Dark Circles

I keep still, lying on my back in the bedroom in the middle of the night. I think it was past midnight—the clock said 1:35 a.m. What is that? There’s a dark spot amassing on the ceiling, with rings of dried water around it. Something the rain must have left behind—like a residue of the past. A dark secret that has been accidentally told.

My uncle once talked about dreams—what they would look like if they ever made it out of the dream world. Maybe if he were still around, he’d try to convince me to stay away from it. I probably wouldn’t listen. I thought it looked like a piece of a shadow, though—cut off at the hems. It got stuck, and now it just won’t go away. It wasn’t there the last time I was here.

When was that exactly? Last night? Two nights ago… I couldn’t remember for sure. But there was a woman—yes, a woman was here before. She had that stare—the type that lingers, the kind that peers through your soul. Yes, the dark spot on the ceiling somehow resembled her gaze… hollow, noncommittal, but it stays with you. You could say honest—too honest for my own good.

I’ll go back to sleep. Maybe this is just a strange dream. Maybe, somehow, this dark spot on the ceiling will follow me back to where it belongs.

The Incident at the Convenience Store

Late at night, I was inside a convenience store for a quick snack. Well, that was the initial plan, but I’d been there for more than an hour, staring at the trees. I think people stare at trees when they have nothing else—when they don’t know what to do anymore, looking for answers that might fall off them.

I was out of a job, and the little money I had saved was running low. I bought two packs of cigarettes and a disposable Bic lighter and sat by the widest window in the store. I caught myself thinking: why do I even bother trying to look for a job? I don’t have kids—well, not anymore. I’m fifty-six. I’m practically at the twilight of my life, so why bother?

The girl at the next table was eating microwave pasta with a pink drink. It looked like a meal you’d have on a bad day. I told myself I have to remember to get the same one tomorrow. The girl must have been waiting for someone—I could tell. She kept checking her phone every two minutes and trying to call someone, but for some reason, she couldn’t reach them.

Soon, two tall guys arrived and sat at her table. All three of them kept looking in my direction, then they’d resume talking. At first, I thought it was nothing. But then the two guys stood up, came over, sat at the vacant seats near me, and started chatting.

“What’s up?” said the guy on my left. “Do you like staring at defenseless little girls?”

“Yeah, do you like messing around with kids, padre?” added the other.

“Of course I do. Like, don’t you?” I knew I’d get myself into trouble by saying this, but at that point, I didn’t really care anymore. I figured they’d already made up their minds before approaching me—no point arguing. So why the hell not? Might as well make things a little interesting while we’re already at it.

Both guys stood up. They looked even taller standing so close. We got into a brawl. I think it lasted less than fifteen minutes, but it felt much, much longer. When you get into a fight, you don’t really think. You just let your instincts take over. All you hear is the pounding of your heart and the voice inside your head reminding you—not to forget to breathe. And breathe I did. I kept swinging, mostly hitting nothing but air.

Top Cat

In a dark alley, the king of all cats sat atop a trash bin. That meant no other cat could get to it before the king had its fill of all the edible rubbish.

On its royal perch, it surveyed the extent of its dominion—where stray cats took refuge in makeshift shelters made from discarded boxes and fruit crates. The king kept the lowly strays in line through its loyal subjects: the cold wind and the occasional rains.

The Deed

A man went to see a doctor, complaining about a bellyache. The problem was that he couldn’t fully describe the pain—for him, it was like describing a Pollock painting: it had no consistent form, nor did it embody one.

The doctor asked a series of questions as the man lay on the examination table: family medical history, past illnesses, his diet over the past two weeks.

He felt like a sprawled lab frog about to be cut open.

With both hands, the doctor pressed on various parts of his abdomen—on either side and just above the pelvis—watching closely for signs of pain on the man’s face.

When asked, the quiet man said the pain level was a nine—a form of question he appreciated. He wished people talked this way—short.

He mostly did manual labor—work that required little to no interaction with people. He’d clock in, work to the employer’s expectations, and head home. As for relationships, if he ever needed to bed a woman, he would simply pay a professional. Life, for him, like this one, kept complications at bay—no frills, no entanglements.

After some tests, they later found it was cancer—likely two, maybe three months to live. The doctor handed the man a pamphlet to help him carry out what needed to be arranged; all he had to do was fill out some forms.

“It’d be best to spend the remainder of the time with family, see old friends, maybe take a short trip somewhere quiet,” the doctor said—all in under a minute. The man thanked him and stayed silent for the rest of the conversation.

The problem was, the man had already been residing in a place of quiet for years, living alone in a one-room apartment. “That deed has been done, doctor,” he said, peering out the window, where he could see an old tamarind tree. Its dark, creased branches stood still in the gust of the monsoon wind, amidst the faint chatter of pedestrians walking past—oblivious to its imposing stance.