TBBM II. The Vile of A Birthmark

Birthmark in the bum. There went a popular opinion that birthmarks were death wounds in one's previous life. If you hadn't any, they said you died of natural causes. If you got one, like me, it meant that you died wounded. Was I stabbed or something? I'd never know. But something I should tell you perhaps was what it meant in our old town: they said if it was in the bum, you'd carry with you bad luck. And they meant bad luck forever, dude.

True, I'd guess. Bad luck.

Of all the people in the world, why did I have this in my bum? It wasn't anything I chose for myself. It was assigned to me at birth.

In as early as my infancy, as soon as the midwife pulled me out into the world, she screamed of a baby that carried bad luck---and in no time, the whole of the then, small town, knew about my secret. It started right there, at the site of my birth. So, I grew up being teased about the misfortunes of our neighbours.

They took the clothes out to dry and it rained. It was because of my hickey.

Someone walking suddenly missed a step. It was because of my hickey.

They opened a store and failed to get good sales. Because of my hickey.

A little boy's flatulence. Because of my hickey.

Bland dish. My hickey.

Failed the test. My hickey.

My parents' breaking up. My hickey.

They said I'd probably never go far in life. My hickey.

And the worst yet---

They said I'd be alone in life. Because of my hickey.

Over the years, it had become an internal joke. My hickey had. I'd bet it was for good that I normally busied myself in my own thoughts that I minded less and less of their taunts; but I could never wrap my head around the idea that one's prosper in life depended on something as trivial. Something I chose not for myself. Something assigned to me at birth.

My father left us when I was twelve. And guess who he left us for---the midwife. It turned out that in a matter of saying, they met through me. And, following that line of thought, our neighbours argued that my parents' break up was because of me. I was the harbinger of bad omen.

It sucked to be labeled like that.

If I hadn't known better, I would have lived wishy washy days. But my heart quietly filled with joy every time I proved my neighbours otherwise. So, I studied. I studied well and hard until I graduated Martini High two years ago with high honours.

Courtesy of that, I earned myself sponsorships so I could study in DLSU---it was famous for giving quality education for a hefty price every semester. I earned government and institutional sponsorship in lieu of good grades, plus, a few hours of office work. I meant several hours. But it was all good.

***

First day of the semester.

Of course, urged by routine, I'd wake up early, would stare out at the ceiling for a good few minutes, yawn and would dry up drools, if any. Then, I'd get up, but fall back to bed, giggling at James' morning message, reminiscing how I dreamed of him the night prior. And today---today, we'd be seatmates in Literature and Advanced Biology.

I'd pee in my pants, giggling.

It was good to have my mother around early in the morning. Similarly, it was good that she possessed such loud voice to break my reverie.

"Young love," she shook her head in dismay. "If you're ever late again, don't come to school anymore. Just be here, clean the house. Man the store. Yes, that'd be better. Deal with all those dumb people who make fun of you and your hickey every minute, every day."

"Of course, Mother," I whisked, defiant. "I'll head to shower. I'll get dressed. I'll study well, Mother!"

Generally, I moved rather more slowly than people expected me to be. I was also less as strong. I'd eat for thirty minutes; take a bath for an hour; add thirty minutes more to get ready before I'd actually leave the house. By that time, I very well knew how sour my mother's face would look so, I'd normally just speed out of the door.

Given my lackluster performance in time management, you couldn't really blame my mother for employing creative means in getting me out of the house quickly each time: sometimes, she'd manipulate the water meter so I'd run out of water. Other times, she'd turn off the electric switch to feign an outage. Yet other times, she'd pretend stomach ache to carve me out of the bathroom quickly.

My mother deserved an Oscars.I'd bet on that.

"Mom, why aren't you in TV?"

Just like all the other times, first day always caused a swell of excitement to everyone. Me included. I arrived at Gate 1 ten minutes before first period. I swiped my ID and whispered to the securityman, who also happened to be our neighbour, "Tell my mom I was here early, okay?"

He shook his head. Somehow, I had to figure a way to bribe him or something.

No pressure. Most professors arrived late on the first day, or, they skipped it altogether.

"You take a deep breath as you walked through the doors,

It's the morning of your very first day---"

Humming to Taylor Swift on my earphone felt too satisfying in the morning. Until...

"Mother!" a girl dropped her books after seeing me. "Ghost."

Ghost? I thought I'd make good friends with ghosts if I ever came across one. I didn't really have very many friends. In fact, attention towards me frightened me more than the thought of supernatural creatures. Sometimes even, I wished I could disappear into thin air. I hated it when people looked at me, confused. I hated it, when people stared---and laughed like it had to be the combo---all the time.

But today had to be a little different than the last years. I convinced myself that it was nothing. I went on smilingly. Just then, two other students walking on opposite directions bumped on each other as they looked my way.

"Shit," angered one.

"I'm sorry, Bro."

They stared at me, laughing---again; my stomach cringed each time they did. But I did nothing wrong. I wasn't sorry.

"I never thought I was that attractive," I murmured.

I went on few more steps but things got even worse: a car ran into a fence, a girl nearly choked on her coffee, a delivery crew missed a step and lost grip of his boxes. A professor… she was in a hurry but stopped and fixed her eyes on my direction, adjusting her eyeglasses as she did. Weird things like that. Even weirder, they were all looking at me.

I smiled and minutely waived at them---because I did nothing wrong.

"What? Was it my birthmark again?" I fussed. I goshed at how immensely powerful it could be on my day one at school.

I inched closer to the car that had hit the fence and looked at my reflection on the tinted window. Even the person inside, who sounded like he was all too enthusiastic to swear at people, whizzed awake.

But nothing seemed wrong; to me, at least.

Just then, the professor came to me, handing over her wipes.

"Happy Foundation Day!" she fought-off laughter.

I took the wipes from her hand; and at that moment, I felt like it must have been my fault.

"Oh my Saint! I just wanted to put on some face powder. These creatures were just overreacting. Was it too much, really?"

#Fail

"Why am I so unlucky?" I ducked my face eerily and walked away, beating my birthmark as I went. Hoping it'd lose power.

#DayOneLows #Disaster

Dear Saint,

I wanted to be pretty like the other girls. Why does can't I be pretty? I feel like God hates me. Do you think so, too? Do you think he's mad because---