I don't burn letters anymore.

But you do know I'm thinking about you, right?

Love,
Your son

December 7, 2009.
Monday.
4:49pm

Dear Alfred,

Detective Jeremy Cruz was murdered right in front of our house.

There was so much blood, Alfred. There was almost too much. You won’t think that the human head is capable of holding in that much blood. He was shot three times at the back of the head Saturday night.

I heard him ring the bell. My mom was on her way out to check who it was, when she heard the three gunshots. I rushed downstairs and I found my dad holding a gun and was commanding my mom to stay inside. He marched outside and I was just a few steps behind him. I saw him first. My dad was too busy looking out for the live ones than the dead one with his brains splattered all over our gate.

I don’t know why, but somehow, I knew who it was the moment I saw him lying down there. It was weird.

We called the cops. They responded quickly. Took them around 15 minutes to get to our house. You know what’s weird though? They just looked around, took the body and moved out. Some cop asked my dad a few questions, but nothing much about the dead detective. They didn’t even ask us if we knew the dead person or if we knew what he was doing there. They just left.

What was he doing in our driveway? Why would anyone want to kill him?

I talked more to my dad about it, but he didn’t want to talk at all. He kept quiet like he used to and went straight to his room. Some dad he is. He didn’t even check how I was feeling.

When I came back up, there was a message from Maika, checking if we’re still on for coffee on Sunday. I didn’t feel very social at the moment, so I made something up and just went to bed. I thought about writing to you, Alfred, but I just wasn’t feeling it.

I wasn’t able to sleep that night. Not one bit. I have a sinking feeling that this is all connected to me. What could it be?

Sunday was uneventful as always. I should have written something, but, well, I missed it. Sorry. I researched more about my accident, but again I found nothing. I just slept the whole day. I think I ate dinner, but I can’t be so sure. I didn’t feel good at all.

Today, well, today was interesting.

It was my first time back to school since my accident. I think there’s something you should know about me, uh, I’m a nobody in school. Nobody talks to me, nobody acknowledges me, nobody does anything with me.

Anyway, people we’re looking at me weird when I came to school. At first, I thought it was because of the bandage on my forehead, but it wasn’t. They weren’t looking at me in a bad way, but it didn’t seem like a good way either. They shot curious glances and they weren’t being too discreet about it.

This girl I barely even nod to, talked to me in bio class about my injury. She asked me about what happened. I told her I was in a minor crash. She looked concerned. She didn’t look sad, but she looked concerned. I asked her why she was looking at me like that, and she just said something about me being blessed.

A few more people asked me about my accident. Word of that day seemed to spread fast. I think every single one of the people in school knew about it and I had no idea how. They kept on telling me that everything was going to be okay and that I shouldn’t worry.

I’m not worried, Alfred. What am I supposed to be worried about?

I got so sick of the attention everybody gave me. I mean, I don’t even know these people.

Bah, weird.

Unfortunately, weirdness doesn’t stop there.

I dropped by Greenhills before going home. I bought a new cell phone and SIM card. It was a Nokia N97. It’s a pretty fancy phone. I like it. I loaded my SIM card and got a few text messages in. I got 5 new messages. 4 of them were from Globe.

The 5th was from someone else. The number can’t be displayed, but the text message read: Remember.

I’m assuming it’s the same person who sent me my shirt. I’ve seen this in movies and TV shows a lot, and it’s really irritating. I hate it when this shit happens. Why won’t anyone just please walk up to me and tell me what the hell is going on?

This is getting old.


-
Rick

-
5:25pm

December 5, 2009.
Saturday.
7:12pm.

Dear Alfred,

I met someone today.

When I asked for a break, I didn’t mean like this, but I guess it’ll do. Your purpose, Alfred, is to document my relations with people. It came in late, 7th entry, wow, but at least something still came, right? I don’t like the number 7.

Anyway, her name’s Maika. Cute, huh? You should’ve seen her, she’s gorgeous. We met in the junkshop of all places. She was hanging around my car—well, what’s left of it, probably looking for things to savage. She was surprised to see me standing there looking at her. I must’ve looked creepy because she looked spooked. She apologized for being there and she started to walk off. Well, I can’t have that now, can I?

I asked her what she was doing there because she really looked lost. She looked all clean and fragile to be moving about some rusted junkshop. She stopped to talk to me. I got a bit nervous. Nobody stops to talk to me, Alfred. She stopped, walked towards me and then talked.

I think I heard her say something about an art project. I wanted to listen to her, because that’s how it goes, right? You listen to girls, and they like you instantly. But I was too busy trying to suppress my heartbeats. We were about five feet apart, but I’m pretty sure she could hear it. I was so nervous, Alfred. This was the first time I’m talking to a strange girl alone for the longest time since uh, that incident.

We’re going out for coffee tomorrow. Yes, that’s right. I asked her out and she agreed.

I’m really glad I met her. God knows I need this now more than ever.

Everything else is still so fucked up.

I’m still confused. I told the doctor about the accident. He asked if he could read you, Alfred. I agreed of course. Then he kept on asking me about the time I lost. He asked me questions about it, about what I remember after the crash. But I can’t remember much. I only remember the time: 8:43. I remember people talking. I remember people pulling me out of my seat. But that’s it. That’s all I remember. That didn’t stop the doctor from asking even more questions though. I got irritated. I have lots of questions of my own.

I told him that I probably can’t remember because I was unconscious. He said that unconscious people stay in the hospital, not the police station. I told him that they’re equipped to handle medical emergencies. He then asked why I was covered in white cloth inside a random office and not the clinic. I didn’t have an answer to that. He asked me why the people in the station did not recognize me. I had nothing.

I told him about that detective though. That detective remembers me. I should go and seek that guy out.

My dad cried in the car on our way back home.

It was weird. I don’t remember my dad showing any kind of emotion before, but there he was, crying.

I was just asking him how they found out about my accident. He didn’t say anything. I kept on asking him about that day. He didn’t say anything. I got angry, I shouted at him. I think I crossed a few lines when I said that I hated him and that he’s a bad father.

I was expecting to get hit by his fist or the back of his hand. But he didn’t do anything, he didn’t say anything, he just cried. He cried all the way back home. I apologized, but I don’t think he heard me.

When we got home, I saw my mom in the living room with my sisters, taking in hushed tones. My mom greeted my dad and I when we got home, but she was obviously crying. I went up to my room, I was tired and confused and angry and just really scared.

What’s happening, Alfred?

At least, Maika’s there, right? I mean, she’s not the answer to my questions, but she’s such a welcomed distraction.

I don’t know, I guess I ju


-
11:29pm

December 4, 2009.
Friday.
7:15pm.

Dear Alfred,

I’m going to start writing the date and time of every entry from now on, just so I don’t get lost again.

They released me from the hospital today. As soon as I was out, I asked my dad to drive me to the police station so I can ask some questions. Dad was still not back to his normal self. He still keeps looking at me weird. I gave up asking my family questions. I was going to resort to my friends, but the damned Wi-Fi never got fixed.

When we got there, I saw a familiar face. It was that officer who blurted out “junkshop,” while I was asking them about my car. I went up to him and asked about my car, but he looked at me with this dumb expression on his face and said he had no idea what I was talking about. I tried telling him about the night of my accident, but still nothing. He just shook his head and walked towards one of the offices.

I didn’t recognize any of the people in the station. I tried looking for the people who interrogated me in the conference room, but I didn’t see any of them. My dad and I asked about the accident Sunday night. There only record they have for Sunday, November 29, was an incident at EDSA that was reported at 8:52pm. That was probably the accident I was in.

I kept on asking the people around if they recognized me, but no one did. How can anyone not recognize me? I made such a big scene with all that screaming, all that shouting. Something weird was going on, Alfred.

When we were about to leave, this guy who introduced himself as Detective Jeremy Cruz, walked up to me. Apparently, he was one of those people inside the conference room. He asked me about my head. I asked him if he knew what happened to me. He said he had no idea what happened to me because they were called in at around 2:34am on a Tuesday to investigate a murder, not an accident. He said he was just as surprised as everyone else when I started walking around the police station with a bleeding head in something close to nothing. He told me that he had to leave even before they were done with me, so he didn’t know anything that happened after that.

If that was a Tuesday, then I did miss a day. I missed Monday.

I’m scared, Alfred. I don’t know what happened and what’s happening to me.

I remember, it was a Sunday. 8:43pm. I was driving to a party when I crashed head on with another vehicle.

My dad must have seen my confused look, he gave me another quick hug, but didn’t say anything.

I wonder what happened to the person in the other car I hit? I never got to ask about that because no one else seems to know about it. I looked in the news, but I didn’t get anything.

I’ll just keep digging, I guess. I just hope I get a damned break.

I’ll let you know when something comes up, Alfred.


-
Rick


-
7:51pm

Dear Alfred,

This whole ordeal is starting to get into my nerves. The people around me aren’t helping one bit.

I seem to have “lost” a day.

Uh, I still have no idea what’s going on. I mean, I’ve been writing every day. Let’s try to figure out what happened. When I went home from the police station, that was Monday morning. I believe that was around 7am. When I woke up around 3:30pm, I started writing again, right? I ate dinner, I went to sleep. My parents were still out of the country and they were due back on Wednesday. When I went downstairs to eat, that day when everyone was crying, apparently that was Wednesday. In my mind, it was just Tuesday. Did I just sleep for 36 hours? Did I spend more than a day in the police station? What the hell happened?

When I went downstairs that morning, my parents just got home from their trip, and they had no idea I was there. My mom won’t say anything about it. My dad said some things about it, but not much to help me out. He just said that they went straight to the police station first, then the hospital.

Why the hospital? I was never in a hospital.

I kept on asking dad, but nothing. I’m not getting any answers. He just closes his eyes and shakes his head. It pissed me off a little, and I think I started to shout. But he just gave me a hug again and went out of the room.

What the fuck is wrong with everybody? Why won’t anybody tell me anything? Is the accident some big conspiracy that I unfortunately played into? Why should everything be such a great mystery? I don’t like this, I don’t like it one bit.

And why am I still in this hospital? This morning, the doctor stuck an IV in me. He told me it was a precaution. For what? I’m fine. I’m normal. Why won’t anybody tell me anything?

The package I got earlier was unmarked. No return address, no mailing address. It was a brown envelope. Inside was what seemed like a rag. Half was burnt, and the rest was ripped and really just black with dirt and oil and whoever knows what else. There was a printed note inside.

It read: Your shirt.

Whoever wrote that had enough time to go out of his way to go buy an envelope, write on a note and drive all the way to the hospital and I don’t even get a name? Seriously, what the fuck.

Yep. This shitstorm is really starting to piss me off.

Just tell me what the fuck happened already. I can live without the shadow and mystery.


-
Rick