Kristine Ong Muslim
Remember that story about how the kids were finally not joking and nobody believed them. The kids were finally not just making up things to get attention, and that there were, indeed, teeth impressions on the side of the corpse, but nobody believed them. In the end, it was understandable that something bad had happened to the kids. This story is not about that.
Remember, too, that story about the woman who insisted that her nonexistent left eyelid was surgically removed in order to disallow the involuntary closing of her left eye, because she had been, in her words, "growing my twin there." If she closed her left eyelid when blinking or sleeping, the twin would be left in darkness. It would die in the dark. The twin was supposed to come out fully formed once the woman died. There were no details, of course, on how the twin would come out. But it seemed terribly important for that woman for her twin to outlive her. Then it was revealed much later and too late that her left eyelid was, in fact, burned by her mother when she was young. Again, this story is not about that.
It is about—and also not really about—the Lagron family living in unit 21 of Laberinto residential apartment building.
Nobody has ever looked into unit 21, because this is the nature of the human gaze: it is drawn towards either beauty or ugliness. There is just no noticing the drab ordinariness in between, even if—especially in unit 21's case—that drab ordinariness is contrived.
Nobody has ever looked into the seemingly drab unit 21. Had someone done so, that person would have seen this: fourteen-year-old Jade Lagron in her makeshift nest facing the flat-screen TV mounted in the corner of a tastefully decorated living room. Behind her, framed black and white blown-up macro photographs of insects, arachnids, and pollen grains are arranged gallery-style. The TV is most likely turned on to a hit show about the day-to-day shenanigans of a family of four feigning gratefulness for having risen from their fake rags-to-riches made-for-TV life trajectory. That is the hit show before Hammerman, an extraordinarily unimaginative name for a Filipino rip-off of Thor by studio execs at Channel 7. A worn copy of a travel guide for navigating the predictable terrain of nightmares, its French flaps unfurled, settles at the bottom of Jade's nest. Her left ankle is restrained. The restraints, possibly a pair of handcuffs, are kept out of sight.
Jade Lagron strains, moaning in pain as the contractions become more frequent. Fresh blood splatters soak the straw lining the edge of the mat. Her upper thighs are covered with dried blood.
In the kitchen, Jade's mother heats up water for her daughter's sponge bath, which eases the egg-laying process. Her father, all dressed up and ready to go to sell the impending 24-karat golden egg they have been expecting like clockwork every nine months, regards Jade with clinical curiosity. He tells her matter-of-factly, "It should come out anytime now, Jade." It is an hour past noon, and the only jeweler in Avenida closes at four in the afternoon. He grits his teeth out of impatience.
Entering the living room with a bucket of lukewarm water and a clean washcloth draped across her shoulder, Jade's mother approaches the makeshift nest, indifferently surveys the blood-spattered area. Having been through this many times before, she can't wait to get it over with, to start spending the money made from the sale of the golden egg. She wipes down Jade's upper torso. Warm water droplets from the washcloth instantly turn the fresh blood brown, belying the permanence of red. At one point, Jade delivers the golden egg coated with placenta. Jade's father collects the golden egg, rinses it in the sink, and wipes it dry. In nine months and with slight variation, the entire process is replayed in this world of inexhaustible hurt.