I WANTED to ask why they did it. Why they made him gobble their fists until he broke and felt blood spurt out of his mouth. Did they even blink when they looked down on him and flung thunder bolts on his chest? Did they flinch at its sound? Did they watch him bathe slowly in his own blood? I wanted to ask what he last uttered before he was enveloped by darkness. Did they mistake his cries for an invitation to go on?
I could never know what truly happened; the moon who witnessed his death only gave silence. He must have prayed; he must have begged, pleaded and cowered with dread. I could taste venom in my tongue, my chest thumps for him, and my unbound hands reach for him. I need to ask them again and again until they can look me in the eye and give me a real answer and not feed me with bullets.
Remember, along with his buried body is the truth, begging to be unearthed. F KRIZIA MAICA B. MAGBITANG