Arthur's Unvoiced Words

Written by: Mark Francis G. Ng

Note: I wrote this literary work as a subrogatory response to "I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur", a one-act play which won First Place in the National One-Act Play Writing Contest sponsored by the National Federation of Junior Philippine Institute of Accountants (NFJPIA) last April 2006 in Baguio City. This sequel as well as its predecessor literary work are both biographical and depicts some of myriad of chapters in the story of my life.

In this literary piece, Arthur is the one assuming the narrative, as opposed to its predecessor writing "I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur" where the author assumes the narration.

P.S. I shall be posting "I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur" soon.

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ARTHUR'S UNVOICED WORDS

(The Sequel and a Subrogatory Response to

“I Wish We Could Talk, Arthur”)

You had time to listen to me then. You had time to listen to the words I spoke… to the things I uttered… to the questions I would always ask. I remember that when I was a child I would often ask you a lot of things – silly things – those that I developed a certain curiosity about. At six I was eager to know everything about the world I was in in just a day, and every time I asked you, you would always give me an answer to my queries. Oftentimes I would repeat my questions, and patiently you would answer me again. And I would ask you the same questions over and over again and each time I do you would hug me and kiss me as you answer my queries over and over again too. As I grew older, I realized that the questions I asked then didn’t really matter. What mattered then was the fact that I know someone was there to answer my questions back. What mattered then was that I know someone was listening to me. During those times, and more often than not, I only wanted to feel that I had someone to talk to whenever I feel confused about things and someone I could turn to whenever I think that the whole world has already turned its back on me. But as they say, and as what certain things have led me to believe in now, I realized that those moments would not stay the way they were… that those moments were only shortly ideal… that those moments were naught but fleeting instances. What mattered then only mattered then.

It’s been two years since you’ve left our house. And it’s also been two years since we’ve last talked. Back then, I didn’t really quite understand why you seemed to have to distance yourself away from us. I didn’t understand why you seemed to have changed from being someone so utterly open into someone so kept back, reserved, silent. I knew there were certain things bothering you back then. I might be young then. I might only be a typical fourteen-year-old adolescent who didn’t quite understand what growing up was really like yet. But amidst all those, I could feel that you were struggling against something… something that back then you didn’t want to tell me. But I soon knew what it was. And now I know that it had the power to change you in ways so subtle yet so inadvertent. But what I didn’t know was that it would also have the power to change me in ways I never thought it could.

Did you know that I’ve always admired you, kuya? That I’ve always looked up to you and in everything you do? You were my closest friend back then. Only to you can I open my heart and tell you everything that I really wanted to say. We would tell each other our deepest secrets, the dreams we have always longed for, the things we have always yearned for. You were my best friend. But more to that, you were my refuge at times when I find myself crying, at times when I find myself alone. You were there beside me, ready to give me a tap on the shoulder and would tell me encouraging words… inspiring words… words that only someone like you know how to muster. But why the silence now, kuya? Every time I try to talk to you, why do you seem to avoid me?

Did you know that I’ve always bragged about you to my friends, kuya? That I’ve always told them that I had a brother who was brilliant, smart, witty, talented. When I was younger, I remember that every time my friends and I would go to our house I would show off to them some of the medals you won and earned. They would always marvel at your “little treasures” as you would call them. They would always ask me back then, “Are these the only ones?” And I would proudly respond, “These are just but ten of the several ones he has”. I have always dreamed of achieving the same feats you had, kuya. I have always looked up to the strength you possessed since then. But why do you have to pretend to be strong now, kuya? I know you were strong from the very start. But why pretend to be strong when you know deep inside that you, like I am, are weak?

Did you know that I’ve always dreamed of growing up just like you, kuya? That I’ve always wanted to become a disciplined person like you. To become an achiever. To become an orator. To become a poet. I would always love to hear you tell me stories back when I was a child. You would read me fairy tales ‘til I went to sleep. Sometimes you would conjure up your own stories, and I would enthusiastically and eagerly listen to them. You wrote brilliantly then, and I know you write even more brilliantly now. But why do you always have unspoken words, kuya? Why do you have to content yourself with expressing your innermost thoughts and emotions through the words you write rather than through the words you say?

You had only distanced yourself from us – from me – for two short years, but why do I always feel that you have distanced yourself from the rest of my adolescent years – the time in my life when I needed you the most while I was growing up? It was so hard for me to grow up with no one telling me how to, with no one guiding me what to do, with no one who seemed to care with the way I was growing up. During those times, did you know the things I felt, kuya? I felt that somehow, I was lost. That somehow, I could only see nothing but dark nights, that days never existed in my world. What I could only hear then was silence… the silence of loneliness, of curiosity, of fear. There were a lot of things I wanted to ask you then, kuya. Things that I know you also went through in your growing years. I yearned for your guiding words back then. For the same words that you would always comfort me with when I was just a child. I had a lot of things to tell you, sorrows I wanted to cry with you, and joys I wanted to share with you. But I know you didn’t know a lot of those things. I know you didn’t know a lot of things about me then. And I know you didn’t know a lot of things about our family then too…

… Like how I needed you when I was growing up, kuya. How I yearned for someone to pick me up and tend my bruises whenever I get involved in fights in school. How I yearned for someone to help me with the words I should use when I wrote my first letter to the first girl I loved. How I yearned for someone to comfort me when the first girl I loved broke my heart when she said she loved me while all the time she was already loving another guy. How I yearned for someone to talk to, someone to cry with.

… Like how mom and dad would always cry secretly at night because she and dad could not find the right words to tell me that I had to stop schooling because they had not enough money to pay for the dues I had to pay in school. How mom and dad would always work so hard from dusk ‘til dawn just so to feed us with decent food on our table each day. How mom and dad would always pray and tell us that these things were just transient tests of our courage, determination, and faith.

… Like how I so desired to talk to you in the rarest times when you would visit us in the house – your house too. How I so desired to start a conversation with you but would always hesitate to do so because I know you had so many things to do. How I so desired to show you my poems and writings and ask you your thoughts about them. How I so desired to tell you that I missed you since the very day you seemed to have distanced yourself away from us – from the problems we faced… from the things that bothered us… from me.

I’ve learned from a friend of yours that you wanted to talk to me, kuya. That you wanted us to again rekindle those moments when we would just sit back, stare at each other’s eyes, and smile and laugh as if a conversation already took place. I want to talk to you too.
But do you have time to listen, kuya?

It’s not even a question. It’s only a simple option… one that I hope you’ll consider.

February 28, 2007
Wednesday
9:00 p.m.