writing a story.

a friend asked me to write something substantial again.
I don't know if I am up to that task yet.
Its really not so much as the fear of failing but its more an
issue of a lack of
motivation.
But here is something that I think is close to "substantial".
This is an article I wrote for a school project and out of all
the papers that I wrote for this semester this is by far my favorite.
I'm posting the rough draft here since the edited version is with
my groupmate/editor.

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FORT SANTIAGO-SHRINE OF FREEDOM

EMIL

The continuous sound of my computer mouse clicking is the only sound that can be heard in the entire floor. As far I know, I’m the only one left in the office and this made me feel even more annoyed. I have been sitting at my cubicle for almost 6 hours now doing practically nothing but researching information about Fort Santiago. My boss assigned me this rather tedious job of writing an article and designing a brochure of Fort Santiago for our newest client. I am not too happy with that assignment particularly because the client wants so many things that it was impossible to capture all his specifications in one design. He is also so demanding and too eager that it was hard to keep up with him. And to add even more to my annoyance, he decided to set a meeting tomorrow morning. I frowned remembering that I have to wake up early tomorrow if I don’t want to be late for that meeting which means that I have to leave now if I have any hope of making it to that meeting on time. I hurriedly turned off my computer and left the office.

I opened my eyes wide in an effort to see in the darkness. I knew that my attempts are futile but I try nonetheless. I continued to grope around blindly almost feeling relaxed knowing exactly what to expect. My nightmares are always the same anyway. The darkness is just the prelude to the enigmatic eyes that affect me and evoke emotions inside of me that I never quite understood. I then turned around and as if on cue, the pair of eyes appeared in front of me. Staring at me with those impossibly beautiful brown irises but with a wild frightened look in them that sometimes makes me think that the owner of the eyes is frightened of me. But then the eyes slowly diminish, growing smaller every second. It was as if the owner of the eyes was falling down. And as always I tried to reach for it (whether I did so to save him/her or because I wanted to finally discover the face behind the eyes is unimportant) because as expected, I was too late. My fingers grasp nothing but air. I continued to stare at the blackness, feeling the inexplicable emotions gnawing at me again, trying my very best to calm myself and fully expecting to wake up anytime now. But surprisingly the blankness did not change into a view of my familiar and well-lit bedroom, instead I found myself staring at a stone-paved flight of stairs. I took a look around and realized that I was standing on top of the stairs that lead down to the patio. I shuddered at some long lost memory, blinked once and when I opened my eyes again I found myself staring at my bedroom’s ceiling. I looked at the clock and sigh. I am going to be late for that 7:30 am meeting. Tired as I am because of the mysterious nightmare, I bolted out of bed and head to the bathroom to shower.

I let out a slow whistle as I finally eased my car into the parking slot. I made it on time after all. I got off my car and was suddenly pushed to the side. I turned to see what it was that hit me and saw a man walking fast, almost running towards his car. I looked at which direction he came from and wondered what made him act that way. And then I suddenly had this inexplicable feeling to go on the direction the man previously took. I tried to snapped out of it by telling myself that our client is waiting for me at the other side of the street but it seemed as though my body is not my own and I can’t control it so I continued walking away from my original destination. I then reached Casa Manila and entered the place. I saw a familiar looking flight of stairs, and I somehow could not believe that this was the place of my mysterious nightmare. I went up the stairs and took a look around as I reached the top. I saw then that it was definitely the same place and I wondered how could this be and then suddenly out of nowhere, just like in my nightmares, I saw the familiar pair of brown eyes. I wondered then if I was dreaming so I pinched myself and felt the pain. But then how can this be happening? And then that’s when a sudden tidal wave of forgotten memories hit me. I remembered the events vividly as if they just occurred. I looked at the eyes again and saw that it somehow looked different. It has an accusing look about it, even somewhat victorious. I closed my eyes trying to stop this onslaught of unwanted memories. But I remember everything so clearly now, I can see them in my mind. I could picture them now, his arms around her, her face glowing as she looked at him. I felt the same anger now as I felt it back then. I looked at the eyes again and saw that they were lifeless, exactly the way they had looked after I had pushed her. And then I remembered the blood, her blood. It was all over the place, everything I saw was red. And then I ran as I had ran back then, feeling the need to get as far away from this horrible place as immediately as possible.

I went straight to Fort Santiago, hoping to find some comfort in the protection of the old walls. I saw our client and he took me to the IVC (INTRAMUROS VISITORS CENTER) which is housed at the chambers of the Baluartillo de San Francisco Javier. He was telling me how this place was once a military storage supply chamber in 1663 but I was not really paying that much attention. I knew what it was back then even before he told me about it. I sneaked in here after I had pushed her hoping to grab a gun and kill myself as well but a guard went inside and interrupted my plan. I guess our client saw my lack of interest so he led me towards the Plaza Moriones which was a public promenade until it was fenced off by the Spanish Military. I remembered how it looked like before and I frowned at the simplicity of it now. But I saw that the fountains are still there, and I’m glad that they remained even after all the years. I remembered how I had I stood in front of the center fountain, crying as I washed my hands, hoping to wash the guilt and pain away with it. I choked back a sob as I remembered those terrifying moments. The client looked oddly at me and asked if I was alright and I said yes and asked him to go and show me a different place instead. So he took me to the Almacenes Reales or the Royal Warehouse which is situated opposite the IVC. This was where the goods from the galleons were stored. It seemed that the client had little to say about the place so he took me to the Artilleria de Maestranza, a royal foundry which cast cannons and ammunition during the Spanish period. On our way there we passed the Ruins (American Barracks) where, according to the client, Ferdinand Marcos was once imprisoned. I was so distracted by my memories that I had barely noticed that we had reached the front of the main gate of Fort Santiago. I was surprised that the Moat was still there, looking as imposing at it had years ago. It was meant to be the first line of defense, surrounding the fortified city with water. I remembered looking dejectedly at it, wondering how best to drown myself. I was so depressed back then that I would have done anything to escape the pain and the guilt I was feeling. We walked towards the gate and the client told me that the gate was decorated as such to honor St. James (Santiago Matamoros) the patron saint of Spain. He was telling me that the only original structures at the entrance are the two sentinels located at the sides. The rest were blown up during the 1945 Liberation. I listened attentively at his story, glad to have a moment’s respite from my painful memories. He pointed out to me the Medio Baluarte de San Francisco and Baluarte de San Miguel which guarded the fort from the river and the bay. We reached Plaza Armas, the fort’s main square. To the south of it, is an old Spanish barracks and a building that was reconstructed to house the Rizal Shrine. To the north of it is a barracks which, according to the client, is the probable site of Rajah Sulayman’s original fortress. There is also an adobe building which was now used as a theater which was appropriately named Dulaang Rajah Soliman. I looked about the place and was surprised at how much it had changed. As far as I could tell, there is little resemblance. The client pointed out to me that at the western side of the building is the chapel cell where Rizal spent his last night on earth. He asked me to look down and I saw brass shoeprints littering the walkways. He said that the brass shoeprints trace the path of Rizal when he walked to his execution site. I shuddered at the word execution because it brought images of blood and dead people in my head, causing me to again be bombarded by those unwanted memories. I tried to focus my attention back to the client. He led me towards the far end of Plaza Armas where the Casa del Castellano is located. I looked at the place and marveled at how different it looked back then. I remember that it was once the residence of the Fort Commander and the dungeon below was used as cellar where food supplies were kept but now it was a terraced garden. The client once again looked oddly at me as I chuckled to myself. I regained my composure and asked him to continue. He led me to the Baluarte de Sta. Barbara, a strategically located stone platform that overlooks the bay and the river. At that point my memories attacked me again. I remembered standing here, looking sadly at the sunset. The heavens looked so red and everywhere I looked I saw her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes lifeless, as lifeless as her body drowning in blood. The client is looking oddly at me again, stopping his narration about how the dungeons visible from this place were used during World War II by the Japanese as torture chambers. He moved as if to touch me but I motioned for him to go on. He then continued his talk about how Fort Santiago became a dreaded place during World War II because of these torture chambers. During the Japanese regime it was a dreaded place were hundreds of men and women were jailed, tortured, and executed by the Kempetei. All his talk about dead people only enhanced my agitation. I really tried to focus but I could not escape the onslaught of memories. Try as I might I just cannot shake the images out of my head nor can I stop feeling the pain and guilt all over again. And since I cannot take it anymore, I told the client that I had seen enough and that tomorrow he can pick up his brochure. I rushed to go back to my car, I didn’t even shake his hand. On my way back I saw the false walls of Falsabragas de Sta. Barbara and Media Naranja which was designed to protect the main bulwark in case of heavy bombardment from the river. I stopped then, trying to calm myself, wanting to feel the protection that the walls were meant to give. I saw the client about to chase me so I moved on but then I saw the memorial cross which marks the common grave of about 600 people, guerillas and civilians, all found inside the powder magazine of Baluarte de Sta. Barbara after WWII. They were trapped there during the heavy bombardment of Intramuros. I kneeled down and said a prayer for them and inserted one for her as well. I never knew what happened to her body, I never went back. I never had the courage to face what I had done and maybe that was why she continues to haunt me. But nothing has changed over the years, I guess I am still a coward. I just cannot face this nightmare, I have to leave this place. I have to get away from everything that this place reminds me of. I have to get away from her.

Pull Quote: The heavens looked so red and everywhere I looked I saw her eyes. Her beautiful brown eyes lifeless, as lifeless as her body drowning in blood.