HANGOVER

She is drinking again. But this time with a real friend. Taking alcohol should be done with reasons and so the justifications. 

She is frustrated with her job interview and her friend has a heart problem. Justifiable, indeed.

The place is not suited for a serious talk, which is fine, since they only need a diversion from their current states. The bottles of beer are shared with broken conversations and some singing. Most of the time, they are silent. The companionship is not awkward even with the lack of words. They are both comfortable with silence, which she really values, and one of the reasons why she looks at her as a real friend. 

Two buckets down before they decide to quit the night. While walking to find a cab, her friend asks her if she is open to bar-hop. She can still handle herself and her companion is still sober, she thinks, and the night is still young, so why not. 

The next place is noisier and more populated than the first one. She chooses the seat near the stage where a band is playing, thinking that ear-shuttering noise is exactly what they need. 

The place is a good venue for people-watching, which is one thing they both do for the heck of finding weird things in people. 

As usual, words are minimal. But lot of eye movements are going and laughter, loud ones, are shared, then an abrupt silence, then cycles. 

The band is playing dance music from time to time together with the dimming of lights. They are nodding their heads and moving their bodies to the beat of the tunes. 

Tonight, she is different from her usual days, which made her look more approachable. Her friend as usual looks uniquely beautiful. The longer they stay at the place, the more evident that they are different from the other patrons, which makes her uneasy and the want to leave gets strong. 

She is observing her friend for a sign of drunkenness knowing that the alcohol is already taking its effects on her. Her friend however is enjoying the tunes so she drops the idea of leaving. 

Some people start to notice them. Usually people don’t have the guts to approach them, but alcohol can give that false feeling of being stronger. Alcohol can also lower the barrier people usually surround themselves. 

One guy asks her, “You look familiar, do I know you from somewhere?” She looks up and says no, then mind the beer in front of her. Another guy approaches her friend and asks for a dance. They dance…

She wakes up feeling the weight of her head and wonders where she is. It takes minutes before she recognizes that she is in her friend’s place. She thinks hard how they are able to get home. She plays in her mind the series of events last night but she ends up with her friend dancing with a guy. She recalls the events again and again and again. But she always ends up with the same scene. 

Panic building up, she wakes up her friend sleeping beside her. She asks her friend the same question she’s trying to answer herself. Worst. Her friend only remembers patches of things. The last scene she remembers is when a guy asks her to dance. 

Barrage of questions, litanies and concerns escape her lips. Then finally she said, “We are still us. We will never talk about this again”. 

Minutes of silence, then her friend’s cellphone beeps. The friend let her read the message. “Hi love, how are you? My friend is still aching from that slap your friend gave him. When will I see you again?”. 

She looks at her friend and says, “NO. But whatever your decision is, whatever the consequences of your choices, be responsible.”. 

She gets her things, heads to the door and before exiting repeats the word 

NO.

She gets home and sleeps the worry that’s eating her. She wakes up with a dream. The dream is peopled with recognizable characters. 

She is a supportive friend, giving warnings from time to time but still helps when she can especially witnessing how hopefulness and love bring out exceptional happiness to her friend. 

But something good will never come out from a wrong start. Enjoying the moment will never be applicable and heartache is inevitable. Though she understands that lessons learned are priceless. 

Maybe her friend is aching from the results of her decisions, but more so in her part because she still feels responsible. 

She is drinking again, alone this time, and without justification. 

There maybe hangover tomorrow, but she imprints in her mind that it will be just a dream, it really never happens and soon will be forgotten.

GLASSCASE

Within the glasscase, a simple room with wooden flooring and walls was depicted. My eyes were caught by a cradle near the door, made of colored green and red abaca. A boy, probably three years old was asleep peacefully. 

I inspected other parts of the room. No bed, just neatly folded bedclothes and boxes. Some miniatures of hanged dresses also visible in the walls. 

I squinted to see a girl, maybe five years of age, sitting in the corner of the room, her sitting-height just as tall as the divan beside her. A blank far away look was visible in her face. But something at the back of my mind made me look closer. Replaced, was a frightened look, eyes directed to the cradle and a leg slightly bent forward as if taking a hesitant flight from her position. I followed her eyes, taking a closer look at the cradle. I saw a snake draped at the body of the sleeping boy. I was stunned and a story was conjured before my eyes…

The girl though frail was up with speed and snatched the sleeping boy from the cradle. Shaking, protective arms fiercely enclosed the body of the boy. She stumbled to the three-flight stairs causing the boy to shriek very loud, reaching the ears of their parents and some neighbors that were in the yard. 

All at once they arrived at the door. The mother cursing snatched the boy from the girl and slapped the girl’s bottom after securing the boy in her arms. 

I expected tears from the girl but only  a snobbish frown crossed her face, though shaking was still evident. 

Without any utterances, she ran at the back of the house, her father and some curious neighbors followed her. From her short pockets, she produced pebbles and desperately threw stones to the grasses while muttering incomprehensible words. Then a snake slithered towards the girl. 

Without fear she kept throwing pebbles despite the panic voices behind her. Just in time, her father lifted her up from the ground as one man struck the snake with bamboo killing it. 

A triumphant smile crossed the girl’s lips followed by a loud cry. After three heaving, the father let her down and the girl ran to her mother just a few steps away. She stood proudly in her feet with a triumphant look directed towards her mother. But a stern look was given back. 

The girl looked down, jumped to pat the hair of her brother and slowly walked towards the house and into the room. The mother called her thrice but the girl never looked back. She sat in her place where I first saw her and sank her face between her knees.

I found myself looking at the glasscase again. I looked carefully at its content specifically the space where I first saw the girl. 

In her feet just barely visible was a paper with stick figures in it – a curving line with an X sign in the middle and a circle with a downward arc inside it. A disgusted look from the girl was pointed at the paper. 

The electricity that ran down my spine made my eyes focus to the sleeping child. What I mistaken for a snake is just a green cord used to secure the child in the cradle.

            
A great artist, the one who made the artwork, to be able to deceive these keen eyes. A great artist indeed, to be able to let the imaginations of the viewer took over themselves just by looking at the artwork.

            
I felt a nudge to my shoulder. My companion told me that I was looking at the painting for too long. 

A painting? 

But before I can utter the question, he asked me what interests me in a room showing a sleeping child not even clear if a boy or a girl and with another child sitting across, obviously looking over the former and who’s entertaining herself by drawing something unclear in the paper in front of her.

Nothing really, I told him, just that I was fascinated with the construction of the pieces and the concept of enclosing them in a glasscase. 

“What glasscase? What pieces?”, he asked me. 

“That is a framed painting darling, are you already hungry?” 

Yeah right, and I looked at the artwork again. But another scene started playing before my eyes. I jumped back and hurriedly left the spot. 

“Yes darling, I’m definitely hungry for me to mistake a painting for a 3d object. Let’s eat, hurry”.

Glasscase… the word was retained in my mind. Until now, you see…