50 miles per hour, he rode swiftly along the poorly lit highway of my exhausted hometown- as if Death himself was chasing us from behind. Tatay, the habal-habal driver, was draining his last ounce of adrenaline to get this groggy bloke home as soon as possible because he, too, needs to rest before sunrise.
The chauffeur could only whistle to keep me calm while he thrusted his bike beyond the speed limit. I didn’t flinch an inch. I just wore a trusting sloshed smile.
With every passing minute, I tried to lift my heavy eyelids to get glimpses of the corners of my Iligan as he weaved through the boulevard.
Tatay told me to rest my head just below his nape when he heard me retch on a nauseating turn.
How his fleshless spine felt against my forehead and how the savage winds danced across my face and nibbled around my earlobes: these two were the only thoughts my mind allowed me to process during the rest of the ride.
“Abot na ta, Mon!” He uttered these words to bring his passenger back to consciousness.
“Door. Door. Door. Door. Door,” I whispered to myself wrestling with the calm breeze trying to find the entrance.
Why won’t this key fit? Is this the right key? This is the key to the front door.
“Bloody Moron!” I shouted as I banged my head against the window realizing that it was my dad’s car door.
I need to vomit now.