MAIKLING KWENTO
Waiting (40 days)
By Gollum

HIS HEART was hurting again.

A jolt, like a knife stabbing from inside his chest, would stun him every so often he had difficulty breathing. It was a throbbing which required him to inhale deeply, only to make it hurt more.

What did the doctor call it? Angina? He (the doctor) said his heart was beating irregularly, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow, sometimes skipping a beat altogether.

He touched his chest, hoping to wipe away the pain.

He wondered if he was going to die. Sometimes he would see his heart beat through his skin. He was a thin guy, and, like a struggling animal trapped in thin membrane, his heart would palpitate visibly through his skin--an inverted drum.

But the pain was bearable. It always was. And the throbbing spells would go away after minutes of gulping deep breaths of air.

How he hated those minutes. Especially now he was alone.

Fucking bitch left her. Without even a note.

She left him with the house only too full of her phantoms--her clothes, her smell, her shitty cat, even her fucking toothbrush, as if to taunt him with her memories.

And he thought they were going along just fine.

Last he heard she was in Baguio with some guy they met two-three months ago through a common friend. Probably a better fuck than he was.

He felt the bile rising at the back of his mouth, bitter like a spoonful of castor oil is bitter.

How many days has it been since she left? Has it been forty days already? Forty bloody days...

They've probably been screwing the whole time. He on the other hand couldn't even find his way to the fucking john.

Now his head was pounding. Great, just great. He could almost hear the tap-tap-tap of his veins against his skull. It reminded him of pencils, for some reason he couldn't put his finger on.

It probably was the beer. And yes, the cigarettes last night. Thinking of which he wanted to smoke, only he didn't have any.

Presently the cat, her cat, appeared from the kitchen door. It was a slender siam, with cream-colored legs and a black mask around its eyes--a silent harlequin sneering at him.

He had the urge to hit it with a book or the nearest vase, but decided against it.

Cats are too fast. Especially this one.

Another fresh burst of pain stabbed at his heart. He had to grab hold of a chair to steady himself.

And then it was gone again. Only the gray buzzing of his head was left.

The phantoms though, continued to pace inside his hollow house, painting the walls with invisible shadows of despair.

He closed his eyes, refusing to look.

Gollum maintains this piece is purely a writing exercise and should not be thought of as autobiographical in any way.

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