Light.

A teacher of mine once said we see things because they reflect light. Leaves are green because they reflect the green wavelength and my hair is black because it reflects black. Simple enough. Well, think about this. A gazillion of varying wavelengths is a gazillion of different colors. Well, the best I could imagine is my own cityscape - bright and dull at the same time depending from where you look at it. I wonder how many kinds of light there are? Do we see every one of them? Do we all see the same things? Do we perceive the world in the same colors? If not, it just keeps getting more complicated. A billion pairs of eyes, each with its own gazillion of different colors.

Eyes.

All you need is to close your eyes and realize how indispensable it is. It's dark no matter where you turn. Someone is planning to stab you right in the chest and you have no way of knowing until the knife is in. But to me, I'd rather be blind. I'd rather have someone stab me in the chest right now.

Life.

They insist it's short. Ask one elderly, he'll tell you all that ever happened in his 60 years could not even fill half a day's worth of memory. Ask another, maybe he had had a more fruitful life. Do not ask me. All you'll ever get is a lie.

Death.

It is more than just an end. To me, at least.

Perhaps it's your day today. Honestly I can't tell. Only God knows anyway. But I know what you'll look like the second it comes for you. That instant your heart stops beating and - what is it they say? - the image of your loved one flashes bright across your vision. I can tell your death because it's written all over your face even as you live.

This is my curse, I guess.

She so looks dead to me. Literally, dead.

Kristy is gorgeous. That's one thing I'm sure of. She's wearing a blue wool sweater over her uniform, her skirt specially tailored to reveal half the span of her sexy thighs.

She says, "Does it look good on me?"

You look like a corpse. That's true. At least in my perspective.

Her cheeks are a little too sunken although Derrick always compliment on how soft and squishy they are. Her dark eyes slightly bulge out of her sockets and her lips are wan and dry. Her whole pretty city girl face is gaunt and ghostly. She puts on light eyeliners to accentuate the shape of her eyes. But I don't know; it just sort of add to her gruesomeness.

Nothing of what I've just described is an exaggeration. I see what I see.

Yet aside from that girls don't ever really accept a No for that question, she'll freak out should I tell her how she looks to me; so, instead, I give the answer she dressed for. "It looks beautiful. You look beautiful. Though even a rag will look good on you."

Her cracked lips flutter. "Are you comparing me to a beggar?" She rolls her round eyes.

I touch her cold arms and squeeze them softly. "Well, if a beggar could be as lovely as you, yeah."

John butts in, "No way a beggar like that remains a beggar forever."

"Wow, is that how you praise me?" She replies smugly.

I put out my phone. "Now, I wanna just take a pic of this beautiful beggar in blue." I hold it out steadily in front of me.

Tim exclaimed rather loudly, "Dude, don't tell me you're gonna jock off -"

"Shut up Tim," I say.

"Well, as long as it's Jude it's fine," she backs him off with a really proud smile. Is a thank you in order here?

In the picture Kristy looks like the way Kristy must appear to me. Oval eyes of black. Lips red and shining with lip gloss. Cheeks that are soft and tender and a bit round. This is how I want to see her. When I look at her, I want to see her for what she is now, not for what she's about to become the day she dies.

Tim is currently my best buddy ever since my first playmate dumped me. Except for a few bruises and cuts, there are no marks on his body yet; that's why I choose to hang out with him most of the time. I think he's got a long life ahead of him.

Derick will break his arm in about three years. And that is all he's got right now.

John on the other hand had the eyes of a hepatitis patient and the vague lines of a car accident about ten years from today. Like the ones I used to see on Mom.

Telling the time is only an inference. I've been seeing like this since I was born so I've come to know that the wounds grow worse and more lucid as the fateful second arrives. Although I miss by a few days or sometimes a month, I think I've got the hang of it.

As for Kristy, she has little time left.

I've met her about midway in my sophomore year. She's one of the most ghastly faces in the campus, even more horribble than my professors. She had been rumored to be pretty but atrocious. So she had no real friends. And she is to die in a year if I'm not mistaken. Anyway, she asked for my number when we bumped shoulders on the corridor. To cut the long story short, I have become her man. She could be slightly cruel at times. At other times, she's extremely outrageous. Tact is not really her best asset. It's her lips and her hands.

Frankly though, I don't want to be with her. Except when it's dark so I could not see her gaunt face and all. She'd probably die out of an illness. I've seen these kinds of death marks before. It's incurable. I think she knows. She's just keeping it from us.

I've taken two shots. She steps next to me to check out herself though she probably knows every single line in her dress. She's the type to be materialistic and a juicehead.

She's probably thinking what she ought to do in the whole year before her deadline. Well, what do you do knowing you only have such short time left to experience the world? She rents an apartment all by herself. I've been going out with her for the past consecutive weeks and on weekends, I stay with her. Not that I don't want it but seriously, she's not one sight to behold. I've been puking the hell out of me every morning.

She wraps her arms around me. Her skin feels so dry and thin and cold. "I love you," she whispers.

I dab a kiss on top of her head. When Kristy loves, she gives her all. That's one thing I dislike about her.

"Oh, if only Jennifer loves me like that," Derrick says.

"She doesn't even know your name," I say.

"I think we're late for class." Tim glances at his watch.

"We'll just go sleep the whole period off anyway so better not go at all," Derrick suggests.

"Only you doze it off."

Tim kneads his brows now. "Sleeping or no, we go."

Kristy is not in my class. She's a year behind. Not having her around somehow lets me breathe more comfortably. I have long wanted to dump her; but her days are drawing to a close. I need to stay by her side. Perhaps, I can do that much.

The teacher waiting behind the desk has the stone cold eyes of a Chemistry teacher and of one who is dying from a heart attack. They're rounder than Kristy's and certainly more terrified. Mr. De Leon possibly has only two years or so to torment the juniors of this campus with his projects. He's almost in the retirement age. Most of my classmates are what I deem clean and More Alive. Kristy is the exact definition of Near Dead.

This is the type of light I perceive - that only I can perceive. If I could see x-rays that would have been much better. I wouldn't have to put up then with seeing corpses walk upright. But I was born with the macabre gift to see this form of light. It's gore and blood and pallidness.

So why me? Why not anybody else? Death is toying with me. That is as much as I figured.

I toyed with Death once. It didn't go well.

Lunchbreak is dedicated to myself. I would find some place where no one else goes and spend my leisure time there. It's not that I'm embarassed of eating the lunch Mom always prepares for me. I just don't want to munch on my food in front of anyone who are more often than not bloody and lacerated.

The perfect place is this room they call haunted. Yes, I can see Death written all over your face but no, I can't see ghosts. I could not affirm nor refute the rumors. The haunted room is actually being used for storing chairs and drums and equipments. Every inch may be covered in dust but I clear up a space where I could slump and wolf down everything.

When everyone else is headed straight for the canteen, I sneak in to the room. As soon as the door creaks open, the smell of dust lashes at my nostrils. But there is a unique odor to the air that wasn't there before. A girl's perfume. Lemons and flowers.

Then when I shut the door between me and the rest of the bustle in the school, it becomes silent enough for me to hear a sobbing. It sounds so soft. Does a ghost haunt this place after all? I feel goosebumps despite myself.

I move around the stack of broken chairs and useless instruments and other things, searchimg for the source of the sobs. The ghost appears to be young but wears an old woman's cardigan over uniform and she has her knees tucked up to her chest and her arms around her shins, her face buried in her arms. The sleeves of her sweater are rolled up to the elbow. I cannot see through her, though; so she must be real.

I see wounds. I see bruises. I see scars. But which among them are for tomorrow and which are for today? I put out my phone and focus the camera. Just as I press the button, she looks up, dammit! It's too late to put it away.

She springs to her feet. I'm so glad she doesn't scream.

"What are you doing? Pervert!" But she has a loud voice. She starts brushing her eyes with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry, I-I-" I can't explain. I look at her picture. A number of the bruises on her arms and legs are real. The cigarette burns too. But her face...

She looks around. "Why are you here?" The room are filled with abandoned stuff. The corridor is quiet with no one passing by. And it is just the two of us in here: A girl covered in bruises and a boy who just took a pic of her without asking. I don't think the thoughts running through her mind right now are favorable. She picks up a torn leg of a wooden chair and points it threateningly at me.

I slip in the phone back to my pocket. "Look, I can ask you the same question."

"Well, I need to be alone."

"That goes for me too."

"You just took a picture of me! I can send you to the guidance office for that." She pokes the wooden weapon on my chest.

"Woah, woah. Hang on, I have no evil intentions." I hold up both hands helplessly.

She attempts putting on a ferocious face but with her eyes red and sore from crying and her tears making her cheeks glimmer, she looks like barely keeping herself together. She seems to consider my words, setting me with an intense wavering stare. "Give it to me." She holds out one hand.

"What?" I ask.

"The phone."

I do what she said, putting the device gingerly in her palm.

She presses a button and it flickers open. "Password?" She thrusts the wooden leg harder on my chest.

I input what she asked. She goes straight for the camera and for the images in there. The first picture is her. She doesn't erase it right away. She looks at herself. At the girl with limbs tucked in like a small ball, with a face so tired of weeping. She looks as the most vulnerable thing in here right now, broken like these armchairs.

She whispers something to herself, silently so I cannot hear. I could not properly see it as she maneuvers her thumb across the screen but one second it's dim then it lights up blue with the dress of Kristy. Man, that was some heartmelting photograph I shot there. What a waste.

She returns my phone reluctantly and shoves me back with the point of the wood. "Try that again and you'll regret it."

The weapon between us is lowered down and she comes back to her private corner. But she glances back at me. "Aren't you supposed to leave?"

"Well, the thing is this is my room," I say uncertainly.

"What do you mean your room?" She crosses her arms in front of her. The pain is draining from her eyes, being replaced by what I assume to be distaste towards me. Suddenly, she becomes the strongest woman in the world.

"I eat my lunch here. Always." I lower my backpack from my back to make my point and mark my territory.

"In this place?" She narrows her eyes with incredulity.

"Yup. Right in this place. But since you're seeking the quiet as well, I won't ask you to get out. Although, your leaving would be thoughtful right now."

"Then go eat your fricking lunch." She turns away and slumps down on the same spot where she curled up a while ago.

I find the plywood from the pile of stuffs and wipe it clean with a sheet of paper. I lay it down on the dusty floor on the corner just beside her and take my seat there, my back turned to her.

She seems to find it hard to start weeping again now that someone's listening. She buries her head back into her arms while I begin to chew on the chicken Mom had fried for me.

After a moment of utter silence save for the sound of my munching, she raises her head, complaining, "Ugh, are you dumb? Can't you read the situation?"

I think she's talking to me. "Well, do you want some chicken?" I don't glance at her. I'm eating right now and I fear I might vomit just thinking about her face. She's...

"Oh, just get done with it already!"

I finish in about ten minutes. That's actually a bit too long for a man as huge as I am. But then my appetite had fled the minute I saw her. I had to force myself to chew and swallow each spoonful.

I gulp down a whole bottle of water to keep the food from coming right back up. It has been my habit to remain here until the bell and today I choose not to divert from my routine.

The ghost has turned quiet. I can't help glancing at her. How can a girl have so much wounds? She's singed where the skirt and cardigan covers her up. I had glimpsed it. She has bruises - old and new - everywhere.

When I saw her face on the photograph, I kind of felt her pain if not understood it. She had laid it out, let it overwhelm her, thinking no one would lay eyes upon it in this haunted room. But I did. And now I know. And I can do nothing but be curious.

Nonetheless, she'll have to carry that pain to her grave, alone, because by the death marks on her face, I think she'll be gone by tomorrow.

She smells nice. The scent of her perfume doesn't sting my nose nor is it faint. It evokes calm and a memory of when I would just plop down on the couch and close my eyes, not to nap but to pretend I'm blind.

We stay like that. Her, curled up like a child. Me, furtively glancing at her every now and then. We stay like that for minutes. We stay like that until one p.m.. The bell finally rings. I prop myself up and walk to the door, while she - she remains there, her whole self tucked in into a ball - so small I could fit her in my pocket.

I'm not a hero.

I swear I've tried being one but it didn't turn out great. Death is a ruthless player. You don't want to cheat him.

Thud. Thud.

But I feel bad too. That I don't do anything. That even though I know a bit of the future, I can do nothing but watch. How do you get used to people you've known all your life suddenly growing death marks as time flies?

Thud. Thud.

I was younger than two when Dad grew them. As far as I could remember he had always had them. Naive as I was, I thought it was kind of cool. Blood splotched through every shirt he wore. But every time I asked him about it, he simply smirked and matted my hair, "Jude, there's no blood on my shirt."

"He's been watching a lot of gore films, I think," Mom would add.

I thought it was normal. I thought every person see the way I see. I was fooled into thinking those corpse-looking people were exactly the way they look to me.

Thud. Thud.

I didn't believe my parents then. Dad had always three splotches of red on his shirt, so what? They weren't even painful. They were just there, drenching his clothes red everyday. And the red kept getting redder. And the splotches kept getting larger. And I found it amusing to watch as it spread and tainted his whole coat. It was a trick only he could pull and he simply didn't want to tell me his secret.

One day, he did not come home for dinner. Mom got a call and whoever it was, he made her cry like I'd never heard her cry before. It was a wail that hurt my ears and made my heart thump so hard I started to weep too.

Thud. Thud.

Mom would not allow me but I managed to take a peek on all the pictures. It was a stabbing by a random robber. Three wounds right where the splotches would begin to spread every time Dad's magic trick unfolded.

I knew then the pain of having done nothing but watch. That's exactly the reason why I tried, once.

Then I won and lost at the same time.

Thud.

Now I'm going to watch again. I'll watch Kristy as her illness consumes her. I'll watch as that ghost disappears from school.

Thud.

It is finally starting to hurt. The cold hard feel of the tile against my forehead as I hit my head over and over on it is somewhat pacifying. There's so much helplessness and guilt and pity and doubt mixing up inside me but the pain and the coldness washes them all away. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Maybe I am not coming at it hard enough.

Thud! THUD!

"Aww!" I feel like something cracked. I touch the spot that sears and my hand comes away with a little blood.

I turn up the shower to max and a hot torrent pelts down on my face. Now, my head is clear.

Mom is still cooking breakfast when I come down to the kitchen.

"There's my early bird!" She greets. But when her gaze finds the band-aid on my forehead, her docile expression twists grimly. Her tremolous fingers drop the spatula and with fierce strides she cuts through the mere yards between us and lands a solid smack on my arm.

"AWW! What the-"

"You dare!" She's like a monster when she's angry. "How many times? How many times have I told you to stop doing that to yourself?"

"I just... fell and hit my head."

"This is the last time. The last time." She points a finger at me.

"Don't worry it's just a small cut." It doesn't even compare, Mom. It doesn't even compare.

She squeezes hard on my hand, flashing me a reassuring smile before coming back to her cooking. "Oh my God! Look what you've done!"

The fish fillets look burned to me.

Both my younger brother and older sister know the meaning of the wound on my forehead.

"Oh, I'm so sick of this." - My sister's harsh comment over the breakfast table. "You just want attention, right? What's the deal? You keep making Mom worry!"

Well, I'm so sick of it too!

"Paula, stop that!" Mom chides her.

"Well, he's been like this since... I don't know, since Dad died."

"Paula!"

"Don't think you're the only one affected." She stays silent after that.

No. Of course I don't think that I'm the only one grieving here. But I feel like I'm the one who killed Dad. I don't even deserve to share this meal.

"Mom, you should bring him to Mr. Gonzales again," the brother suggests.

"Jude and I already talked, if he'll attempt it again, we'll drag him there." She ends with a wide menacing smile.

It's not like I was trying to kill myself.

I meet with Kristy after second period.

"What happened?" She stares wide-eyed at the band-aid. She caressses it tenderly with the tip of her finger. I turn my gaze away from her wraithlike face. "Did you get in trouble?"

"I just tripped."

"Are you sure, Jude?" Tim asks with that knowing look to his eyes.

"Yeah."

"If you say so," he replies.

Derrick cuts in, "You're all coming tonight, right?"

"Of course," Kristy answers instantly. She is not one to miss parties.

"Well, don't overdress. It's just a simple dinner."

"Since when did I overdress?"

"Like everyday," John sighs.

She's got a green sweater today even though the wind is blowing tepid and the days are still longer.

She turns to me for back up. "Jude?"

I give her a shrug. She does overdress everyday. But might be she's actually feeling cold.

"I pass," Tim suddenly announces.

"What? Why dude?"

"There's this program tomorrow, remember? We're rushing to put everything together. Just greet Sophia a Happy Birthday for me."

Derrick raises his swollen arm and flashes a middle finger, "Fuck you, Tim."

"It's a Teacher's Week program. What can I do?"

Tim is the class president. At times like this, he's a busy bee. He has always been the best person in this gang of four. I think he's the only good person among us. He's the one keeping us from being delinquints. He studies and reaps good grades. As for me, I took the plummet long ago. Since elementary, my performance hadn't seen better days.

I am back at the haunted room by lunchtime. The dust was thick and pungent but I could sniff that lingering hint of lemons and flowers. Yet she is nowhere to be seen, as I've expected.

At least I can eat today without nearly throwing up.

She could be dead.

Mom had packed the burned fish fillets for me. "It's your punishment," she said. If only she knew that I deserve worse than burned meat.

You might wonder how I could narrow it down to a matter of days.

To put it simply, Death is not a strike of lightning. Rather, it's a looming storm. It begins as vague discolorations on the skin that worsens over time until everybody else can see them too.

The ghost from yesterday had blood trickling down the left side of her face, gushing out from a crack in her skull. An injury like that was enough to kill her. That's how I knew. It was enough to kill anybody.

I wonder what her tears were for. Was she able to confront the cause of her agony? Did she die regretful?

She had cigarette burns. So many of them. Her father's maltreated her? Or did her boyfriend? Did she even have one?

The face that looked up when I took her picture was so covered in pain yet somehow it was not the type to yield so easily. She was strong, I guess. But does strength really matter in the face of Death?

Maybe it does count. Maybe it does.

Derrick lied. His sister's debut was no simple celebration. Or perhaps it is what they call simple. Yup, it was a house party but the venue doesn't look like a house anymore.

They've put up tents and party lights in the yard and adorned the balustrades with red ersatz roses. With all the twinkling and thumping of music and light and feet, it has become a completely different place. They've set up a stage too where Sophia is sat on a white cushioned chair.

Derrick's sister is prettier than he is handsome. I bet she's smarter too. Derrick's an ape. The one that could only think about girls but not having the courage to speak up to them. He's a total braggart about the girls he knows even though he never got close to asking even one of them to a date. His money's aplenty, however, so that makes me wonder a lot. I could barely afford Kristy's whims when we go out.

There is only a smattering of people when I arrive. A Jesse Jae is playing on two huge speakers on both sides of the stage. I immediately get served with juice and sweet brownies. The air is strangely warm through my clothes.

"Tim's really not coming, huh?" Derrick says over the table. He has begun with a light alcoholic drink that more or less would intoxicate a man with low tolerance such as him even before the program starts.

"Where did you even get that?" John points his lips on the bottle.

"Oh, I just sneaked it out from the case in the kitchen. Don't tell Dad. He's gonna kill me. No one's supposed to get wasted until the afterparty."

I take a sip from the pineapple juice. "What happened to the simple celebration?"

"Well, I had no idea they're gonna be doing this."

John and I had agreed early on to wear coats that would not stand out so I've chosen a white long-sleeved coat from the meager wardrobe that I own.

Kristy, on the other hand, comes in overdressed in a heap of pink so it looks as though she's the debutee. And she has this white scarf wrapped around her bare arms and her neck which gets really much the attention of the crowd.

"Are you cold?" I ask as as I help her to a seat.

"No, I'm fine. Just get me an apple juice," she says, brushing her hair.

"They're only having pineapple."

"Then pineapple it is."

I don't know if it's the juice but she throws up an hour later.

One second she was tap-dancing with Derrick's father. Then the next she was doubled-over and calling for me. Luckily, there's a restroom just a few strides away.

Well, she did have a sip of the wine. And the licquor John was swigging. But she could down a glass of gin and not swagger afterward. She's actually more indulgent in alcohol than I am.

I hear the flush of the toilet and the rustle of her dress as she tries to stand up. I rush from my place on the doorway to catch her arms as she sinks back down, knees weak as jelly.

"You didn't have to come if you're not feeling well."

"Idiot, parties are made for me." She brushes a bit of fluid from the side of her lips. Her knees are shaking. From weakness? From fear.

"Then you didn't have to swill that glass just because John dared you to."

She listens to the rock music playing - loud enough to keep the whole neighborhood awake. I hoist her to her feet and let her head rest on my chest.

"Jude, can we stay here for a moment?"

"I should bring you home."

"I really love the smell of your sweat. I want to breathe it in."

"I stink sometimes, you know."

"I hope we can stay like this forever. Just the two of us."

It's a vain hope, Kristy. We both know that. I say, "Sure."

She chuckles, clutching at my coat. The sound seems to vibrate through me. She is indeed a wonderful lover. If only she had more time to find the perfect man who would return all that she is willing to give. Because I am not that man.

"Why are you laughing?" I ask.

The song changes. Yet its rhythm is for dancing all the same. We should be out on the floor, shaking off all the burdens on our shoulders and humiliating ourselves because we're teenagers. We should not be holding each other so close, pretending the clock has stopped ticking.

She looks up at me. "I've been blabbing out some weird things, haven't I?"

"Yup, the bitch I know would snoot at every word you just said."

She playfully jabs my chest. "You!"

On my bed, way past midnight, I think about the silence I had shared with that ghost and the hopes Kristy held up to me. But no matter what trail of thoughts I follow, it all ends in the same conviction.

I will be watching. It is, after all, everything I can do.