Where to Run?

“We’ve got to choose one,” Nanay says as her voice breaks in two. I curl deeper into the heap of trash by our lean-to shack. 

My Filipino father’s stern voice replies. “Althea’s older, nearly eight now. She’ll be better at withstanding it.” I’m frozen in shock. There is sorrow dripping from my Tatay’s voice, but not without an edge of finality. 

“She’s so beautiful, though.” 

“Exactly,” Tatay says and takes a shaking breath. My eyes latch on to a sickly dog limping towards a pile of trash. “We knew this wouldn’t be easy, we’ve tried all we can. We just don’t have enough pesos to care for them, let alone ourselves.” 

Nanay begins to sob. 

Why aren’t I crying? Where’s my reaction? I knew this was coming. Jael went a month ago and her family got a roof on their hut in exchange.

“I don’t know if I can,” Nanay’s voice is strained; squeezing around the sobs racking her throat. 

“You know Althea would readily sacrifice herself instead of letting Lorelai go– she loves her dearly.” 

“So do I.” 

I can’t listen any longer, so I run. I run with nowhere to go, and everything to think about. I run past the trash and homeless people and Banaba trees and into the tall grass. The grass cuts my bare legs and draws blood, but I barely notice. After a minute, I crouch down, panting. My dark hair sticks to my sweaty face while my bare feet squelch into the mud. I anxiously play with the string bracelet on my wrist: the vibrant colors slowly turning brown. Jael made it for me. When she went, I was scared for her. I didn’t know where she had gone. I still don’t. Wherever it was, I’ll be heading there, soon.

Slowly, slowly, I walk back to the house; feigning ignorance. 

That night, I hug Lorelai– tight and strong. 

“What’s wrong, Althee?” She never has been able to pronounce my name right. 

“Nothing, dear. I just love you.” I think about Nanay and Tatay; how they contemplated who to send away. I’ll never let you go where Jael did. “I love you so much,” the words claw my throat as I stroke her black hair. I will never let you go. 

That night I have a nightmare. I watch Jael being led away. I call out to her and she turns. But, she is not Jael, she is Lorelai. But Lorelai has my black eyes. 

The next morning, there is no banging on the straw door of our hut. There is no screaming. Nanay and Tatay just smile strangely. Their faces look plastered on– their eyes don’t match their upturned mouths. 

After we split a piece of molding bread for breakfast, Tatay asks me to put on my dress. My mouth becomes drier still as he takes my hand and leads me away from our little shack. Maybe they’ll be able to get a new roof when I’m gone. 

We walk for ten minutes, twenty. The trees sway threateningly and the sky begins to darken. We’re in nature now; no houses. In the distance is an intimidating building. Tatay stops. He looks at me with sad eyes. His rough hand reaches up to pick a flower from a Balayong tree and tucks it behind my ear. The light pink flower contrasts the deep brown of my hair. Tatay smooths the sleeves of my used-to-be white dress and we continue on. We descend the staircase at the edge of the building and into the basement. Tatay lets go of my hand. 

It’s ill-lit down here and it reeks of sweat and claustrophobia. There are a few dim, flickering lightbulbs. Though they barely look functional, it is still more than we can afford. Little girls are everywhere, and some little boys are here as well. There are some older children, without a parent. 

One by one, the crowd files out of the room, somewhere I can’t quite see. They write a number on my arm and write the same number on Tatay’s hand. He tries to say something to me, but all I hear is a dull ringing. They force me up the stairs into the top half of the building with no ceiling. Bright, harsh lights flood the stage ten feet away from me. Children approach the stage and are commanded to unclothe. An older girl stands firm, with hard lines on her dark face. A big man shoves her to the ground and rips her dress over her head. 

Now, it’s my turn. I freeze, thinking only of the clear outlines of my ribs and my frail body. The man smiles down at me and I notice the gun in his hand. 

“Where to run? Where to run? Right into the barrel of a gun.” He laughs sadistically and points the gun at me. I unclothe immediately and cross my arms around my bare chest. He references the stage with a sway of his gun. “Go. And uncross your arms; they need to see your number.” He pushes me and I fall to my knees. My rawbone legs scrape the cold wood floor and the flower falls from my hair. 

I stumble onto the makeshift stage and see a crowd of men. There’s someone at the front shouting numbers. The men raise another number in response. I curl into myself, protecting my tan skin and frail bones from the view of the men. “Stand up straight,” a big man yells from the crowd. I glance around frightfully. The man with the gun is looking at me. He shifts the barrel towards me and I straighten myself. I uncross my arms. I’m just another object for these men to see. But I don’t have to see them. I try to close my eyes before tears can slip out, but it’s too late. 

“5,449 pesos!” The man at the front cries out. I hear a faint rustle. “Sold!” There’s a man waiting on the other side of the curtain. He grabs me by the arm, but there’s no need to force me off the stage– I’m already stumbling away. I look back to see a girl, only three or four, trembling and naked on the crude podium. I turn away and stumble into my appalling future. 

A week later, I know nothing but the scent of molding fish, salty air, and human fluids. I crouch in the corner of the dingy place, my foot making an imprint in the mildew. I’m not even spared the dignity of clothing. My stomach is gnawing not only at my flesh, but at my mind. There are one hundred and three other girls in here, and thirty-nine boys. I counted to distract myself from the sickening grip of the ocean. 

Suddenly, a violent wave pulls me sideways into the grime. My naked hip collides with the floor and I slide a few feet. I don’t get up. I lay on the rotting wood and hear the dull ringing in my ear compete with the sound of crashing waves. The room gets darker, darker still. Where to run? Where to run? The room becomes as black as the barrel of a gun. 

The ship rocks me out of my fitful sleep. The other children begin to move about. Light floods from the ceiling and we are brought out of the hull, single file. I curl into myself, afraid of who will see me when I arise from the dingy, ill-lit place. The sudden blast of light almost brings me to my knees. 

We’re on the coast of somewhere deserted. I see no houses, no buildings– only tall, intimidating trees. There is a flag– red, white, and blue– on the sleeve of the man’s shirt who is keeping us in line. 

So this must be America. Nanay told me about this place– about how that flag symbolizes freedom. What a wretched place with wretched hypocrites. There was a missionary from America once. He gave us food and clothes but he got sick and had to go home. I wanted him to take me with him. Famished and feeble, wasn’t I sick too? But, he didn’t. He left us all to fend for ourselves– to sell children just to survive. 

There’s a disturbance up ahead. A little girl is being beaten for throwing up. Big men amble about– all congregated around a boy trying to defend the sick girl. Her brother, maybe. 

Is now my chance? I’m small enough. No one would even notice I’m gone. Ten feet away is a treeline with enough open space to run through. I take one breath, two. I break from the line and run, with nowhere to go and everything to think about. 

“Where to run? Where to run?” I whisper to myself, over and over. My malnourished body cannot hold me up much longer. “Where to run?” I cry. 

A voice responds and I turn. “Right into the barrel of a gun.”

March, 2023

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