…
Continuation from few months before
…
The rest of the school day didn't go well for Glenn.
Word spread quickly about what he did, and by the time the final bell rang, nearly everyone was whispering or laughing behind his back. He could feel their stares, their judgment—it was like the whole school had turned against him.
When classes ended, Claire approached him before her ride arrived. Her expression was puzzled, not angry—just genuinely confused.
"Glenn, what happened? Why did you suddenly push Pastor Jun?" she asked, clutching the small Bible she'd received, still smiling innocently.
She had no idea. To her, it was just a kind gesture from a famous pastor.
Glenn sighed deeply.
"Claire… I just felt something was wrong. The way he looked at you, the way he touched your back—it didn't feel right. I couldn't just sit there and watch."
Claire blinked, surprised by his words, then shook her head gently.
"Maybe you misunderstood. Pastor Jun is a good man—a respected one. Don't think badly of him, Glenn. Just… forget about it, okay?"
Even though Glenn's instincts screamed otherwise, he didn't argue.
He forced a nod and said softly,
"Alright… I'll try to forget."
Claire smiled, relieved. Her cousin had just arrived to pick her up, and she waved goodbye before getting into the car.
Left alone, Glenn adjusted the strap of his worn-out backpack and began the long walk home. The road stretched endlessly ahead, his thoughts echoing in his head like the fading laughter of his classmates.
But deep down, one thing was certain—he couldn't shake the feeling that something about Pastor Jun was very, very wrong.
As Glenn walked home, already a fair distance from the school, his steps slowed when he noticed a group waiting up ahead—Bong-gong and his usual gang. But today, they weren't alone. Surrounding them were older boys, street thugs who looked more like addicts than students. Their wild eyes and crooked grins told Glenn all he needed to know—they were looking for trouble.
Panic began to rise in his chest.
He didn't need to hear anything to know he was their target.
He quickly shifted his path, trying to take another street to avoid them.
But Bong-gong's loud, mocking voice rang out behind him.
"Hey, trash boy! Where do you think you're going, huh? This is the way to your dump of a house, isn't it? You avoiding us?"
Laughter erupted from the gang.
Glenn kept walking, head down, heart pounding.
"What? You think you're better than me now? You've been ignoring me all week! Today, we're gonna teach you a lesson." Bong-gong's tone was laced with arrogance—fueled by the presence of his backup.
Glenn didn't say a word.
He just walked faster—not out of cowardice, but out of a desperate need to avoid violence.
But before he could get far, the gang burst into a sprint behind him.
He ran.
But his bag was heavy—weighed down with books—and the strap was nearly tearing from the strain. He tried to support it with one hand, but that only slowed him down more.
Within moments, they caught up.
One of the thugs tripped him hard, sending Glenn crashing to the pavement.
"Gotcha!"
Bong-gong finally arrived, panting and sweaty, clearly winded from the short run.
He looked like the very stereotype of a bully—overweight, cruel, stupid, and always looking for someone to torment.
He sneered, standing over Glenn.
The rest of the gang circled in.
"What did I ever do to you?!" Glenn shouted, his voice cracking with fear and desperation. He had nowhere left to run, nowhere to hide.
Bong-gong laughed, a cruel grin spreading across his face.
"What did you do? You keep hanging around Claire! Acting like you're better than me—smarter, cleaner, like you don't even notice me!"
His voice dripped with jealousy and hate.
In truth, Bong-gong had liked Claire for a long time. Seeing Glenn beside her every day only fueled the bitterness festering inside him.
Before Glenn could speak, Bong-gong kicked him hard in the stomach.
The air burst out of Glenn's lungs as he fell to the ground, clutching his abdomen and gasping in pain.
"Remember that pain," Bong-gong sneered, standing over him. "Because I'll do it again and again until you learn your place. From now on, don't you dare go near Claire again—got it?!"
He motioned toward his friends.
"Come on, boys. Give him one each. Make sure he doesn't forget today."
The gang obeyed eagerly.
One by one, fists slammed into Glenn's body—his ribs, his arms, his back. He couldn't even scream anymore. All he could do was curl up, trembling, as the blows rained down.
That night, Glenn stumbled back home, battered and barely able to walk.
His father, exhausted from a long day collecting garbage, froze in shock when he saw the condition of his son. Glenn's right eye was nearly swollen shut from the beating he had taken—bruises and welts covered his face.
Glenn said nothing. His only response was to break down in tears and throw his arms around his father.
In the kitchen, his mother—who had been preparing a simple noodle dinner—dropped the utensils she was holding the moment she laid eyes on her son's bruised and crying face.
"Who did this to you?! Who?!" his father roared in anger.
But Glenn couldn't speak. He knew that Bong-gong, the son of the barangay captain, was responsible. And he knew that if he told the truth, his father would surely do something rash—and that would only bring trouble back to their family. He also feared that the barangay captain would retaliate and make things worse for them.
So Glenn lied.
"It was just some addicts on the street… I didn't recognize them," he whispered, voice trembling.
His father clenched his fists, wanting to press for answers, but the sight of his son—broken, shaking, and scared—stopped him.
Instead, he gently helped Glenn change into fresh clothes. His mother carefully wiped the blood from his wounds and pressed old cloth rags against the deeper bruises since they didn't have any medicine or first aid at home.
They served Glenn a hot meal, trying their best to comfort him, and told him to rest and skip school the next day to recover.
The next day, Glenn didn't go to school. He stayed home to rest, and thankfully, his body recovered quickly thanks to his mother's constant care. She barely slept through the night, staying by his side, gently wiping his wounds and making sure he was okay.
By lunchtime, Glenn's father returned home along with two of his co-workers—fellow garbage collectors. They brought with them several plastic bags filled with food: pancit and spaghetti they said were leftovers from a party hosted by an acquaintance. They decided to bring some home instead of letting it go to waste.
Glenn's face lit up with joy and hunger at the sight of the food. The four of them sat together, sharing a simple but satisfying meal.
After eating and resting for a while, Glenn noticed a large box that one of his father's companions had carried in earlier.
"Tito Noldy, what's inside that big box?" Glenn asked curiously.
Tito Noldy smiled and replied, "Just some reusable items we collected from the trash. Some of it can still be sold at the junk shop to make a little money, and the rest… well, if we're lucky, there might be some clothes or things we can still use."
Glenn's eyes sparkled with curiosity and excitement. "Can I check what's inside?"
Noldy gave a gentle wave of his hand and nodded. "Go ahead. Pick anything you like—whatever you want is yours."
Seeing Glenn's bruised body, Noldy's heart softened. He knew the boy had gone through something horrible, and letting him take whatever he could find from the box was the least he could do.
And so, Glenn slowly knelt beside the box, ready to dig through the treasures within discarded things—hoping to find something useful, or perhaps something that could make him smile again.
Despite the faint stench coming from the box—filled with various discarded items collected from the trash—Glenn didn't seem to mind. He was too excited, his hands eagerly rummaging through the pile of junk.
There were plastic bottles, broken keyboards, and old appliances that could still be sold or repaired. But what caught Glenn's attention was something wrapped tightly in layers of plastic and tape. Inside, he could faintly see the color black—it looked like a jacket.
Glenn carefully pulled it out. It was heavier than he expected, and there were dark stains on the edges, dried and brownish-red—like old blood.
Curious, he tried to open it, but the wrapping was too thick. "Tito Noldy!" he called. "Can you help me open this?"
His uncle smiled and took out a small knife.
"Looks like you found something nice there, Glenn,"
Noldy said as he began slicing through the layers of tape. Glenn leaned closer, eyes wide with excitement.
But the moment the plastic was pierced open, a strange odor escaped—thick, metallic, and foul, like rotting blood.
Noldy immediately covered his nose and gestured for Glenn to step back.
"Glenn—back away!" he warned sharply.
Glenn obeyed, retreating a few steps as his uncle continued peeling the plastic away.
Then, suddenly—Noldy dropped the knife.
His eyes went wide, bloodshot, as his entire body began to tremble.
The half-opened plastic bag fell from his hands, landing on the ground with a heavy thud. Inside, Glenn could now see the black jacket—the same jacket Damon once wore.
"Tito?" Glenn's voice cracked.
Noldy didn't respond. His body stiffened, and his eyes rolled back as he collapsed to the floor, convulsing violently. Thick red veins began to appear across his skin, and blood started to drip from his nose.
Terrified, Glenn froze where he stood—his heart pounding—watching as his uncle writhed on the ground, his eyes turning a deep, unnatural red.