When Children Grow Up

 When she was a kid, she had this dream. She walked out of their nipa house, wearing only her white underwear. She walked all the way to the side of the road, where the Big People were gathered. She stared at them, and they stared at her. As they continued to stare, she slowly became aware of her nudity. 

She felt shame. 

She wanted to run back and hide in their house, but her feet wouldn’t obey her. So she returned her gaze at them, scared this time. But the Big People didn’t do anything. They just continued staring. Then, they started to whisper among themselves. Then they started to point their fingers at her. She wanted to run as fast as she could, but she was glued to where she was standing, terrified. She didn’t know what to do.

Then, she woke up.

She never told anyone. It felt deviant. She didn’t think anyone would understand. She couldn’t understand it herself, so she buried it deep — along with hazy memories of kitten murders and dragonfly mutilations. 

Those dreams and memories became ghosts and haunted her from time to time. When sipping coffee, when in the middle of work, when her head was in the clouds, when in the shower, when pondering about mortality. They would appear, right at the edge of her vision.

She wondered, if circumstances were cruel, would she snicker every time she stole office supplies or kicked her neighbor’s cat? What if she were forced to grip the knife’s fatal edge to survive? Would she see those ghosts as amusing childhood recollections and not disturbing reminders of a depraved alter ego? She always wondered. What evil was she capable of?