WORK IN PROGRESS

Lucifer / Samaritan

Foster Fernandez found himself being shepherded outside the belly of the apartment as if he had just been expelled from heaven after negating God's agency.

"I'm not interested; I have other... priorities," Ridley replied, his head bowing, subtly ushering the visitor away.

At surface level, Ridley's rejection might seem to have bloomed out of nowhere; however, his past experiences would speak of it otherwise. If perceived on a wider scope, what he did would have been considered as growth. Evolution. Progress. He assured himself that he would eliminate the curtain of credulousness innate in him, and he did. He finally did, simultaneously ensuring that Foster's fraudulent endeavor would bear no fruits. All he could taste in his palate now was dubiety.

If it were the younger Ridley conversing with Foster now, he would easily relinquish his principles (and even money). He would have never looked through the rose-glass and shattered it. He would have never analyzed the beguiling words that were vomited by this inveigler of a marketer. He would have easily thrown himself into the rabbit hole this Foster Fernandez dug up, only to discover that it was a burial plot all along.

Dismayed but with a delicate grin of consolation, Foster replied, "Alright, Sir. Anyway, thank you for your time."

After ascertaining that Foster has exited the gate of the apartment, Ridley locked the door, strengthening its security by using a chair as an addition. He safeguarded himself from any potential Judas, Brutus, wolves in sheep's clothing, and those in-the-making.

Before, his trust for Mr. Fernandez was its peak, but now, skepticism was its prime. Not too long ago, Ridley's apprehensions have been jettisoned, but they have been restored. Like the plucked corolla of a bougainvillea amid spring, they sprouted back. Like a functional government that does not categorize activists as terrorists and a functional father that does not categorize his wife as inferior, that project of his was just too good to be real. For that reason, Ridley automatically categorized Project Pearl as a myth, an absolute improbability.

"If I had the ability to craft those clever possibilities, I'd be writing instead."

*

Afterward, Ridley curled into a fetal position in his mattress. Whilst inside his bedroom, he nailed his sight on both the telephone and his blue pillow, which was embroidered with a Snapdragon flower. Slowly, he realized how much of a confidant and a contrasting twin the pillow was. Ridley was a witness to the violence and harassment whereas the pillow was the witness to the aftermath, soaking up the tears and the undesirable thoughts he kept excluding from his conscious mind.

"Mary Torres, you are under arrest for attempted murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."

Ridley knew that was not the last image he wanted his mother to be remembered, but that Miranda warning just kept blaring into his ears.

Albeit having conviction, Ridley slipped into a sporadic back-and-forth. His guts convinced him that by forcing out Foster, he dodged a bullet, but another region of his hemisphere yelled that what he dodged was salvation. He knew that the man was prying into his shell and cutting into his muscle, so he hardened his hinges, but something was telling him he should not have. He knew that Foster (and hypothetically, everyone else) could have thrusted a knife into his chest and extracted his dignity, but something was still telling him that by dismissing Foster and Project Pearl, he missed a significant opportunity.

Who knows if someone will ever knock on that door again?

This crux of indecisiveness served as his crucifix.

*

As he permitted the monotony of quarantine life to monopolize the hours, his consciousness receded into slumber. He did not even notice that a page on his notebook, where a writing project of his could be located, had creased because his body constantly turned and tossed around. The next thing Ridley knew the evening's gleam had filled in the sky. When his consciousness streamed back into reality, it was already 9 pm.

The moment he stood up to grab a glass of water was the same moment his peripheral caught something beyond the window of his room.

Like the belt and fist of his father, the haunting farewell of his mother, and the filaments of her hysteria as she was being dragged to jail; it hit him!

The wonderful city of Agirre was burning.

Framed perfectly by his windowpane, the portrait of fire as it swallowed several structures not too far from his apartment mirrored Egbert van der Poel's Fire by Night. This gruesome landscape was immediately burned into his psyche. It eclipsed even the entirety of the moon. The cacophony from the throats of the innocent and defenseless also reverberated in his ear.

Then, the apartment shuddered as it was engulfed by the blast wave.

The glass transformed into shards and the shards turned into scars, slashing apathetically through his flesh. Similarly, the scars reduced him to tears.

While writhing on the floor, overwhelmed by agony, memories swirled back into Ridley. It thrust him into a frantic spur of ambivalence. He remembered his mother. Even the vaguest of encounters returned. As the ceiling became his only view, he resented the fact that Time was never on his side. For example, in that telephone conversation. Of course, he attempted to regain his footing, but strength was not on his side either.

Startlingly, a jarring bang preceding the screams from outside diverted his attention! It sounded like he was being apprehended in a buy-bust operation. Whoever intruded did not care if he/she bashed his apartment's door open, but what was the point of preserving the front door if the city was being bombed out of the map anyway?

"Don't... Don't move."

Albeit being subdued by all the turmoil in his skull, this stranger's voice was still audible enough. He felt this person's hands on his nape and soon, his occipital was no longer on the floor but on a blanket. A few seconds later, he heard the clinks of equipment and felt the saline irrigating his wound. A bandage was placed on his temples.

From the intense gasping and the anxiety, Ridley recognized the blatant concern and trepidation from this Samaritan. It was as if there had been a synthetic connection that had been established. In fact, the two of them - mainly their current emplacement - almost bore resemblance to the Pieta. Ridley could not acknowledge who this was, though. Not until the scale-like blurriness in his eyes evanesced.

After being assisted to the exterior of the apartment's belly and the yellow Foton parked in front of the gate, the situation's severity clawed its way deeper into Ridley. It hit him even harder.

A gust of ambulance sirens subjugated the otherwise typical night like trumpets heralding the materialization of Ragnarök. Seated in the van, the frenzied shrieks, and the aberrant blinking of the turn signals from the cars owned by the other apartment tenants perplexed him. Evidently, his neighbors themselves appeared as though they have just been jostled into a labyrinth where questions are the ramparts. Aside from that, he thought about the welfare and inevitably the worst-case scenarios his mother might be enduring, especially in that dilapidated prison. He regretted not getting the items he relished; those with sentimental value. Once again, Time!

"Is there something you want to get? Those with, uh, sentimental value? I can get it for you."

Ridley simply regurgitated whatever thought thumped into his tongue, "Uh... the pictures, the notebook... on the mattress and the medicine... the Arple Acid on the cabinet... and the telepho---No. The blue pillow."

The man nodded and sprinted away, ready to retrieve the aforementioned items like in a salvage operation.

Despite that, Ridley was curtained with uncertainty. The cars inside the gate all had shattered glasses and their rear-view mirrors were all detached from their original placements. The Almera, Montero, and Wigo parked in front were all wrecked in some way, but the van he was in was structurally intact. That did not add up.

False salvation?

Red flags?

He could not resist thinking that he was being kidn*pped. Yes, it was a distorted mentality especially in this present condition but considering a distorted childhood that was stolen from him in the first place, it was quite justified. Or perhaps, it was just bewilderment? Of course, Ridley was grateful to him for the first aid and the assistance, but he cannot fathom that the same guest he banished earlier would be his Samaritan. He cannot believe that what Foster Fernandez offered tonight was help and not a negotiation about the project. Still, Ridley cannot deny that some people have a myriad of axes to grind; everyone has an ulterior motive.

After all, he witnessed it unfold:

...Bitter insults

Nights of longing....

...petals of his childhood...

..vindication to justify r**e.

Rampant exploitation. Pervading fraudulence.

Foster finally exited the door and proceeded to the tenants nestled together with trepidation, approaching the huddled group near the gate with a gentle gesture. Based from what Ridley was witnessing, he appeared like he was coaxing them, resembling an orator using rhetoric to convince the government of change; the repercussions are contingent on their choice. It was not the clearest of views, but Foster's distant silhouette paired with his hand gestures seemed to signal volunteerism.

Not long after, Foster strode straight into the van, chasing both time and his breath. Afterward, he gently placed a bulging recyclable bag beside Ridley's lap. "If ever I left something behind, I'll still go get---"

Ridley scrutinized the bag. Check. Check. Check. Check.

Despite being only halfway through his response, Foster was already closing the door. It triggered an intrinsic instinct inside Ridley's psyche.

"Wa-wait! I need to stay here!" Ridley objected while stretching one of his legs to prevent the sliding door from entirely barring him from ever exiting. Both the tides and the tables have turned. "If you're going to bring me to the hospital, I'll agree but if not---"

"What was bombed earlier was the hospital. Our only option is to... leave... the city... and move where safety is guaranteed."

It was the fourth bombshell of the day, and Ridley could only observe as Foster rushed to the driver's seat. He scrambled for the keys as they almost slipped out into the oblivion within the accelerator and the brake pedals. When all was well, he turned on the engine with an unparalleled ounce of haste. Slight anxiety snaked its way when the engine hesitated for a moment; nerves were wrecked.

"Take me to the police station then."

Using one hand, Foster clutched on the gearshift and placed his other arm on the shotgun's headrest to attain precision. Effortlessly, he maneuvered around the uneven road and reversed. He stepped on the accelerator and speeded away, the engine and the skidding wheels of the Foton shrieking in seamless synchronicity like polyphony. They proceeded to Agirre City's epicenter of commerce, which was on the opposite side of the apartment's vicinity.

"You say the hospital was bombed?"

"Yes. At first, I thought it - and many others thought so too - simply caught fire. Maybe human error; maybe octopus wiring? But then, the church exploded and then, the Grotto. That's how I knew we were being targeted. Like the ones from the other provinces these past few... uh, months, we were being targeted. Revolts? Terrorist attacks?"

Ridley analyzed the city's locale and the distance.

The church...

The Grotto...

Afterward, Ridley muttered a chain of expletives, his mind plummeting into cessation.