Prologue:

A man sits on a plush couch with a bottle of Chateau in his hands and drinking it straight from the bottle.

'glug glug'

'buurrp,' he gives a massive belch and throws the finished bottle against the velvet-carpeted floor with a dull thump, hitting other bottles of equally expensive wine whose mixed fragrances have gone stale and intensified into a stench in the massively opulent bedroom.

There was light peeking in through the heavy drapes and dust could be seen swirling in the air, proof that the heavy cloth has not been moved for days - if not weeks. A four poster bed was in the center of the room with the sheets tangled and mussed with stains. Two doors were open in the room, one is showing a walk-in wardrobe with clothes strewn around as if tossed and trampled and the other room showed a bathroom nearly as massive as the room itself with a floor-length jacuzzi and a shower head spilling water towards the tub and a golden gilded toilet whose lid hung askew with bottles of pills whose contents are thrown over the marble tiles.

"Ugh brhg grrh," a sound comes from the couch at the foot of the bed and the folded figure slowly sits up with liquid still running from the sides of his mouth.

The figure slowly unfolds himself revealing a brown shirt that could have possibly been white once and dress pants that were torn at the knees with bruises on his chest as if he had repeatedly fallen over himself. A wispy beard covered his face with white crusts near his mouth and his black hair is matted and clumped to one side.

The figure slowly arranges himself in a seated position with his hands holding his throbbing head.

"...fuck me." He growled to himself and tried to stand yet failing. He immediately fell to the ground and lied there for a minute before managing to crookedly lift himself. He limped towards the bathroom with one hand holding on to his clothes to keep them from falling off himself and the other hand is simply hanging on his side. He kept bumping onto other furniture and thought to himself, 'sure am lucky to leave the night lights on, otherwise, I could've fallen and broken my neck.' He chuckled darkly to himself finding it hilarious and was mildly disappointed when he thought the thick carpets would most likely stop that from happening.

He manages to enter the sumptuous bathroom and look at himself in the mirror. He spent a long time looking at himself, trying to make sense of everything coupled with a throbbing headache he seemed to always have. Slowly, almost familiarly, self-loathing arose from his chest as he continued to look at his reflection with his black eyes now dull, clouded, and unfocused.

"Look at you," he mutters hoarsely and sloppily with a scratchy throat and clumsy tongue, he continued. "The great Marco Madrigal, what a sight you are," he continues to glare at himself until a ringing sound trilled in the background making his headache throb once again.

"What now?" he growled again. A holographic projection appeared at his side quitely with a notification from today's headlines. He waved an gestured a few times before the news showed itself to him.

Featured in bold letters are words that speak of another news of public indecency about him last night, claiming he sexually harassed one of the new up and coming actresses in Asia.

"Must be another bitch trying to leech off of me to get some fame. How the fuck could I have done that if I was puking my guts out last night?" he muttered numbly. He was used to it, all of this. How many people have done this before because he couldn't be bothered to clear the air?

"Ah well, another day another scandal." He laughed and gestured again. His stomach rebelled as he held a hand up to it.

He is reminded once again of a bright smile and innocent laughter. A memory of a thought of a dream so long ago. A time of simplicity and gentle caresses.

He looked at himself one more time in the mirror and mutter, "How high have you fallen, Marco?"

"I should really get something to eat," he says as he slowly limps towards the room to the door. He considered briefly just calling for his staff - God knows he pays them too much - but declines the notion.

'The walk would clear my head anyway,' he thinks to himself. He enters the hallway leading into his bedroom and not a sound could be heard from anywhere around the house, a product of his many tantrums when the servants made even a tiny noise. Carved mahogany lined the walls and more velvet carpet covers the floor.

Marco made his way towards the grand sweeping staircase. He paused briefly as he reaches it and holds out his limp hand to the rails, struggling to move it.

"What is wrong with this stupid thing?" he asks no one in particular and continued to move his deadened limb until he finally managed to grab the polished dust laden wooden surface.

As he feels his frustrated rage build up to eventually touches the handrail but as he leaned his weight on it his fingers wouldn't follow his commands and he felt his hand slip and his whole body fell forward.

He felt frozen in the air for a split second and pain registered in his hazed mind as his body impacted with the stairs. His head flipped back when his forehead hit a corner of the stairs rending skin and breaking bones and there was a loud cracking when his lower back hit another corner as he rolled down and slid meatily on the luxurious steps.

Eventually, his body fell on the landing and he lay there paralyzed and bleeding. Blood fell from his lips as he gasped, incapable of breathing. A rib had fractured and pierced his lung while his left arm is pinned beneath him and his right leg unnaturally bent away from his body. Suddenly, manic laughter sounded throughout the empty space.

"Hahahaha," Marco laughed with pure joy in his eyes as if amused at what's happening.

'All these years of drinking and swallowing poison, I actually die this way' he thought ironically.

'How high have you fallen, Marco?' he looked above him towards the top of the stairs, his eyes stinging from the blood.

"Not high after all, it seems," he says shakily after taking one last gurgling breath and then darkness.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Thump

Thump

Thump

'Gasp,' Marco took a deep breath and held his chest still feeling the heavy beating of his heart, his eyes still closed.

He heard loud steps come near him and a voice he hasn't heard for nearly for nearly three decades was heard once again.

'Mama? No this is impossible unless I'm dead,' he immediately dismissed the thought.

'If I was dead she would not be with me. I would be burning in hell for everything I did while she would bask in heaven,' but then he felt a damp cloth being wiped over his face.

"Son, where does it hurt?" he heard her voice again as he felt a warm hand cover his own over his chest - over his heart.

Marco, disbelieving slowly opened his eyes, hoping, praying that this wasn't a dream. Then came a face that was washed away by the memory and the weight of time. Black eyes like his, thin lips and a slightly wide nose with wrinkles on her forehead even though she should only be in her mid-thirties.

"Son, you're worrying me," her rough and calloused hands cup his face gently and her voice washes warmly over his ears. He couldn't help but unknowingly reach out and grab her clothes while tears run down his face.

"Mama," he whispers. His mother immediately panics as she sees her son so distressed and then immediately carries him and puts him on her lap with his head pressed to her shoulder. A passing thought went to his mind on how his mother seemed to be handling him so easily yet it quickly disappeared when he heard her scream over her shoulders.

"Nes! Nes! Come here! Something's wrong with our son!" his mother screamed and more movement was heard. Again, disbelief and shock passed through Marco when he felt a large palm start rubbing his back and a gruff voice sounded by his ear.

"Shh. Shh. It's okay son, we're here," Marco heard his voice and his head immediately snapped back from his mother's shoulder and saw his father who unlike his mother's face was more difficult to forget because they shared so much of the same features their upturned nose, their strong jaws and the little black mark under their right eye. He then reached out with his left hand this time for his father. His face started crumbling and his breaths turned to sobs.

This time it was his father's turn to panic and he sat down next to his wife and hugged them both while he gave Marco's head gentle kisses.

His wife looked at him in alarm and as she opened her mouth he already cut her off saying, " Everything's fine, he probably just had a nightmare, you know how it is with kids when they get sick."

Which, apparently, was the wrong thing to say because she whispered angrily amidst her son's crying "how do you know, huh? There could be something wrong. He was having a forty degree fever last night even though we already fed him the medicine. Nes, we should get him to the hospital and I don't care how expensive it is, we can borrow from Manang[1] Biday -" and she was cut off again by her husband.

"Loreng, we've already had him checked on with Doktora Punayo and she said its just a fever," he comforted his wife and looked in between them at his son who was crying into hiccups at this point.

Marco sat there in between his parents basking in their warmth and comfort praying that this wasn't a dream and if it was then he hopes never to wake up again.

A/N:

Manang - an honorific term used for women typically above 40 years old