Where the Heavens Are

I bet it must be nice to be beautiful.

I was 10 years old when I asked Seth who was the most beautiful girl in my batch. I knew he had a crush on my elementary best friend Ria, and so I excluded her from his choices. I puffed up my chest, ready to hear my name to slip off his tongue only for it to be someone else’s. I hid the shatter of my glass heart by a lopsided smile. Of course, who would not choose the chinita girl with clear skin and access to a phone?

Then there I was, still 10 years old, demanding why I was treated so differently from those my age. They had the magic phone, where they could see what everyone was up to and chat with all their friends from afar, while I was stuck with my notebooks and paper like some Victorian freak. “If you were like her, maybe you could get a phone,” Mother whispered.

What do you mean by like her, by Ria? First to raise her hand during recitation? First to be noticed by all the good guys- the guys that I deserved? What books should I have to memorize to be as intelligent as her? What makeup should I sneak into my closet to have skin as clear as hers, to have lips as full as hers? What speeches must I perform to attract the audience she has, to build bonds so tight like chains that would hold my back when I fell?

I was twelve when I first wanted to turn the rope into my necklace.

Soon, seventh grade came. St. Rose looked down upon me as I first entered the cursed pink halls, the lecturers raising their eyebrows at my shy nature. My classmates scratched their heads at my foreign tongue, so fluent as though I was a foreigner myself. They worshipped me- so wise, so foreign, so captivating. Dance for them, I would. Watch as the line of 9s float around me, the softness of my heart open for anyone to stab.

But he did not mean to stab it, he said as he approached me. “I would do it all for you,” he said.

My heart opened to him. When I love, I love until death. No vow could surpass my eternity when my soul is all that remains, worshipping and loving for eternity. He did not reach for my soul, but for my waist as he dug into the innocent flesh. “Let me see you bare, at least once,” he whispered. “Who are we in the future if we do not pursue ourselves in the barest of our existence? Let me make love to you, for once.”

I knew making love meant a child. That was why it was called making love, for love was a child. I resisted, watching as he slowly drifted away- unless my body was bare for him to touch. Tug and let go, tug and let go would our string of fate be. Cut her, he would instruct. She’s no good for you. Cue my best friend, my soul sister, as she glared at the knotting red string between his finger and mine.

I was his doll, discarded to the ground while I was dancing for him. Don’t you want to play with me? I was your favorite. He walked past, kicking imeas he went along.

What of your fingerprints on my waist? What of your sweet whispers of love? What of the times I danced for you, sung for you, worshipped you so that you would not cut our string?

I stand over the balcony of these cursed pink halls. A step forward, a breath of fresh air towards where the heavens are. A necklace of rope did not fit me, perhaps a chance to fly towards where the Great Father was would work.

Came the sobbing and the screams as tens of hands pulled me behind. The old patrons prayed their rosary, yelling out to me that it was a sin. A sin to rid yourself of the substance you were given with. A sin to go against His time.

Do you think I care what sin was, when I had no one to sin for me?

When a home was a cage, you could do nothing but stare out the metal bars. You gaze at the rainbow, at the dancing birds by the lake. And I glare at Mother and Father, thrusting upon me a child my blood but I did not birth. “You are the next parent- be responsible,” their iron voice would say. So I forgot about the rainbows and the dancing bear, carrying the baby My job, my job- remember the nines when they smiled? Remember holding hands with that smaller than yours? They smiled. They smiled. They smiled.

Put it up, little Marionette. Dance for them. Never let them think you tried to fly to heaven for a man. Never let them know. Watch as they hand you all that you needed when you were younger. It’s late, you know that, but they think it’s still fine because they already did it. Watch as they let you fly free- but get an A+ first.

Then she’s there. She’s 10, like you were when you thought Seth would say your name. Look at her, she gets makeup. They can’t ever say no to her. She gets to have her own gadgets. She gets to talk to her friends from afar at 10 years old. And she doesn’t even need to prove herself for it.

Watch as she throws the blankets, pillows, and glasses on the floor. She wants it, which means she needs it, which means give it to her RIGHT NOW. Watch as they just walk past her. You did that once when you were 10, what remained were the bruises in the back of your mind. Who cares if she was spoiled, at least she got the stuff you didn’t get when you were a child.

Except that she does it to you. And when she does, what is deserving is that her head gets banged to the point her nose bleeds, like how you felt yours did when you were 10. Should only the pain be left with you? No, no, you’re small, let all those who are deserving feel it.

What use is love if it does not heal you? I ask that to Kyle- he’s not the man that I need. I love him, yeah right, but he needs to be more. I’ve been through too much to pain to deserve whatever this is. Where is fate, huh? Give me fast forward, I beg of you. Is this the man that I deserve or not, because if not, then let me dispose him. I am done with pain.

Now, I do nothing but dance. My body is tattooed with 9, my arms adorned with medals of gold. I’m still ugly, for sure- I’m nowhere to that clear skin and amazing makeup that makes men want me. One man wanting you doesn’t matter- it means you’re specific, not beautiful. You’re only beautiful when you’re loved- that’s not beauty, but delusional. Beautiful is when you have multiples of the same being adoring you, needing you, wanting you, worshipping you. Where was the parish I gave to that man before, huh? That parish is supposed to be mine.

Why was I born to be the pillar? I am too much in pain to be the pillar- I am of feathers and clouds, not marble and steel. But you cannot reveal that a pillar is made of feathers and clouds, otherwise your grand palace will fall.

I don’t care about sins, not when I have no one sinning for me. Cuts are right, but not when my temple takes ages to sew it up. Cuts are relieving, god I know that, but I don’t really need cuts.

I am a god in pain. I make all of your wishes come true- is that not what a god does? You want a high-achieving daughter? I’ve made it- look at the nines and the medals. You want a sweet-loving, easy-to-please wife? I’m an actress- make no mistake. I am your god, yet no one kneels at my altar. No one kisses me in reverence. All so useless, where immortality cannot even save you. I snort, looking up at where the heavens are.

Oh, the heavens. They truly will not pick up the god, will they, letting me suffer and die here like a petty mouse. I was their god, but I get no worship. And where prayers and praises are uttered, it was never for my glory- to keep asking and begging for my blessed hand. Praises are never just praises- it was a silent please to whatever mortals wanted.

None of you want to kneel at my altar. I am not a god, just your genie for all of your tiny little dreams. Raise your sword for us, they ask. Impart us with your wisdom, they ask. Cover us in your mighty glory, they ask. What do you know of my sword, of my wisdom and glory? Describe it to me- give me a tale of myself that I never made. What of me do you worship? Why am I that you worship?

I never mentioned that. I never asked for that. Lies, lies, lies! I would giggle in glee- no human worships a god without asking for something in return.

I look at my forgotten altar, littered with candles and freshly inked folded papers. A silhouette of a man knelt before me, eyes raised to me as heaven, grasping for my cloak. Then another one. And another one. And another one, until the temple was filled full of beggars. Beggars for my glory, for my face, for my hand. Who cared about blessings, they seemed to ask, I need to see my god.

I smile at them. Vow yourself to me, and I shall worship you as you worship me.

They do not respond. I am the god of creation and illusion after all, a tear becoming a river as they faded into the concrete, marbled reality.