bond. He had to quickly grasp on this fleeting moment because there was no assurance of a sequel to this call. Unfortunately, it was a desperate endeavor that bore no fruits. Just like before, he had to accept that his mother needed to work. All there was left was to digest this predetermined farewell spat out amidst cramped time. Truly, this was a premature parting.

"But... I've lost so much already."

"Time's... up, Ridley."

His mother's voice broke midway and she could hardly deliver her goodbye.

*

And so, the present became an afterthought, just like the void he had been accustomed to. Strewn across his crumpled sheets were the pieces of his heart. Trailing behind him was his mother's unnerving adieu and the hiss of the telephone's disconnect tone puncturing his eardrums.

He had been reinstated into the monotony of his apartment. Unready. Mentally unprepared, most especially. In hushed acquiescence, he returned the handset to the switch hook whilst camouflaging under his breath an arpeggio of expletives - a trickling waterfall of a defense mechanism.

Afterward, he curled into a fetal position and reverted his attention to the telephone, anticipating that it will spew out dial tones again.

It did not.

At this juncture, anyone could have chosen acceptance as their placebo, but he did not. Alas, he could only cling on the coiled cable and revive the feeling of his mother's warmth, the leftover of the maternal bond that once emanated a few moments ago.

"They arrested the wrong person."

A shot of pain hastened through the left side of his chest, the epicenter of his heartbeat.

*

When he was tiptoeing and reaching for the Arple Acid on the hanging cabinet, a stupendous wave of anxiety washed over him.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three times like Peter's denial.

Just the thought of someone standing beyond that door brought up agonizing flashbacks. Ridley might be one decision away from his demise or the revival of his social life (though he has no interest in doing so). Either way, his mind was barren of any suppositions and motives as to why a person was ever outside the belly of his apartment in the first place, but Ridley knew what to do.

If someone laced within the Torres bloodline can be a reincarnation of Judas, then trust is automatically a fallacy. If the judiciary system can be engineered to absolve a r****t of his abhorrent patriarchal tendencies, then trust is an improbability.

Also, if it is not his mother, why open it?

No visitor aside from her is worthy of his hospitality.

Disregarding the fact that there was an actual visitor, Ridley nonchalantly swallowed the Arple Acid. Planning to return to his bedroom, he proceeded straight to the living room only to realize that there was a minuscule slit between the curtains. The barrier of privacy has tumbled. His current whereabouts have been divulged accidentally. Parallel to J. D. Salinger's condition when his location was exposed, Ridley's blistering vulnerability was situated at the summit of spires. Whether he liked it or not, he has been revealed to the man whose puffy eyes were fastened on the window and whose mouth was covered by a face mask.

"Hiding's trivial," the said man spoke.

Red flags!

Red flags (redder than red herrings)!

Nuisance!

Furrowed eyebrows were sculptured on Ridley's façade. Unaffected by the fact that the stranger has unearthed his existence, he still sealed the curtains shut and pretended that he was unseen. He also avoided eye contact. He had never been streamlined for entertaining guests.

"Ever heard of object permanence?"

Ridley's expletives were subtly muted by his gritted teeth, deflecting the man's question (or philosophical bait).

"Alright. Anyways, let's just disregard object permanence," the stranger unburdened his reluctance and cleared his throat before dropping the second bombshell of the day. "Sir, ever heard of Project Pearl?"

"No, please---"

Slightly panicking to conjure enticing words but recovering with unmatched expertise, the man intercepted, "Anyways, it... It caters to everybody; hear me out, sir. It provides an... environment where there are competent and honest politicians as opposed to caricatures and a fair justice system that makes sure they arrest the right person. Also, Project Pearl erases victim-blaming... completely... especially in rape... cases. No double standards... gender biases; inclusivity is... amplified. No bombings and terrorism. No violence and harassment. No abhorrent patriarchal tendencies. No stress. No climate crisis. No pandemic."

The peculiar thing was this man of unspecified origin and blatant persistence has evidently sobbed. The handkerchief cloaked by his hands told Ridley so.