Guilty By Appearance

The air conditioner in this apartment makes a high, annoying noise. It sounds like a mosquito trapped inside the wall. Outside the window, the buildings of Bonifacio Global City stand tall and neat against a sky that is too bright from city lights to see the stars. 

It is three in the morning.

The coffee in my ceramic mug is cold. A dark skin has formed on the surface. I do not drink it. I just want to hold the heavy cup in my hands. My fingers are stiff from the late shift at the hospital. They smell faintly of antiseptic and the lavender lotion I use to scrub away the scent of illness.

This city is full of secrets. 

The rich families hide their bad deeds behind tall white walls in Forbes Park. They hide behind security guards who salute when big black cars drive past the metal gates. We do not talk about the bad things we do. We just hide them. We pretend the bad smell of our actions is just wet dirt after the rain. 

They say before you are born you share everything. The same dark water. The same rhythm of a mother’s blood.

We were like two halves of the same mind. 

But Scarlet was the one who got all the attention. I learned to walk through our big, quiet house like a ghost who did not want to bother anyone. 

Anak.

My mother’s voice always sounded small when she called my name. Like she was surprised to find me still there. Still standing in the shadow of my sister.

Look at your sister, Snow.

Scarlet always smelled like expensive soap and the sweet heavy vanilla perfume she bought in Paris. Even when her heart grew weak. Even when her skin turned the color of skimmed milk. She was the one who broke the rules. I was the one who cleaned up her messes so our parents would not get hurt. 

I did not know then that a life can turn on the sound of tires losing their grip on wet asphalt.

I did not know about the girl named Ana.

Or the man with the quiet voice and the hands that would hold me so gently before they tore my world apart.

Blake.

Thinking of his name still makes my chest hurt. It feels like a small rock I swallowed months ago that will not go away. 

I look at my hands in the soft light from the window. They are clean. The skin is smooth. There is no blood under my nails. There is no broken glass from a car crash. 

But in Manila it does not matter what your hands have done.

It only matters whose name you carry.

The city makes a quiet noise. A police siren cries far away on the EDSA highway. A thin line of gray light is starting to show in the morning sky. 

When I close my eyes I can still hear two hearts beating in the dark.

And I still do not know why mine was the one allowed to stay.