To the 13 Year Old Boy Who Shot His 17 Year Old Lover at the Mall (Notes on a Murder-Suicide)

Image taken here.

It was with a peculiar, and perhaps less than noble, fixation that I read about your crime.  A crime which was extraordinarily morbid, and sensational.  And I gathered the following details: You were thirteen years old. You stole a .22 caliber pistol.  You wrote a suicide letter; short, but it got the message across.  You went to SM City Mall, Pampanga.  You met your seventeen year old lover in front of the Astrovision store in the mall's Building 3.  You shot him in the head.  The bullet lodged in his brain and left him brain dead.  You then turned the gun on yourself and pulled the trigger.

And then there are the things I imagine:  How you walked up to him, angry and hurt; how you made a speech, hoping that he would understand; how he rejected you; how you pulled a gun, and felt some small bit of satisfaction at the fear that suddenly came into your lover's eyes; how you shot him in the head; how he bled, and bled, and kept on bleeding; how you realized that he was going to die for real; how you kept on repeating that you didn't mean for any of this to happen; how you realized what a lie those words were; how, in your heart, you knew you meant it; how you didn't want to die; how you felt you had you no choice; how cold, metallic and uncaring the gun felt in your hand; how thoughts of dying felt better than the idea that you would go through life without him; how you pointed the gun at yourself and pulled the trigger; how you didn't realize that there would be so much blood. That you would have so much blood. As if the flow of blood would never end. A river of blood.  

How you lay on the floor gasping, waiting for the darkness to consume you. Hoping that in death you could be together. Frightened of the possibility that you won't.

Then a moment of silence. Perhaps stubborn righteousness. Perhaps regret.

How you died.

And then a call to two sets of parents unmindful of the strange, compelling drama that has just claimed the lives of their two sons.  How they did not understand.  How they wailed and cried and mourned.  How they railed against anyone they could blame: the mall security, God, the world.  How they wanted to have their sons back, questioning how the world can continue going on. How the world remains unchanged and unconcerned. 

How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves.  

How their lives are never the same again.  How they died, in their own way. How there are more victims to this story than those dead.

News about the shooting can be found here.

Mourning

I met Gino in first year high school. He was a transferee from another school, so it was the first time we met each other. We became seatmates, shared a couple of jokes, but were never really friends. I remember him as smart and articulate. He wasn't the best in class, but he was definitely above average.

After that year, we never became classmates again. I saw him once in a while, and worked with him in a school play during senior year, but our relationship never went beyond casual acquaintances. We interacted around the same circles, but our conversations rarely moved above polite small talk.

I was in college when I heard the news. Gino died in a plane crash. The news was shocking to say the least. He was young, definitely, but more than that, it came completely out of nowhere. I made plans to go to the wake with my friends to pay our respects.

The plane crash and its relation to Gino's death is notably depressing in one more aspect. You see, Gino was traveling with his family. And when I say family, I mean the whole clan. They just came back from a family reunion. The plane crash virtually wiped them all out.

When we came to the wake, there were 6 coffins, of varying sizes. I asked my friend Ron where the other dead were being kept. Ron said he didn't know. I saw Ioanis crying in a corner. Another acquaintance, Anthony, bought several garlands of sampaguita. He was carefully, artfully, arranging them on Gino's casket.

The news of the plane crash was certainly huge, and appeared on a lot of local news shows. The fact that one family came from a reunion made it even more tragic, so particular attention was brought to Gino's family even more. His best friend, Louis, told me that there was at least one survivor that he knew: Gino's mom. She wasn't able to attend the reunion because she was sick. She stayed at home while her family flew to Davao.

There was a short mass, and prayers were said over each of the closed caskets. Ioanis was still sobbing, and it was getting louder by the minute, but he was trying to compose himself. Ron's eyes were red, as were mine. There was a lump in my throat. Beyond grieving for a lost friend, we were, or at least I was, grappling with the absurdity of the situation. How could this happen? What does this mean? Why this complete unfair arbitrariness?

A few weeks after the funeral, I met up with Louis, and asked him how he was. He told me he's okay, and that he was making it a point to visit Gino's mom every week to see how she was. He told me that the first time he saw her, she was almost catatonic, but that she's getting better by the week. He was also worried for her. He didn't know, rather, didn't want to think about, what she would do if left to her own devices for too long. He wanted to share in her pain.

He said he missed Gino. But there was nothing he could do. He's moving on, he said.

I have one lasting memory of Gino, which is forever etched in my head. It was Christmas season, and one of his friends handed me a gift. We were seniors then. I opened the package, and found a large statue of an angel, as well as a love letter. I thought it was sweet. It was one of those instances that made me feel, during those difficult years, that I meant something to someone. Even someone I didn't really know. It made me feel glad to be alive.

Photo taken here.

Dark Sky

When I was a sophomore in high school, the all girls' school next to our school decided to hold a dance. My tutor then had a niece named Samantha who was my age, so she asked me if I would want to go with her niece as a date. Except she didn't say date, she just asked me if I could go.

I thought about it, and concluded that if I wanted to stop being "confused" about my sexuality, I had to start going out with girls. So I said yes.

It started out simple enough. I had a driver, so I picked Samantha up at around 8pm. We didn't really know each other, so the ride to the school-covered-court-turned-dance floor was long and awkward. I tried initiating conversation, but we both knew I was just forcing it.

When we came to the dance hall, we just sat in a corner. And sat some more. And remained silent. It was one of the longest nights in my young life.

At some point, her friends decided to rescue her from me, who was quite possibly the worst date created in the history of mankind. And I completely understood. She made a few apologies, obviously insincere, and ran with her friends. She never looked back.

I went out to a small grassy field, and stared at the few couples who were cuddling in corners. I didn't really feel envious; just sad. I tried to go back and sit with Samantha, but it was no use, and with her friends there, the date just grew more and more awkward.

So I went back out, and laid on the grass. My driver had already left. He said he'll come back before midnight. I still had a couple of hours.

I remember the sky, like a deep purple marble stone, infinite and ominous. And at some point, the sensation of falling. I sat back up, heart beating fast. There was a sense of loss I think, though I did not understand what it was. There was definitely loneliness.

Samantha never spoke to me again. The few times I saw her, she acted like she didn't know me. I really couldn't blame her.

At a point later in my life, a distinguished writer criticized a story I wrote. She said she didn't understand the image I was trying to evoke. "How can one fall towards the sky?" she asked. She was being rhetorical of course. She meant to show me that my metaphor didn't work.

I didn't bother explaining. I knew she wouldn't understand. "How do you fall towards the sky?" she asked. If she wasn't trying to be snarky, I would have answered, sincerely, "I am talking about the same thing, only they are not the same thing. There is fear, instead of freedom. The same way that you fly."

Photo found here.

Mediation

We were in high school, a private all boys' school, and my friend Francis had a boyfriend named Jon. It was a weird set-up; a secret relationship, which everyone knew about. Perhaps it would be better to say that it wasn't a secret relationship; more an affair which they denied but everyone knew just the same. Like a showbiz affair, except the people weren't as famous.

I was sitting in a stone park bench one lazy afternoon when I saw Francis. He was flustered, and his movements were slightly manic. I didn't want to impose on his panic, or be part of it honestly, but he walked up to me and started to talk.

"I can't believe this is happening," he said, eyes slightly in tears.

"What?" I asked.

"Jon wouldn't talk to me anymore. I don't know what to do."

Now, being 15, and closeted, I really didn't know what to say. Also, the relationship he was referring to was supposed to be a non-existent one so I didn't know if I should admit I know or not.

"Uhm, are you ok?" I said instead.

"No!" The vehemence was surprising. " He wouldn't even talk to me." There were tears now. "If I knew he would break up with me, I would have hooked up with Jeff instead."

Francis had a lot of secret admirers. Which everyone knew about. The dynamics of high school gay relationships escape me, not being a part of it myself.

I knew I was going to regret saying this, but said it anyway. "What do you want me to do?" My head was really shouting "Damnit, damnit, damnit. You're such a doormat."

Francis, still in tears, told me, "Maybe you can talk to Jon for me."

Ok, so I have problems with talking with people, especially Jon in particular. First, I'm terribly, awfully socially awkward, which was at its peak in high school. Second, I didn't know Jon. I don't even take the time to say hi to him. Third, I've worked so hard to cultivate the image of a snob (in order to hide the feelings of a loser) to throw it away on something as silly as this. But no, instead I said something like this, "Ok."

Good lord. I was such a pushover.

So there I was, in the basketball court. There was a game ongoing. I saw Jon, who, incidentally, was with my classmate Percy. "This is going to be bad," I thought. Not only did I not know Jon, which would make the conversation awkward and embarrassing, I actually knew Percy, so there would be a witness to my embarrassment who can tell other people what happened. I looked behind me and saw Francis a few feet away, eyes expectant. I swallowed my pride and walked to Jon.

"Uhm, hi Jon. Hi Percy."

They looked at me in a weird way, as if I just decided to spit on them. But then Percy smiled and said hi. Jon followed a beat after.

I didn't know how to start so I said this, "Uhm, yea, Francis sent me to talk to you." Percy started whispering in Jon's ear. I had no idea what he was saying.

"Ah right," he replied.

"So, uhm, yea."

"Yea."

"Uhm, uhm, so, I guess you haven't been talking to him?" I didn't mean for that to be a question, but it became one.

"No, I'm just really busy these days."

"Ah, that's fair." And probably not true. No one's busy in high school. Everyone skipped homework except for the few smart ones everyone copied from. "So, you're not avoiding Francis?"

More whispering.

"No, no, why would I?" He smiled. A half-hearted one.

I didn't know what to say. It was too awkward, but I didn't know him enough to see if he was lying.

"Ok great, I guess I'll tell that to Francis then."

"You do that," Jon said. Then he and Percy went back to watching the varsity players play their practice game.

That was it I guess. No more to be said. I was just happy it was over.

I walked back to Francis. I saw him, still slightly manic, eyes expectant and glistening. I didn't want to be the one to break his heart so instead I said, "It's ok. He's just busy. He'll talk to you soon."

Photo taken here.

Death and High School

The first time I met Allan, we were sophomores. It was also the first time I met Ron, who would eventually become one of my closest friends. That year was a year of many firsts for me, but high school being high school, it wasn’t easy.

Allan was an interesting guy, funny but insecure. Our relationship settled on that gray area between acquaintances and friends; we joked around each other, but we were never close. Ron knew him better, and they shared many intimate details about their lives and dreams.

One memory stands out among the collage of images that form in my head whenever I think of Allan. It was free period, and we were joking in class. We didn’t have a lot of homework, so we were rowdier than usual. Allan walked up to me. I expected the usual banter, so his bullying came as a complete surprise.

“Bading ka ‘no? (You’re gay aren’t you?),” he said, giving my shoulders a little push. I’ve just gone through a growth spurt, so the bullying surprised me on two levels: first, because I thought we were friends; second, because he was a head shorter than me. If it wasn’t so out of the blue, I could’ve kicked his ass.

Instead, I kept my mouth shut. This was a new experience for me, and I had absolutely no idea how to react. How do other people deal with it? I remember Ron once hit a guy because the guy said something Ron didn’t like, and Ron is around two-thirds my size. I wanted to hit Allan, but I felt paralyzed and unsure.

I’ve been hiding in the closet for so many years that the idea that someone may uncover my secret terrified me. And here he was, declaring the truth for all to hear. I wanted to deny it, but I knew it was true, and that I’d only sound insincere. I sucked it up and kept quiet.

The bell rang. I spoke with Ron about the incident, and together we developed several ways to exact revenge. Ron’s more of the physical type, he said he probably would have hit Allan if the latter did that to him. I said I’d rather be subtle, let’s destroy his reputation.

We were only fantasizing really. I don’t doubt Ron would have hit him, but I probably wouldn’t be able to go through destroying Allan’s reputation. It would weigh on my conscience too much. Besides, I had the sinking feeling he was bullying me to impress his friends.

Lunchtime, the same day, Allan went up to me and apologized. I was still with Ron, still cooking up ways to destroy Allan, and here he comes offering an apology. I was angry of course, but I also understood. High school can be hard on those who refuse to go with the tide.

***

We were seniors, and Allan had to repeat a year because he got sick. It was Ron who told me.

“Allan’s dead. He killed himself last night. The last person he spoke to was his sister. He tied a belt around a beam in his room, and hanged himself.”

I didn’t know how to react. More than a year had passed since I last spoke with Allan, so I forgot about him. The lukewarm friendship we shared had easily dissolved into a fading memory. I knew he had a new set of friends now, but I didn’t know anything else. No one was sure why he committed suicide.

Ron asked if he can hitch a ride to the wake. I said yes.

***

The story spread through school as fast as one would expect with news this big. Rumors sprung like mushrooms. “It was because he got caught with X-rated magazines and alcohol during a school retreat,” someone said. “His father beats him up regularly,” a sophomore insisted. “He’s secretly gay,” said another.

The last one struck me, not because it was true, but because I understood why a closeted high school student would want to kill himself. I knew, because I thought about it myself. I know that that part of my life made me who I am today, but actually living that part was a nightmare. Being misunderstood is only fun in hindsight, not when you’re being alienated at that specific point in time when your peers’ approval is as necessary as air, or water.

Someone once said that adolescence is the worst because that’s when you are at your ugliest, in that period where it was the most important thing for you to be your prettiest (or handsomest). It was a joke, but it was also true. My friend Ioanis (who studied in the same high school) told me once that he never understood why I considered myself an outsider.

That’s because I was, I told him. Ioanis had already gone through the process of coming out, and though he lived in the fringes of the high school hierarchy, he had friends there, who knew him and accepted him. My secret forced me in a place similar to the relationship I had with Allan: a gray middle ground that offered few opportunities for real friendship. I was still lucky. I found two.

I wondered what secrets Alan kept. What drove him to that final, desperate act? I remember the boy, always funny, his words always tinged with an unsure quality, and I realized I knew nothing about him at all.

***

We’re at the wake, Ron and I, sitting a few rows away from the coffin. Ron pointed out the father; a short, stocky man in a black Lacoste shirt, eyes red and glistening with unwept tears. We sat for a few moments, unsure what to do. We decided to approach Allan’s dad to offer our condolences.

He was exceedingly gracious, with a voice that was much more composed than what his face belied. He asked if we were Allan’s classmates. I said yes, but didn’t elaborate further. I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring up the fact that his son had to repeat a year.

He reached for this piece of cardboard that stood on the coffin, and showed it to us. Proudly he said it was a poem written by his son, for an English class. It spoke of love, and friendship, and understanding. In that context, a father obviously holding back grief for a dead son, I wanted to weep. Ron was unnaturally quiet. We said it was a nice poem, and sat back down.

Ron was fidgety, and because I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked him what the matter was.

“You know that poem?” he asked. “I wrote that. I showed it to Allan one time and I never thought about it until now. I can’t believe he passed it off as his own.”

I was stunned by the complete absurdity of the situation. “Well, keep quiet about it. I don’t think now’s the best time to accuse someone’s dead son of plagiarism.” Moments later, I started to find the whole thing funny. “You know what? Think of it as a parting gift. He was our friend after all.”

Photo taken here.