This is a work of fiction. There are no relations to any real persons, groups, events, etc. The author's art will be added upon release. Please follow the author's social media accounts for art and updates.
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Trigger warning: guns, blood, violence and curse words
C1: If it Breaks Your Heart
Mayas flutter their brown feathers, landing on the branches of the trees in the warmth of the tropical air. Despite a few of them being petite, they sing merrily despite the beeping just a little miles away; they sing as one of those people hear during their stay in the remote provinces. They sang with such melodies that any individual would want to hear. Only to be deafened by the sounds of the ominous wiper of steel, the shrill sound of a dagger being unsheathed in the middle of the broad daylight. It pierced through the air as it was followed by a continuous trickle of blood staining the tiles down, pacing down to the ground to the small greenery of the garden. Despite the conflict, the melodic serenade permeates the garden undisturbed.
A cough. A deep cough. Another cough echoed, and a splash of crimson erupted from a man's mouth that morbidly dripped down on the side of his lips as his lips parted uncousiously. He wasn't on the brink of death, but his vision was starting to get hazy as he saw his blood tainting his hands and running down from his hands to his arms. The blood didn't seem to make the birds flutter their wings to fly away and they were like a person who minds their own business.
"What do you want?" his voice strained, but his hand moved the paintbrush on the canvas as if like those birds that are undisturbed from the gun shot. He kept painting this sight, which isn't something that anyone could imagine, the person who got hurt remained unfazed. The victim should have been begging, gasping for air. It put a bad taste in his personal views of the man in front of him as he, the attacker, put his guard up, mustering some confidence on his face staring at the man he had just injured. "Mr. President," despite having a hand on his cheek and his ears trying to stop bleeding from the cuts, the assailant had grappled all his loathing and nudged the nozzle of the gun beside the president's head. "Give us back our lands." Contrasting with the formalities of the gun on his head was the attitude of the victim, the president. "Your grandparents promised to return it to us. It's been years since your family said they'd return it to us," he held up a gun that had been drenched in blood from the sins he had made making his way towards the small little garden just outside of the house of the gentleman, the president. He quickly switches his hold to the gun as the slashes and open wounds on his arms bleed yet he firmly pushes the nozzle to the side of the president's head.
"We told you we're giving it back until our country pays our debts." the president's tone wasn't convincing enough nor sympathetic. It was a plain statement that made the assailant wonder who put those words in his mouth. Everyone knows that the country has some reserved money. That's what he was thinking.
"For how long? When we're dead?" His brows knitted. Enjoyed wasn't the right word, but for him, this provoking tension makes him thrilled. It was something that will finally let out what he has been keeping inside for the long run as a citizen of this country.
"You don't understand the situation do you?"
"Give us back the lands. Your explanation is beyond meaningless after all that my family went through our years." The assailant flicked the trigger toward the president. The presidant's blood gushed as soon as it made contact with his skin.
"I don't have a single care if I take your life right at this instant. Give. Our. Lands. Back." Was it luck that the gun was aimed at the president's hand instead of his heart and his hand is suddenly out of control of his gun? He knew it was directed toward the president's head yet as if he can't shoot it directly to his heart. For the president, it was just disappointing. It left the canvas in front of him with smoke rising from the bullet now piercing through it, his blood splattering across the canvas. "You won't even hear any explanation?" He simply pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it into the palm of his hands to stop it from bleeding. Despite being upset about the blood on his painting he just breath out an unaudioble sigh. Opening a tube of maroon paint, he squeezed it carefully onto the old glass palette beside him as if nothing happened with his body.
"Tomatoes were once considered something that shouldn't be eaten," he dipped his paintbrush into it just enough for the bristles to color. He brushed it onto the canvas that was splattered with his own blood. "Throughout history, it was surrounded by questions."
"Is it a fruit? Is it a vegetable? Is it poisonous? Can we eat it? It's clear now what the answer is, but they didn't have those answers back then." The brush strokes glided carefully, covering the blood splatter and mixing with the paint as if matching the scenery just behind the hole of the canvas. He intends to paint the subject right in front of him, though and he intends to paint a person on top of it.
"Do any of these ridiculous things matter to me?" The assailant frowned, troubled yet internally pondering what he was saying. Although he was blinded by rage, it seemed to be his nature to be curious and simply listen yet the anger remained at top.
"What nonsense are you telling me? Are you trying to convince me?" He said the opposite thing he would say if this was a classroom setup. He could have said, 'What does it mean?' yet this is outside, and it doesn't matter anyway. The important thing was the deaths weren't wasted for nothing and waiting for the product of his doing.
"Have you thought about the significance of that tale?"
"We're not in school. You're not my teacher; why the hell would I even want to analyze your freaking tale?!"
"It was discovered that it can be eaten and is beneficial for people. It was even put on a trial." He stops as he dips a new brush to yellow. "You do know an investigation will be conducted to see if this thing will be brought up to the court. You'll have your lands back, but then our country will be shrouded in debt once more, and the one you'll run to is the politician backer. The one who'll help you in court will gain the hero title. Then you will be dispensable. And the history you hated will be repeated, maybe not with you but to the others." He was right; he knew he'd be used, yet the assailant must not falter. After all the things he sacrificed to get his way up here, the urge to move to make the eye of justice turn to his own family, even just for once. He must not falter.
"Everyone knows that people who support people become either dispensable or pawns. I'd rather not be either of those. You'll be something dispensable for us, Mr. President. Right now. If I kill you right here, then no politician will back me up." If he, the assailant, could just shut his worries and doubts about his own decisions down by shooting another bullet, but he was already down to the last three bullets.
"You're not thinking. The vice president, then the Senate president, and then the House of Representatives speaker those are going to be in the position after me. What else? Are you even sure if they're clean enough for me to be replaced by them?" Another truth the president didn't lie about. The assailant didn't know about this, whether the school didn't think about this lesson, or the public wasn't informed about it; whatever reason, he dismissed what he said.
"Your heritage will help the many lives of the people, and it'll also benefit you," his hand stops moving, "well, indirectly. But I will make sure of this to the president in the future that you'll take all the credit for your family's sacrifice. The Philippines owes you after all, for the country cannot stand on its own without the help from the crops on your lands." One of the countries that are placed in the Pacific Ring of Fire that are abundant in volcanoes and can have soil with nutrients coming from the soil is the Philippines. With that in mind, the president and his constituents knew that the situation was far more grievous than any of the newspapers or the media could discuss. A healthy land could solve the problems in goods for the thousands of hungry people, and having a hold and a little control on the lands could make a good strategic plan for the upcoming harvests for the next couple of years. At least, he thought for the last three of his remaining terms, he could contribute more to the people he had sworn under their trust and votes. A little steal couldn't hurt if this is the kind of steal; he thought about this through and through. There is no other way, especially with the independent rage that some people have against him.
"Mr. President, while I still call you my president," the assailant held his breath deeply before pressing his ears harder, "return it to us."
"If I die, you can freely get your lands back," the president said, rubbing his neck before getting his spare handkerchief to cleanly wrap his hands around the hole in his palms as he looked over the splashed blood on the canvas. "You don't understand the situation here." He groans as he blends the color on the canvas as it noticeably dries on his brush. "Violence isn't going to." With another loud bang, it hit perfectly the same spot that was hit on his hands as the president groaned in pain he held on his hand. The president's vision was now the same as the assailant's: in a haze and his head feeling the spin.
"Johnny Lucky S. Triker, that's my name, President Helio Andreis." The assailant sat on the grass of the garden of the gentlemen. He was a little calmer than earlier and he took a little breath of relief as he settled down. What calmed him was shooting it again; it blocked the doubt in his brain temporarily. "They said my bullets always hit the one who isn't righteous and on the wrong side. Whenever I wanted to shoot somebody on the right, it never grazed them. You already know what the other thing is, don't you, Helio? My bullets never lie to me." Lucky hit him. Does that mean he is on the wrong side of history? The president remained still to his decision though. He didn't think of that. The one who questioned if the president was on the wrong side of history was lucky. At this point, their thoughts could be colliding with some things they wanted to do. They both wanted to do something better for the future of both of the countries they lived in yet they have different ways of settling on how to do it.
"Maybe you're just bad at aiming." Lucky's breathing suddenly became compromised as an arm tightened around his neck. It wasn't the president that attacked him. The president just remained still on his chair. Lucky could only guess, it was one of the presidential guards. With Lucky's grip, he held on to the arm and swiftly loosened it, desperate to breathe, pulling the arm upward, creating a moment of space. Adrenaline rushed through his body as he moved desperately, aiming to untangle himself from the unwanted force yet he wasn't quick to catch up to the movements. His breathing labored, and his vision slowly darkened as it tightened with much force no matter how Lucky tried to get away. Lucky's body can't handle the loss of blood as he finds himself back to the tackle, and with a final struggle and a fruitless attempt to escape, his body goes limp, and his body slumps onto the grass of the presidential garden.
"Mr. President, this isn't the time to slack off." Despite being wounded in his hand, President Helio stood up unfazed, yet he folded his knees as he placed his hand right in front of the face of Lucky. Feeling the slight breathing, he stood up, fixing his cream-colored long sleeves and pitch-black jeans. "These rascals are attacking Mr. President, the home of the gentleman (Malacanang). Should we place it on the news as a threat?" Hello shook his head knowing it wasn't a good idea, at least for him. "That action is unideal. This is, after all, a family and private presidential matter. No one should know about this. Do not report it to the police either." The president's security guard held his earpiece listening, "Mr. President, I think you should go now. My people have informed me of the unintervined entry of Tiker's forces." the security looked at Tiker frowning, "To have such a thick face and such a rebellious phase just coming up to do whatever he thinks is good for themselves." he clicks his tongue in dismay. "President Helio, I'm awaiting your orders." With long, fast-paced steps, the president rushed towards his office without any word coming from him. The president always knew his weakness. It was his other half, the president's lady. His eyes scanned her whole body seeing the dried-up blood from her mouth with her back resting on the bookshelf. His hands reached for her shoulders and bit his lip as his insides ached in pain. "Carry her." He couldn't carry her in his state; his vision was also slowly fading.
There is no time to weep for your loved ones when your life is gravely important to more than one person. Carrying the wife of the president, one of his security guards trailed behind into a dimly lit stairway that descended into a part that wasn't in the general public's eye mall hallway at the bottom of the gentleman's home. It was under the waters near it, an underwater tunnel towards a safe.
"Thank you."
"It's always been our duty, Mr. President."
"Get her to safety." Under the tunnel's dimness, the small old fluorescent lights remain flickering. Guide in going out as they slow down the trail, catching their breaths.
"The tunnel maintenance was unobserved for the past few years. Only a few of us know this for security purposes." He marched step by step, the minutes passing slowly in the engulfing darkness. "I've taken care of the first lady's wounds." The sound of dripping gets faster as the security officer walks. "I've taken care of her." The security officer turns back to the president, but a gun meets his nose, the gunpowder still fresh and smoking the nuzzle. He slightly froze with shock, yet he smirked as he heard the dripping blood to the ground echo much faster. The illustrious leader of the nation, adorned with the mantle of authority, grasping the firearm, an instrument of both power and peril. With a shot, the security officer's pin flag falls as if aiming to slip or produce a warning.
"Mr. President, shoot the gun, please. Fire it at my head." His lips twitched into a curved smile.