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I didn’t see him enter the room, didn’t even hear his footsteps as he crossed the short distance from the door to my bed where I was lying, trying to get a much needed sleep. My eyes were shut, but somehow I felt that someone was staring at me. I opened my eyes, and there he was, standing right beside me, his gaze intent upon my face.

I was shocked. I knew he’d be here. But still, his presence surprised me. I didn’t know how to react. And I couldn’t; I was already imprisoned in his gaze. Our eyes locked. He didn’t say anything. He simply stared at me, his gaze penetrating my being. I felt as though he was trying to read through me; to dive into the pool of secrets I kept inside. He held my gaze, willing me to obey his unspoken command not to turn my eyes from him. His eyes so powerful, I lost the will to look away.

Then he moved his gaze to gently touch my cheeks, lingering there for a while, then moved down to caress my body, sending tremors to every nerve fiber of my being. I watched him undress me with his eyes. I saw him clear up the protective layers I had carefully, meticulously wrapped around myself. One by one, he yanked the sheaths covering my body, examining them carefully, searching for whatever it was he needed to see. I saw layers upon layers of sheaths pile up before me. First went the bedcover of anguish and sorrow. Next came my nightdress of hatred and bitterness, followed by my underwear of loneliness and pain. One by one, he tore them to pieces, making sure there was nothing left for me to put around myself after he had finished. He didn’t stop until everything was gone, until I was lying there, unclothed, exposed to his penetrating gaze. I was worse than a slut stripped off her dress; I was a soul devoid of everything. Bared. Naked. Defenseless.

He knelt down to examine me further. His gaze transcended the thin layer of skin that was my last protective covering. His eyes followed the direction of the blood pulsing through my veins and saw my determination and guts—the only outstanding traits I have left— blinking like neon lights against the darkness of the night; like ants walking in file, each carrying life support system for my whole being.

He kept searching until, at last, he found my shattered heart, beating rather erratically under his intense stare. I saw his brows furrow upon seeing the scars covering it, the stains marking every drop of blood that oozed out of it, and the wounds that were barely healing.

His face darkened. I moved closer to him so I could fathom his emotion. I saw glittering crystals forming in his eyes. I momentarily stopped breathing, confused. Tears! But…were they for me?

I followed the direction of his gaze. Then my heart missed a thousand beats. There, etched in furious red at the very core of my battered heart was his name. Flashing. Dancing.

Quickly I returned my gaze back to his face just in time to see a smile flicker across his lips. How beautiful his smile was! But it lingered only for a fleeting moment. Because just when he was about to succumb to the compelling force that suddenly overwhelmed him, just before he could acknowledge the heart-warming feeling that lifted his spirit, just as he had realized how much it meant to him to see his name where he wished it would be, a thought suddenly snapped him back to reality.

Wrong.

He smartened up. I saw him lift his hand to caress the newly opened wound where before his name flashed brightly; his fingers trembling. I felt his hand touch my heart softly as if to heal it magically.

Then I saw tears roll down his cheeks, down to his hand, through the gaps between his fingers, then to my exposed heart; soothing it. Reluctantly, I dragged my gaze from his hand around my heart back to his face.

I saw his eyes deaden. I noticed his muscles twitch. I saw him fight himself. I watched him struggle against whatever outside force was shackling him. He almost won. Just almost. Eventually, his struggle faltered, until he was consumed.

Never had I seen him sadder before. His eyes searched mine. Again, our gazes met. I didn’t see him open his mouth, maybe it was his eyes talking to me, but I heard him whisper: Ann, let go.

I closed my eyes, not minding the tears that started to roll down my cheeks. He cupped my face with both his hands, his thumbs drying up my tears. He willed me to open my eyes. I did, how could I not follow his bid?

I looked up directly into his now hurt-filled eyes talking to me softly, begging me to understand.

I can’t, my heart protested but I ignored it. I nodded, imitating a smile but managed to produce only a caricature version of it.

He smiled his gratitude.

Then, from his insides, he produced a thin, crystal-like, satin-soft sheath of love with which to cover me, replacing all the negative layers that had, for sometime, enveloped me. His gazed still fixed upon me, he gently wrapped the shimmering sheath all over my naked body.

Then he started to leave without turning his back on me. His feet moved backward; slowly, reluctantly, his eyes never leaving mine.

I started to panic, but I knew there was nothing I could do. I thought I saw him smile just before he completely faded. I grasped the sheath now securely covering me and clutched it closer to my body.

He was gone.

And I woke up. Then I started to cry, because now I know he knew that which I never told him. I loved him. Deeply.

I reached for his framed picture lying on top of the bedside table. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at his smiling face. I ran my trembling fingers across his cheeks. His brows. His eyes. His nose. His lips. Then I whispered, Rest in peace, Eric.

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//Sherma E. Benosa; 29Apr2004

Deeply confused and utterly sad, Truth decided to consult with the Lord

“Lord,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I am confused. You said that I am beautiful, but why is it that when I present myself to people, they would not look at me directly, and would rather look the other way? You said I am good, but why can’t I help hurting them? You said that Deceit is evil, but why is he capable of making people feel better, even if there are times that he, too, hurts them? You said Deceit is ugly, but why do people stare at him with so much awe?”

The Lord smiled sympathetically. He walked over to Truth, and held him by his shoulders. “My child, do not be confused. You are beautiful and pure. You shine so brightly, people cannot bear to look at you directly. They either put a veil over their eyes to see you or use a mirror to get a glimpse of you, not realizing that the very same instruments that aid them in looking at you are blurring you, causing them to fail to see you in your full splendor.

“You are good; you do not really hurt them, you just crush their egos. Indeed, Deceit is ugly, but don’t forget that he is a master of disguise. He can change his black cloak into a rainbow-colored cape so that those who have not seen your grandeur are amazed at how lovely he seems, and they stare at him with awe.

“He is evil, because by not showing his real self to people, he dims you. But do not fret, my child. There are those who are brave enough who choose to look at you directly without any veil, without the need for mirrors. They see you, and they love you. And to them, your beauty is beyond compare.” The Lord patted Truth in the back. “Go forth my child, for you are loved.”

Feeling better, Truth thanked the Lord then walked happily back to his world, where he shone and shone brightly, giving light to the whole world.

He’s still there, standing magnificently for everyone to see. Sometimes the people see him; but most often, they don’t. And although they all profess a great love for love him, the truth is that they love only that which they are willing to see.

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//Sherma E. Benosa
19 May 2008; 11:40am

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Photo copyright by Jumel Pineda Chua (gmac). Posted with permission from the artist.

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Half-bewildered, half-suspecting someone was pulling his leg, the figure looked to his left and right, and realized that he wasn’t alone; that he shared the stage with several other beings — puppets, marionettes, dolls, and stick figures — who, like him, had no idea why they were there.

It was as he turned to his right that the figure noticed something peculiar: the arena where he and the other beings were to perform had no seats for spectators.

AFTER HOURS OF walking to and fro the stage — many times crossing paths, a few times colliding, and sometimes walking alongside the others — the figure just knew, though he couldn’t explain how, that he was being called off the stage. So he delivered his last lines, bowed to the other beings, and started to make his exit. As he retreated to the backstage, he heard some kind of noise erupt. Whether it was a collective applause or booing, he wasn’t sure; he didn’t turn to see.

Reaching the backstage, the figure saw a silhouette making weird gestures as though he was conducting an orchestra. Thinking that the silhouette was another actor about to step onto the platform, he gave him a sympathetic look and exclaimed, “Whew! That was some kind of a play. A scriptless one! Would you believe that? And undirected, too. Weird, isn’t it?”

Receiving no response, the figure persisted, “By the way, are you an actor, too?”

The silhouette shook his head, not taking his gaze off the invisible orchestra. “No, I’m the director.”

Stunned, the figure exclaimed, “The director? You are the director? Why then aren’t you directing? I would have been spared of all those collisions. I would not have gotten lost. I would have been able to put in a better performance; I would not have a-fretted and a-strutted upon that weird platform like some kind of a drunk!”

The silhouette momentarily turned his attention to the figure. “I was. You just weren’t listening.”

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Copyright 2005 by Sherma E. Benosa