It was the 25th of December, 2017—gloomy and gray. It was no surprise the weather would be rainy in December; it always had been. The world outside was not colorful to me, nor did I acknowledge the rain that struck and bounced off the Kadupul flower outside the window beside me. Mom loved gardening—her garden was livelier and merrier than what was inside the household.
I came from an opulent household. It was dinner, and I sat with my parents at a grand castle-like dining table. My eyes fixated on every dish served by the maids, with only my parents and me celebrating Christmas Eve. I always wondered why they wouldn't let me go outside and play with the other kids. I had never caused any trouble, nor disobeyed them once. I kept begging to be allowed to play outside, but they never replied. They simply didn't have the time or enthusiasm. They just looked me straight in the eyes. I could read them, but it was too ambiguous—those eyes said "no," but the reasons behind it, I couldn't tell.
My parents came from elite families, having graduated from prestigious schools and universities, which I also attended. They owned businesses too, of course—they ran the Grand Ambram Hotels, the most well-managed and luxurious hotel across the Philippines.
The quiet, gloomy atmosphere did not bother anyone at the dining table. Just the three of us, eating like polite carnivores. I clinked my wine glass with a fork. It was quiet, far too quiet. That sound drew their attention. Mom wiped the corner of her lips ever so politely.
"What is it, son?" Father asked as he drank his red wine—red as his bloodshot left eye.
"I want to make a toast," I replied, my tone sounding like an adult. My parents scoffed in amusement, though I was not amused, nor was I taken seriously by them… as always.
I lifted my glass, but before I could speak—"Never mind." They resumed munching their food. The porcelain plates striking the silver forks and knives rang louder than the sip of my grape juice, as though they were trying to drown me out with noise, to ignore my existence. The echoes of the silver spoons…
I had a brother, though he was overseas. He was accepted into a very prestigious school in America at a young age. But I knew for a fact they simply wanted to leave the country as soon as possible, for reasons unknown. He stayed with our grandparents in America. I didn't know much about him; I hadn't grown up with him. I didn't know how or why. I felt like a sheep raised by wolves. I didn't know how my mother gave birth to a sheep—or perhaps I wasn't one at all.
…
That evening, on Christmas Eve, I waited by the chimney. I sat across from it, my back against the grandfather clock. The ticking filled the room—tick, tock, tick, tock—my index finger tapping the floor in rhythm as I caressed my necklace. From the other room, I heard my parents arguing. I didn't want to miss Santa coming down the chimney, but Mom's screams carried through the walls. The clock seemed to tick louder, my finger tapping faster against the floor as though I were digging through it, the sound grating on my nerves.
Then I heard glass shatter.
I turned toward the noise. I stood and ran.
Their voices grew louder with each step I took down the dark hallway. The light from their room seeped out through the crack beneath the door. Mom was crying.
I ran away, unwilling to hear more. Was Father beating Mom again? Or were they just arguing about something that drove her into madness?
Eventually, I gave up waiting for Santa and went to bed. The next morning was jolly. Gifts sat beneath our seven-foot Christmas tree: sixty Christmas balls, forty-five angels, and a 267-centimeter red-and-white bow wrapped around it. The tree glowed with colorful lights and countless ornaments. I knew because I had helped Ms. Clara decorate it.
I depended on Ms. Clara the most, especially around the house. I called for her when I needed my glass filled, when I forgot my towel after a bath, or when I couldn't reach the top shelf of my bookshelf. As a twelve-year-old, I needed adults around to guide me, to care for me. My parents' eyes carried heavy judgment. They showed me not gentleness or love, only pressure and expectation. But Ms. Clara's eyes were soft—caring, kind, filled with warmth. Sometimes I even wished she were my mother, because she made me feel safe and pampered. But I do not resent my real mother. On the rare occasions she embraced me, I became teary and sentimental—it felt like being reborn. And though Ms. Clara's affection was warm, it was not the same as my mother's embrace.
I felt something was always missing—my mother's embrace. I cried over memories that never were. Or perhaps they were? I couldn't remember.
As for my father, he was a wise man who had lost many battles, yet still stood his ground. But he was also cruel—a man who deserved hell. He had done many cruel things to my mother and me. I was traumatized by his actions; every strike of his baton left scars on my back and legs. My mother wore bruises after every argument.
…
That Christmas morning, she wore them too. She approached me as I stood beside the Christmas tree holding a large gift. She smiled, though the corner of her lip was purple. Kneeling in front of me, she placed her hands on my shoulders.
"My precious son, Mama loves you."
Then she hugged me. Why? Why was she suddenly acting as though she were breathing her last breath? I gently pushed her back to look at her, my brows furrowed.
"I'm hungry," I said. She chuckled and stood.
"I'll cook breakfast today. Merry Christmas, my dear Felix."
She walked away. I would follow later. But she was acting strangely.
Some time later, I went to the kitchen. She called me for breakfast. When I asked where Father was, she said he went to work early. It was rare to see her smiling. What happened? Did Father do this? What had he done? I ate breakfast with her in peace. She radiated a strange, unsettling positivity. That was not my mother's smile. That was Maria.
After breakfast, I went to my mother's garden to feed Mr. Patches, my Maine Coon. I roamed among the flowers and noticed many had withered. Some were marcescent, clinging to life.
Had she forgotten to water them? She never missed a spot. And speaking of Mother, I hadn't seen her in the garden for a while. She usually spent most of her time there, sometimes inviting me to join her and teaching me how gardening worked. But the gumamela, her favorite flowers, were withering. The garden was silent, undisturbed.
A raspy meow broke the stillness. Mr. Patches nuzzled against my leg. "It's time to eat, Mr. Patches." He purred as though he understood. We went inside together.
…
Hours passed. At 10 p.m., Father returned. Mom's eyes were dark, sunken, yet oddly delighted. They exchanged kisses. He patted my head and went straight to his office without a word. She followed him.
…
Thirty minutes later, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, fidgeting with my necklace. Then I heard a thud. My heart jumped. I sat up, crept to my door, and peeked through the crack. The hallway was dim, but the light from their room spilled out. Mother was crying.
"What have I done?" she sobbed.
"Mom?" I whispered, stepping closer so she could see me.
"I'm a bad mother, son."
I froze. Father's body lay lifeless on the floor. My blood drained, my face as pale as his. Mother pointed a gun to her head. Where did she get that?
"Mom, don't!"
She smiled. I ran to her—but she pulled the trigger. My ears rang. Blood spattered across me. Her body collapsed.
"Mama!"
I screamed. Rage consumed me. Why? Why? They must have been insane. Both of them. I would be, too.
Footsteps rushed toward me. Ms. Clara appeared, pulled me away from their bodies. She held me, crying, worried for me. I sobbed in her arms, my vision blurring. Out the window, I saw the garden—lifeless, foreshadowing Mother's death, her plan to murder Father, and her final act.
Maria.
It was all her doing. No—it was Father's fault. If only he had loved us like a family, loved his wife, loved his son.
No… it was both their fault.
I was only twelve.