It Was The Wet Paper

   Have you ever done a very strange thing to escape torment and pain? That you have tried to get a paper soaked in a puddle in the road and think that to do it could ease the pain you felt? If you haven't, then it is a proven fact now that I didn't fail to make history. I was the first person to do this out of the ordinary thing.
   I still have this crystal clear reminiscence of that day, and no single detail is able to escape my remembering power. I was a senior in high school that time. It was a mildly rainy day and the road in Bulacan—a place in Pililla where one of my classmates has a house—was wet. I felt nauseous and feeble because of the atmosphere, not of the place but of my own world. We just came from our school after the awarding program of our recently culminated event, Linggo ng Wika.
   Heading back to the time of the awarding program, we were all ears, only to hear the name of our not-so-surprised-because-they-already-expected-they-won section. IV-Pilot! That was an ample reason for us to raise our hands and voices in exultation. We got up the stage and immediately grasped the token of our success, a big trophy. I have to admit that I was so happy at that time, but it happened that I remembered the preceding day when I burst in tears because of a shocking and painful scenario. The happiness gradually diminished.
   After the program, a scenario, an even more painful one, similar to the first one, transpired, making the hurt two days in a row. The happiness completely diminished.
   With my infallible memory, I remember up to now that my classmates were joyous because our section had the right to bring home the most precious and coveted trophy of the said event. Yes, they were all happy, reveling at our victory in vanquishing our opponents, who were our schoolmates. I could really see the relative happiness they derived from winning. Nonetheless, while my classmates were ready to exhaust the remainder of their day in celebrating, I found myself the day's sole misfit. I was the only one who was sad.
   With a notebook and a pen I had with me, I wrote a poem about the hurt that was caused by the two scenarios that almost wrecked my whole being. The pen smoothly performed the finishing of the sorrowful poem on the paper. It really hurt. The tears just couldn't be totally restrained, but I succeeded in hiding them from view by dabbing my wet face with a damp handkerchief. Afterward, I chose to wander, with the poem on a sheet of paper from the notebook, around the remaining area of Bulacan and ran. I wanted to be a temporary recluse to give way to my deep thinking and soliloquy, which I do whenever I am lonely. I thought I had an utter solitude, but I saw two of my classmates following me. I tried to evade them as much as I could, but they persisted on following me. In order to hide the paper, I paused for several seconds and soaked the paper in a puddle alongside my feet. I watched the paper as the water ate it, permeated every part of it, and obscured every word and letter inscribed on it. The sight of the paper went vague. Then the paper submerged and submerged and submerged and submerged, deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper, until it was almost dissipated by the water. It was gone. The paper was gone.
   It was not too long before my two classmates reached the very spot of the road where I was standing, numbly as if the world had gone away without waiting for me.
   The poem that phrased my emotional agony, just drowned in a dark water, as dark as my vision that very time. The poem that contained the expression of the suffering that oppressed me completely, just easily disappeared. The poem that made me fix all my attention on the sadness that had eaten me since I witnessed the unwanted scenario.
   Even though I knew I didn't have to blame those scenarios for my weakness, I couldn't help but to regard it as the culprit of my mind's and my heart's simultaneous downfalls. Those were the scenarios that made their own perfectly indelible impression on my mind. Those were the scenarios that stealthily devastated my imperiled heart.
   Regaining enough consciousness, I opened myself to knowing I wasn't alone anymore. My two classmates stayed with me and bombarded me questions about the matter with me. Of course, I didn't respond directly and immediately. I tried to gain composure first, and finally opened my mouth to utter the word "wala" though I knew that word would not silence them both.
   I decided to go back to the place where the celebration party took place. On the way, the people involved in those scenarios were approaching. There the pain recurred...
   The day ended and the following days passed by. One day, I knew that the scenarios would not happen again because the people involved in those scenarios were not able to make it anymore.
   The immersing of the poor paper became momentous. The news about that scattered, and I know the accountable people. My two insistent classmates who tagged along behind me! Yes, they were accountable for the spreading of the news! But I chose not to blame them. No secret is forever hidden.
   It was the wet paper that became the symbol of the pain. I still remember it, but I already survived the pain associated with it. However, it still has made a big impression on my memory.
   My dear reader, did you know about it? That I had a paper sunk in the water? If yes, I know you regard it as a silly thing to do. If no, you ought to know not only the poor paper in the water, but also the poem and mystery in it.