Maria Marauder: My Son, the Writer

Excuse me for bragging about my children here sometimes. All parents think their children are the most beautiful, the smartest, the most talented, and the most virtuous in the world. Of course that's far from the perfect truth, but we still believe it’s true just the same. Anyway, I am stealthily publishing here my youngest son's essay for his English project. He is a freshman at the Philippine Science High School. I’m just amazed how words can flow out of his mind through his pen this way. Hmmm...kanino kaya siya nagmana? (Ahem…fishing!)

Note: No editing was done here by his mother hen

DEATHBED

by Luis Carlo Cacnio

Blood... it is what keeps the body alive. Yet it was spilled all over me and stained perpetually. Was it my blood? No, it was his blood. His blood was running down his body, flowing from the deep scars gashed across his limp physique. He was loosely pressed to my body. I felt his mild heartbeat slowly fade away. Why did they do this to him? Was he not one of them? Is this a frequent happening? I have seen this several times but this by far is the worst. His lifeless form makes me want to cry, but I can’t. His blood-soaked skin makes me want to scream, yet I don’t. His sorrowful sanction makes me want to narrate, so I will.

“I wonder what that riot is doing.” I asked my fellow olive trees. They frowned “remember when your brother was taken away?” I joined their frown and remembered that painful incident. My brother was taken away, and his wood was turned into a cross. They nailed someone to him and watched him die. I felt the bitter sadness wash over me, but I knew I had to be strong. Yet the thought of it happening to me hasn’t once crossed my mind.

“Aaghh!” I screamed as soldiers started to cut me down. I saw my family weep, but they had no power to stop it. I fell down with a thud, and they dragged me as I cried for help. I reached a placed filled with sharp blades. One of them started cutting me up I felt the thin rusted blades glide through my arm. It was too much to bear. Once I was nothing but a log, they cut me into two blocks: A longer piece and a shorter one. They tied it together and I became what I hated the most… a cross. This was the shape of my brother when he died. I knew what was to happen, but I wasn’t prepared of what would happen…

*Crack* …the clapping sound of the whip ripped up his skin. *crack* …is this the man who will be tied to me? *crack* …why are they whipping him? *crack* …they didn’t do this before, did they? *crack* …don’t they see him cry? *crack* …why are they watching in amusement? *crack* is he not one of their own? *CRACK* *CRACK* …are they human? They finally stopped. When they untied him, he dropped limply on the ground. They picked him up and said mocking words, as one soldier went in the opposite direction. He picked up a crown of thorns and pressed it hard against his skull. Was this the paradise I once knew? No, it was hell.

*THUD* I was dropped again by the bloodied man. This time they asked a passerby to help carry me up the mountain. I felt his open wounds widen and felt blood drip along my side. We reached the destination, and I was put up on the dead soil. ‘My brother was here too’ that was my thoughts. They stripped him and lifted him to the up to me. Then I felt a sharp stab at both my arms. His newly open wounds in the wrists drew blood. I felt one more and now he was hanging from me by nails. The last stab came and there a sign was hung. Then I heard another voice talking. I looked to my side and I found both my parents with men hanging by ropes. ‘Ah, they became crosses too.’ My mind immediately focused on the nailed one’s words. Why was everything he said related to God? Why did he act as though he’s God’s son?

There was once a man who was tied to me, a cross. He was flogged, crowned with thorns, abused, and nailed to me. He was crucified for blasphemy because he stated he was the Son of God. He was right. He died on the third hour and resurrected on the third day. This man was the Son of God, and I was his deathbed.

Now, if this isn't Pulitzer Prize, then what is? But that's the mother in me talking. Hehehe.

Love you, Carly!!!